Butterfly in reverse.
At birth I was a miracle.
As tight as the umbilical cord was, I should have suffocated hours, if not days, before.
The little miracle baby, here with her creepy green eyes and mess of black hair,
Brought into the world to save something else that was already suffocating.
At six I was a grown up.
The nights that mommy was crying
Daddy was drunk,
My sister was missing,
And I put myself to bed,
I couldn’t understand what was going on, but I knew that for once,
I was the stable one.
At seven I was broken,
Because if I fell and needed help,
They stopped fighting.
Lots of broken tail bones later they stopped helping and kept up the fighting.
By nine I was dying.
Not medically, but I was trying my best.
I didn’t want anyone to care anymore,
I just wanted them to go away and let me
By thirteen I was fuming.
Nothing but hatred and anger came out of me.
I hated my life, so I hated myself because who else could I blame?
Sixteen was spent wasting away.
If I could move through this world lighter and prettier maybe it would be easier.
But it was never easier, it was a constant work out.
I never learned to stop fighting because it made it hurt so much less than to slow down and feel the pain;
To figure out where the pain was oozing from.
At eighteen I drove everyone crazy.
And I don’t even remember.
I look back now and I wonder when it was I stop trying to kill myself and get myself killed instead.
Nothing scared me because nothing hurt anymore.
By twenty three I quit.
After years spent feigning normalcy I couldn’t do it anymore.
I cross my legs and get bruises from it, because I think food is beneath me.
Or maybe I am beneath food.
I can’t tell where I stand anymore.
All I can tell is that I don’t want to be a miracle,
I don’t want to be an adult,
I don’t want to be broken, or dying, or fuming, or anything else.
I just don’t want to be, because the butterfly in reverse is me.