The rumble of the thunder reminds me
that I used to be fierce
I felt the fire in my belly
and I was strong and unafraid
How long has it been now
since I was that person
I can’t recall
She still resides within me
and rears her head
now and then
only to disappear again
when the anxiety returns
It all comes back to black
the color of rot and death
and a murder of crows
and of my insides
since I came across you
I want so much to shed the cloak of it
and experience other colors again
like red
the red of your blood
flowing from your nose
as my fist connects with it
gushing from your head
as the perfectly timed swing of my bat unites with your thick skull
dropping a trail from your bottom lip
as the back of my hand meets your lying mouth
but still
the red cannot compete with the black
so I wait for a source of light
to wash over me
and dilute it
and make it gray
i scrub and scrub and scrub
my skin wears thin
from the scraping of the brillo pad
it makes no difference
i am still dirty
i add cleanser
i am still not clean
i put the bleach bottle to my lips
and drink
because i realize the dirtiness
has penetrated my soul
oh how it burns on the way down
and i know that must mean it’s working
but it doesn’t clean me
and only leaves a hole the size of a quarter in my stomach
you stupid bitch
i say to myself in the mirror
you disgust me
the scars he left have dug their filthy tendrils
too deeply into me
they are ingrained
maybe he was right
no one else will ever love me
you’re all just smoke and mirrors
and I choke in your presence
fearing you’re
a mere reflection of the worst parts of me
and that
maybe
I’ve conjured you into being
like some sort of voodoo priestess
I have drawn you to me
by being broken and bent
and you
seeing all the worst in me
know what I will do for love
or that thing
you disguise as love
dress it up
teach it to speak more better
(the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain)
take it out on parade
regardless
it never fails to be what it is
a sick, twisted display of your narcissism
What is the flaw within us
that doesn’t believe we are good enough
for good love
Why is it easier to accept
the love
which isn’t really love
but merely sickness masquerading
We give them the benefit of the doubt
because we believe
we can see the possibilities inside them
of which there are none
and even if there were potential
it’s not up to us to nurture them
Brother of mine
do not make the same mistakes I have made
it will not get better
but only worse every time
until it will culminate
into something she can’t take back
Run away from her little brother
as fast as you can
as far as you can
It may be lonely for awhile
but not as lonely as a tomb
I think I’ve reached my breaking point with everything–this blog, Twitter, Facebook.
It’s like all of them only continue to prove to me, that I’m less than everyone else.
I’m not as good a writer as all these other people.
I’m not as funny as these other people.
I don’t fit in.
I stand out.
I’m too smart.
I’m not smart enough.
I’m too liberal.
I’m not fearful enough of absolutely every fucking thing around me.
NOT GOOD ENOUGH
NOT GOOD ENOUGH
NOT GOOD ENOUGH
That’s what all of it screams.
As I compare follower numbers, and likes, and retweets.
You know, I remember a time, not so long ago, when I liked myself.
I thought I was a pretty cool chick.
I thought I was well read, and creative, and attractive, and funny.
And then social media crept in.
And now I don’t feel those things anymore.
I feel constantly judged for everything I post, or re-post, or comment.
It’s like I’m Prometheus, atop a social media rock, and my self-esteem is constantly being picked at, until one day there will be nothing left.
Am I meant to suffer this torture?
It’s all at my own hand.
I can end it. I can leave all of these places and escape back into the real world.
Read real books.
Talk to real people.
Write on real pages.
I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!
I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!
I DON’T NEED YOUR APPROVAL!
Oh yes, you do, I whisper to myself in the mirror.
I’m 8 years old and imagine the Valentine I receive from the cute boy in the class was specially made for me, but mine looks just like all the others.
I’m 17 years old and hope against hope they’ll call my name over the intercom to come to the office on Valentine’s Day because I know that will mean I got flowers or a balloon from a guy, but it never happens.
I’m 28 years old and my husband brings me flowers and chocolates and a card, but the words have no meaning because our relationship has been over almost since it began.
I’m 37 years old and my boyfriend buys me perfume and a balloon and he leaves it outside my door because I’ve kicked him out again, trying to break free of his emotional abuse.
I’m 47 years old and I buy myself a steak and a good bottle of whiskey and a funky new hair color to try because I deserve good things and every girl needs to be her own Valentine.
apathy has settled in my heart
and in my bones
like a rare form of cancer
it eats at every cell of my being
it burrows into my marrow
consuming all I believed to be good
about you
about me
about the world
indifference is a sheath for my feelings
numbing any twinges of caring
but never halting the progression of my sickness
it will eat me up from the inside and leave nothing
but a shell
it was you
and you
and you
and even you
who gave me this disease
who left me with these symptoms
indicative of a greater malady
which left untreated
can bring about
the downfall of society
pick
pick pick pick
at it
pull
pull it apart
threads woven
unraveled
destructed
ripped
yanked
frayed
tattered
holes remain
which you hope can be
patched
There’s something I must confess. I’m a bit of a whore. Or as I like to call it, a “hoor”. It’s pronounced like this hoo-er.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m a totally faithful girlfriend! I’m not saying I’m that kind of a hoor. It’s worse.
I’m an attention hoor. There it is. Right there in black and white.
My name’s Fat Bottom Girl, and I’m an attention hoor.
Man it’s good to get that out there in the open. I know you never would’ve been able to tell I was an attention hoor if I hadn’t just come out and told you.
Oh, you knew? What gave me away?? The fact I’m a blogger?
Seriously, if you blog, you’ve got to admit you’ve probably got a little attention hoor lurking in you too. Even if like me, you’re anonymous and don’t reveal yourself on your blog, your little tiny attention hoor inside is being fed by clicks and comments.
I feed my attention hoor here and on my personal Facebook account. And Twitter. And now Tumblr. Bloody fucking hell, where will it stop??
But here’s the problem. I fucking hate Facebook. I hate the religious crap, I hate the political crap, I hate the 100 selfies some people feel the need to share of themselves in bikinis because they need to feed the really big attention hoor inside them, I hate the re-shares of stupid shit that was popular two years ago, I hate people’s need to profess their love for their spouse on there as opposed to fucking walking across the room to the Barcolounger their husband’s lazy ass is sitting in with the Natty Light can in their hand and fucking telling them in person, I hate pictures of the fucking goulash you had for dinner, or pictures of the guy with the clap-trot dick rot disease who would be healed if he gets a million likes.
Fuck. It’s exhausting. It’s just fucking exhausting. I don’t want to do it anymore. I want to take it off my phone. I want to shut it down. I want to walk away from it and not worry about missing out on somebody’s kid doing their first big girl doodle in the princess potty.
I just want to be done with Facebook.
But I can’t. Because sometimes, Facebook feeds my attention hoor. Sometimes if I’m feeling especially bloated and unloved, I can get dolled up in my attention hoor makeup and post a selfie and get morsels to fill me up. I can post pics of a project I’ve done and get kudos for being a chick and knowing how to use power tools.
I’m an addict and I can’t stop.
Why can’t MySpace be cool again??
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Fat Bottom Girl Said What 