Old Friends

my thighs now brush together like two old friends passing by each other with a faint nod of recognition and nothing more

they have not seen each other in a long time and therefore their interactions are stilted, few, and awkward

when I stand with my feet together like I’m little once again and having my height measured at the doctors they lean a little closer, in greater recognition of the other

slowly but surely they are repairing their relationship, just as the rest of my body is beginning to heal from all the horrendous harm I have caused it

but most days I do not want them to touch; I do not want this friendship to blossom again

sometimes I long for the days when I was able to count my ribs like you might stairs

the times where I looked in the mirror and saw my cheekbones standing out against my pallid skin like two speeding cars doomed to crash

and the moments where I felt a vicious high from depriving myself of what I so desperately needed as some sort of sadistic torture

you see, my thighs may want to be close, they may want to make the journey through the rest of my life together

they may want to have each other for support as I take the steps along the path fate has set me on, because it is bound to be dark, arduous, and riddled with difficulty

there are no lights shining from the walls nor sun in the sky at times

often my depression and my anxiety crowd around me like a stiflingly hot blanket thrown over my head, suffocating the very life out of me

a noose around my neck that is tightened infinitesimally more with every passing second

and as I curl up into a small ball to try and ward off the irrepressible feeling of emptiness that threatens to overwhelm me I feel my thighs greet each other once again

a feeling of revulsion rises up, acrid in my throat and poisonous to my mind

it reiterates itself in my head to the repetitive beat of my heart: worthless, worthless, worthless

but how exactly does one measure worth? surely not by holding a ruler up to the space that used to exist between my legs like some sort of architect or mathematician 

even though this sometimes feels like the only valid way in which to measure my meaningfulness

for so long I have wanted to be smaller and smaller, folding in on myself like a checkerboard cloth until I simply disappear

and I have wished for the ability to simply cease being and evaporate into thin air like smoke from a fire that has been extinguished

because the flames of my desire to live sometimes die down to nothing more than faintly glowing embers that struggle to keep me warm and breathing

like the sharp tip of a pencil that has been used to write too many lines of a story and is now dull and broken

but then I remember that I am writing my life in pen, and that there are bound to be many mistakes that I must hastily cross out and then continue on my way

refusing to look over my shoulder at all the demons and ghosts that thrive in my past, repeating that chant of worthless, worthless, worthless

and walking past my errors with my head held high and my thighs brushing together like they are meant to do”


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