How frustrating. I typed this whole thing once and then stupid me clicked the "BACK" button on accident and it all got erased. Boo. So here it is again.
I was reading through old journals and this is some of what i found, I'm kinda proud of some of it and it is all kind of personal so be kind
*shrugs* this is in part meant for someone specific to read, and also just a lot of my bullshitting. Ignore at will.
I.
I want protruding hipbones, something you robbed me of long ago. A meager 98 when we first met, now Im actually the size Im supposed to be and I want my bones back. I want my skin to hang like it used to, tightly wound around my frame but still not small enough to show the outline of every organ. Like the flesh of a starved decaying animal; completely empty, but longing to be even emptier.
II.
I lost you so many addictions ago, before everything turned into a memory and nothing was real anymore. Before I felt like I was going to fall apart. I squeezed my ribcage so hard that night, I though surely my arms were going to break clammy palms would crush my insides, annihilating the darkness and shadows in the hollow where my bones meet my spine. You leapt at opportunities that had not yet arisen and I was repulsed by the stench of your restless weight on top of me, disgusted by the unattractive vulgar scales of which your backbone is composed.
III.
I fell asleep to the sound of you breathing to me. Every inhale announced: I am not.
Exhaled declarations and denial: afraid of death..
But I know I heard you crying softly.
IV.
I have left my alarmingly controversial limbs strewn across your vacant lifestyle, hoping you will eventually confront one while stumbling amidst the vast nothingness or your existence. Each of my fleshy mannequin hands points accusing fingers at your stifled insecurities, denouncing you as what you are in disgusting blatant vile desecration.
V.
At one point you were the inspiration for the broken dented halo above my head, you were the motivation for the perfect angel child everyone had me growing up to be. But when push came to pull and I took the dive into that soft, bitter white, the concrete wasnt as sweet as I remembered it tasting and I picked my face up off the pavement, broken and bleeding, in an attempt to show the world what I had gotten myself into.
VI.
I laugh now looking back and realizing how truly one-sided our conversations used to be: can you taste my fever or even see the red on my skin yes yes those are cuts will you touch them please dont they are bruised but then again they seem to be a sort of crimson ebony protruding from my skin its weird isnt it how it looks like Ive got this block of midnight bursting forth from my tender under inner arms please kiss them no dont it stings deep to the ankles to the knees to the lips swallow me whole lick my wounds and maybe you will see my breathing skip a beat
VII.
There is something special behind loss and grievances, social misrepresentation possibly. You should not think of life when I say living, nor death when I say dying LIFE = LIVING DEATH = DYING now what comes to mind? Picture this: wasted youth frozen and robbed of __________ cheated out of __________ on the side of the motorway banged up and bandaged and bruised, scars down her back, the bite marks and deep gashes do not lie, plastic and glass shards pink ribbons tied in bows fifteen years of __________ devoid of motion simple static __________ and then WAKE UP! TAKE THIS! No not that, that will kill you! But I take it anyway.
Suddenly after typing all of that I realize that there is only one person that will be able to even remotely comprehend the depth of any of it. I wonder, why is it that the only one who seems to be capable of offering any comfort is always the one that lives half a world away? 
I was reading through old journals and this is some of what i found, I'm kinda proud of some of it and it is all kind of personal so be kind
*shrugs* this is in part meant for someone specific to read, and also just a lot of my bullshitting. Ignore at will.
I.
I want protruding hipbones, something you robbed me of long ago. A meager 98 when we first met, now Im actually the size Im supposed to be and I want my bones back. I want my skin to hang like it used to, tightly wound around my frame but still not small enough to show the outline of every organ. Like the flesh of a starved decaying animal; completely empty, but longing to be even emptier.
II.
I lost you so many addictions ago, before everything turned into a memory and nothing was real anymore. Before I felt like I was going to fall apart. I squeezed my ribcage so hard that night, I though surely my arms were going to break clammy palms would crush my insides, annihilating the darkness and shadows in the hollow where my bones meet my spine. You leapt at opportunities that had not yet arisen and I was repulsed by the stench of your restless weight on top of me, disgusted by the unattractive vulgar scales of which your backbone is composed.
III.
I fell asleep to the sound of you breathing to me. Every inhale announced: I am not.
Exhaled declarations and denial: afraid of death..
But I know I heard you crying softly.
IV.
I have left my alarmingly controversial limbs strewn across your vacant lifestyle, hoping you will eventually confront one while stumbling amidst the vast nothingness or your existence. Each of my fleshy mannequin hands points accusing fingers at your stifled insecurities, denouncing you as what you are in disgusting blatant vile desecration.
V.
At one point you were the inspiration for the broken dented halo above my head, you were the motivation for the perfect angel child everyone had me growing up to be. But when push came to pull and I took the dive into that soft, bitter white, the concrete wasnt as sweet as I remembered it tasting and I picked my face up off the pavement, broken and bleeding, in an attempt to show the world what I had gotten myself into.
VI.
I laugh now looking back and realizing how truly one-sided our conversations used to be: can you taste my fever or even see the red on my skin yes yes those are cuts will you touch them please dont they are bruised but then again they seem to be a sort of crimson ebony protruding from my skin its weird isnt it how it looks like Ive got this block of midnight bursting forth from my tender under inner arms please kiss them no dont it stings deep to the ankles to the knees to the lips swallow me whole lick my wounds and maybe you will see my breathing skip a beat
VII.
There is something special behind loss and grievances, social misrepresentation possibly. You should not think of life when I say living, nor death when I say dying LIFE = LIVING DEATH = DYING now what comes to mind? Picture this: wasted youth frozen and robbed of __________ cheated out of __________ on the side of the motorway banged up and bandaged and bruised, scars down her back, the bite marks and deep gashes do not lie, plastic and glass shards pink ribbons tied in bows fifteen years of __________ devoid of motion simple static __________ and then WAKE UP! TAKE THIS! No not that, that will kill you! But I take it anyway.
Suddenly after typing all of that I realize that there is only one person that will be able to even remotely comprehend the depth of any of it. I wonder, why is it that the only one who seems to be capable of offering any comfort is always the one that lives half a world away?
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we'll talk about it later!!
*cuddles*