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Description
"look inside for manufacturer's warning and hardware manual."

i'm sitting on the concrete floor of my garage reading the labels on boxes in storage. my legs look yellow under the flourescent bulbs. every bruise is outlined.
it is one thirty eight in the morning when i finally put out my cigarette and call you back.

[ring one] i wonder if i have always been such a narcissist. it had to start somewhere.
[ring two] i mouthed the words plenty of times and even spoke them once. i'maliar &
i'vealwaysbeenthisway.
[ring three] your voice.

i rehearsed the speech i would give you. that i am lonely and rail against closure like it has the face of the reaper himself. that days like today have been cursed, that eventone plus eventtwo plus eventthree equals me. i open my mouth to swallow you whole, the words on my teeth like stomach bile. linger. and then you, again.
"hello?"

[payattentiontothisnextpart]:
"i'm here."

what the fuck is wrong with me? i live for white noise, for nothingness, for beautiful men who never try to save me. i think about blaming it on my "disorder," my "disease," my "chemical imbalance," and i almost do, but everything i've learned in therapy is a joke. therapy is just another defining characteristic of everything that is

me.

i am the olive skinned seven year old who loved dragonflies and river rocks. the little blonde with calloused feet who saw the man who taught her to fish blow his brains out on her dock. [this is why i stopped wanting to be a marine biologist.]
i am the awkward thirteen year old who learned to carried a journal to lunch for the times her friends gossiped. the hazel-eyed girl who wrote letters to god before a man at her church pulled her into a bathroom and touched her where she'd never been touched. [i forgot how to feel angry in the courtroom. all i felt was pity for a man who couldn't help himself.]
i am the self-conscious sixteen year old with black hair no blonde hair no brown hair. the one who learned that pushing fingers to the edge of a gag reflex was much, much easier than taking insults to heart. [thus, i always found it humorous when the boys asked: so where's your gag reflex? call me dirty. this is the first time i've ever been honest.]
i am the in-love eighteen year old who believes she will marry the most beautiful boy she has ever seen as he sits on the edge of the bed and strums the guitar. i am the lonely, grief-stricken girlfriend when he hits the road, and i am the girl that cheats with a blank-faced boy on our two year anniversary. [he never knew and i'm still sorry, but i never felt guilty and i never cried.]

thisiswhereiwanttoscream IT'S THE FUCKING PAST and goddammit ashlee, get the fuck over yourself.

but,
i don't explain my problems because you'll only understand what you want to hear because you live and breathe for real and all i am is stories in a pretty script. i tell myself i do these things for stories, that writers must sacrifice for truth in fiction; that happy endings never come without tragic secrets.

& i c a n ' t e x p l a i n w h y b e c a u s e i d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d i t.

panic now.
i want to get in my car and drive and drive until i can't feel the wheel and all i see is black, but i am frozen here at two oh eight and my insides burn like my ribs are attached to strings and you're pulling them at awkward angles.

i cheated.
again.
fuck.

there were not even heartflutters, not insect-in-stomach disease, not tomorrows or whatifs, and he didn't worry about breaking me. [i don't know why i still did it.]

"hello?"
and yes, i hear you, but you're far away. like i am in a tunnel and all i can hear is the sick, wet echo of drowning. idon'tknowwhattodo. so, i say all that i know how: leave. because you don't deserve this, because i don't deserve you, because i'm embarrassed and i ruined everything. you are quiet before you say: "things aren't up to you anymore." but i need someone, you, to stay, and believe in me.

but things aren't up to me.

[so, all i say is]:
"i don't like myself anymore."

and you're too quiet, so i light another cigarette and wait for the weekend.

Description
"look inside for manufacturer's warning and hardware manual."

i'm sitting on the concrete floor of my garage reading the labels on boxes in storage. my legs look yellow under the flourescent bulbs. every bruise is outlined.
it is one thirty eight in the morning when i finally put out my cigarette and call you back.

[ring one] i wonder if i have always been such a narcissist. it had to start somewhere.
[ring two] i mouthed the words plenty of times and even spoke them once. i'maliar &
i'vealwaysbeenthisway.
[ring three] your voice.

i rehearsed the speech i would give you. that i am lonely and rail against closure like it has the face of the reaper himself. that days like today have been cursed, that eventone plus eventtwo plus eventthree equals me. i open my mouth to swallow you whole, the words on my teeth like stomach bile. linger. and then you, again.
"hello?"

[payattentiontothisnextpart]:
"i'm here."

what the fuck is wrong with me? i live for white noise, for nothingness, for beautiful men who never try to save me. i think about blaming it on my "disorder," my "disease," my "chemical imbalance," and i almost do, but everything i've learned in therapy is a joke. therapy is just another defining characteristic of everything that is

me.

i am the olive skinned seven year old who loved dragonflies and river rocks. the little blonde with calloused feet who saw the man who taught her to fish blow his brains out on her dock. [this is why i stopped wanting to be a marine biologist.]
i am the awkward thirteen year old who learned to carried a journal to lunch for the times her friends gossiped. the hazel-eyed girl who wrote letters to god before a man at her church pulled her into a bathroom and touched her where she'd never been touched. [i forgot how to feel angry in the courtroom. all i felt was pity for a man who couldn't help himself.]
i am the self-conscious sixteen year old with black hair no blonde hair no brown hair. the one who learned that pushing fingers to the edge of a gag reflex was much, much easier than taking insults to heart. [thus, i always found it humorous when the boys asked: so where's your gag reflex? call me dirty. this is the first time i've ever been honest.]
i am the in-love eighteen year old who believes she will marry the most beautiful boy she has ever seen as he sits on the edge of the bed and strums the guitar. i am the lonely, grief-stricken girlfriend when he hits the road, and i am the girl that cheats with a blank-faced boy on our two year anniversary. [he never knew and i'm still sorry, but i never felt guilty and i never cried.]

thisiswhereiwanttoscream IT'S THE FUCKING PAST and goddammit ashlee, get the fuck over yourself.

but,
i don't explain my problems because you'll only understand what you want to hear because you live and breathe for real and all i am is stories in a pretty script. i tell myself i do these things for stories, that writers must sacrifice for truth in fiction; that happy endings never come without tragic secrets.

& i c a n ' t e x p l a i n w h y b e c a u s e i d o n ' t u n d e r s t a n d i t.

panic now.
i want to get in my car and drive and drive until i can't feel the wheel and all i see is black, but i am frozen here at two oh eight and my insides burn like my ribs are attached to strings and you're pulling them at awkward angles.

i cheated.
again.
fuck.

there were not even heartflutters, not insect-in-stomach disease, not tomorrows or whatifs, and he didn't worry about breaking me. [i don't know why i still did it.]

"hello?"
and yes, i hear you, but you're far away. like i am in a tunnel and all i can hear is the sick, wet echo of drowning. idon'tknowwhattodo. so, i say all that i know how: leave. because you don't deserve this, because i don't deserve you, because i'm embarrassed and i ruined everything. you are quiet before you say: "things aren't up to you anymore." but i need someone, you, to stay, and believe in me.

but things aren't up to me.

[so, all i say is]:
"i don't like myself anymore."

and you're too quiet, so i light another cigarette and wait for the weekend.