EAT“EAT” is written on the board in capitals, and it’s been three months. Five skinny, nervous teenagers surround you and one plump psychologist lectures orchestrally. You’re not quite sure if this class is voluntary, but you aren’t brave enough to ask. You want to leave overwhelmingly, but you’re shy.EAT by ~EvangeleneClaire
A girl stands up. Her name is Mindy and she weighs 50kg. You think the word fatass uncontrollably. She was on a drip and a feeding tube for a week and shows us photos of when she was 37kgs, as though to justify herself. She claims to have recovered, and she looks at you with contempt. You have not recovered. You will not recover. You are the disordered and the sick, the strange. You stave because you’re scared and you’re scared because you starve.
She sits down. You stand up. You have nothing to say, again. Instead you look at them all individually, Alison who doesn’t eat because she was raped and wants to get ugly so it doesn
LateThey dove into the waterLate by ~EvangeleneClaire
and felt they were heroes
too strong and bold to fail
Ready for the newspaper later
Hold my handHold my hand. My thumb, my pinkie, my index, ring and middle fingers. My palm. My knuckles. The 29 major and minor bones, 29 major joints, 123 ligaments, 34 muscles, 48 nerves and 30 arteries.Hold my hand by ~EvangeleneClaire
Hold my hand,( because I'm not afraid). Because I'm brave enough for you. Because I'm ready to love you, to be loved by you. I'm so strange and fragile and blistered by myself, so weathered and disorganised and inert.
And you're such a fighter, you're so believable and real and solid, (you're a fact). You exist and it shocks me sometimes, it fixes me sometimes that you're possible. I was put together the wrong way but I don't feel tangled with you, I feel straighter with you, less complicated with you. Simple enough to be happy again, to feel real again. (To be safe). To hold, and be held. To be fixed.
Hold me, hold my hand.
You're a lover, a liver, a learner, a listener. A hexagon of emotion and hater of yourself. Anxious, afraid, jealous. (But perfect. Always perfect.)
Please don't leave. Pleas
Possible“I think that’s Impossible.” He wrote on the board. The chalk squeals and white dust attaches itself to his fingers. He’s an angry man having a bad day and his face is all splotchy and purple like rotting fruit. He’s an English teacher at a Highschool too good for him, teaching students too inept to do anything but live off their parents’ fortunes. He asks the class, the plethora of fourteen year olds that exist without faces or intentions, that whisper infuriatingly behind every moment of every lesson and pass notes inside textbooks, to rewrite the same sentence underneath with corrected grammar.Possible by ~EvangeleneClaire
The lack of volunteers prompts him to select an unwilling student, and he motions to the girl on the scholarship from the rough family. The girl with the bad dye job and ugly glasses whose clothes have been bought secondhand.
She walks up to the board and she breathes something different. She looks like a sparrow, all sharp and quick and sporadic. She
InertiaSometimes, I feel so very sorry forInertia by ~HoldTheNoise
the letters that I write.
Born onto a blank page and
trapped there all their lives.
No new sites to see, no unfamiliar faces to meet;
standing in a lonely row
just to express my thoughts as words,
and yet, completely unable to express their own.
They lie paralyzed in their birthplace
lacking the ability to grow and learn.
Immovable to change for the rest of their lives.
And sometimes, I wonder to myself,
why I choose to be the same.
Lottie's songDog toes like ash budsLottie's song by *drbellairs
On a winter twig in a wood.
She cries for the cat.