I spend most nights
smoking parliaments in my parents’ hot tub,
watching the smoke blend with the steam.
Losing sight of which is which,
of who I am,
of what I need.

The media tells me,
thin bones,
thick skin,
long fingernails,
short text messages,
short skirts,
tall stilettos.

But my body tells me something different.

My body tells me,
I am not
the media.

I need
warm milk,
skin on warm grass,
spoonful’s of honey every morning.
Keeping myself soft
not weak.

Many people confuse the two.

My dad says I run in my dreams,
my blankets messy in the morning,
all my pillows on the floor,
redness smeared on my face like blood.

But what am I running from?

I always wake up wondering
if there are doctors out there,
that can cure this rotting inside of me.
The kind I can’t explain.
The kind that rips my stomach open.
The kind that keeps my 22-year-old body

In my parents’ house.
In this steamy hot tub.
In the mouth of cigarette,
after cigarette.
Feeling more loved by them,
then anything else that has
touched my lips before.

Photo Credit: Flickr via Compfight cc

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