Naked Love

I hear writing with pen and paper is like making love on the page, but maybe I type because I just want a one night stand. No emotions, stripping clothes off, praying for no attachment. You don’t even have to remember the kid’s name. Sure it might not be as sentimental, it might not be as painstakingly slow with each time you touched seared into your skin (in a pleasant way, of course). You might not feel as special, but maybe you’re not ready for all that. Maybe the last kid who swore he loved you cheated on you with three other girls, one of whom was a best friend. Maybe the last kid who swore he loved you… really didn’t. Maybe you feel more naked with the kid you like rather than the kid you just met. Maybe you don’t want to feel naked again, eyes on your stretch marks, vulnerable.

This is why I have turned myself into a blog-aholic rather than keeping that diary matted with blood and emotions. It’s too painful. Maybe Love's fake friend with the fake boobs and the fake hair and the fake nails that you meet in a one night stand is better than the real thing. It’s love with benefits, really.

The kind of love that doesn't haunt you. Like when you love the swing-set that raised you. Like when you love the delete key when you are debating sending that risky text. Like when you love a quote because it explains everything you didn't know how to put into words. Like when you love thesaurus.com when the biggest word you can think of is four letters long at four o'clock in the morning. Like when you love any cold inanimate object.

“You’re looking skinny like a model with your eyes all painted black.”

I’ll be honest. I stole that line. If you can tell me from which song, we can be best friends.

I love it not only because it is one of the most beautiful things in the history of mankind, but because I want to be that girl he talks about.

Skinny like bones trying to divorce your body. Hips jutting from your skin with the sharpness of a stiletto heel. Skinny like ribs puncturing the pale flesh.

But no matter how many times I binge and starve, don’t binge and starve, I don’t look like that.

I used to have a boyfriend who would drag me to Costa Vida to watch me eat. I once confessed it was the last time I had eaten in two days, since the last time he took me out to lunch. He made sure I ate everything on the plate and joked that I was anorexic. I am sure he cared. I mean, what broke-ass teenage boy would spend money on a teenage girl if he didn't care a little bit? Or at least want to impress her. Whatever the case, it wasn't love. It could have been one of her many impersonators in Vegas.

Needless to say, the doctor was concerned about me. I couldn't care less whether he was worried or not. I was worried enough that my thighs were going to explode, thank you very much. My blood pressure was dangerously low, my hair was falling out in clumps, and I constantly felt the cold, even while wearing my mother's long black coats in the spring. He told me I had lost a lot of weight. He was lying. The scale was lying. Everyone was lying to me. The only truthful bitch in the whole state was the mirror, and that hurt to think about. She told me ugly truths. She told me I was fat, that I was plain-looking. She constantly whispered that I would never be good enough. She shouted repeatedly that I would never be loved. And I believed her. All this while I stared at myself in the mirror naked.

Not naked like when the doctor peeks at your chest to see if everything is "normal." Not naked like when your neighbor walks into the bathroom when you’re changing and you hurriedly cover yourself with arms, hands, towels. When your bikini top falls off at the pool. When your poem is read and ridiculed in front of the class. Not naked, nakedd, or nAked.

And certainly not the naked when you’re with the boy you like, fully clothed.

Her

Contrary to what the one or two people who actually got this far are thinking, this blog isn't about me.

This blog is about her.

She is the words I will never say out loud, but I might write on an anonymous blog. She is the girl that sips her Starbucks alone, and is okay with that (even though you football players wouldn't believe her). She is the illnesses I cry about at the doctors’, the rage I can’t hold back at home, the bloody knees from the broken picture frames and the hearts that gasp, suffocating, on the floor. She is the dark days when I can’t escape the devil’s dense smoke and don’t try either. She is the Pandora’s box of doubt and insecurities little girls are told never to open. She is the stolen kisses in the backseat of a car, the nightmares and the daydreams, the lost childhood and the forced adulthood. She is the needy girlfriend who has been through too much. She requires too much attention and she knows it. She is that girl. She is the girl who will take midnight drives just to listen to her cassette tapes, who reads nothing but Sports Illustrated magazines on airplanes as a general rule. She is the hipster who believes in everything in July, who tattoos her wrists with stardust, who wants more than anything to be found.

Please find her here.