Day 2: Your crush.

Well I could write this one to my boyfriend, but I'm going to write it to my celebrity crush, Josh Thomas.

Josh, you're the most adorable guy I've ever seen in my whole entire life. I wish you were younger/straight/attracted to me. I would do terrible things to that skinny body of yours.
Sincerely, Emma.

Day 1: Your best friend.

There's a few of you, and you're all amazing. You're beautiful and I wish I spent more time with you, and I'm sorry for everything I've ever done wrong, every mean thing I've ever said to you. I don't mean it, you know that. I'm just a moody bitch and thank you for putting up with me all this time.

I would not willingly peel back the scar tissue protecting the deepest chambers of my heart and reveal the bruised hollows pooled with the blood of old wounds - the terror comes just thinking about it - but now, facing darkness I am left with no choice. I love you, and because of that I am going to try and raise the dead.

I always wanted you. Even when I had you. I could drink from you forever and never be any less thirsty than I was that first day. The day I realised how parched I'd always been.

"Do you remember, at the start, how small everything was? Smaller than a point. Like everything was somewhere between a thought, almost, and a reality, almost. And then I looked at you and thought


"?"

And then everything that would ever happen, happened. "

These little teenage relationships really annoy me sometimes. Like, yeah, okay, I'm in one. But I'm not guilty of doing half the shit my friends do.
For instance, saying you're in love with someone after you've been going out with them for what, 2 or 3 days? That's not love honey, that's a crush. I've been with Sean for a few weeks now and we haven't said we love each other. You know why? Because I don't say it unless I mean it, and I told him he should do the same thing.

And you don't need to broadcast every little detail of your relationship on facebook. If you want to call each other cute little nicknames, do it on msn/text/facebook chat/over the phone/in real life. Don't subject everyone else to your puke-inducing cuteness. It's disgusting and we don't want to see it.

This could have been a lot more put together and actually made sense, but it's 7:30 in the morning and I don't have a clue what I'm saying so I'm going to go now.

Last year she was slowly drifting, falling. Now her descent has accelerated. She is a holocaust. She’s walking backwards, a relic of the skeletal future. She is Death animated in a parody of energy with her endless pacing and twitching and isometric exercises. She looks like she ought to be in a cage. She looks like she ought to be chained up somewhere. Her skin is dry parchment on her face, like cobwebs, like old ladies’ breath. You can count her teeth with her mouth shut; they jut out like the windows of a lighthouse. Exophthalmic eyes, bright glassy marble eyes. She falls away from her face, from a head that looks too big for that spindly, corrugated neck. She looks like something off the news, a television tourist from those far-off places where disasters happen. She could be cuddled by a soapie star to some moving music. That’s what she needs. A soundtrack. Without that, she’s only bones. Explicit ribs form the barrel of her insect-like thorax. It could be an exoskeleton. She could be a praying mantis. The vertebrae ascend from her sacrum to her nape like a row of buttons. She’s hairy, too. She is a little hairy animal with soft, black down on her chest and back. The graceful curves of the pelvic girdle, now fleshless, look like components of heavy machinery. The patella slides around in its slot, so obvious. The ulna and radius compete for your attention every time she moves her fingers. The ropey brachial arteries on her upper arms do their business before your very eyes. The clavicles could be handles, the way they stick out there, and each scapula is as sharp as a stick. And when her eyes close, the round holes of the lacrimal bones still stare at you. She is nothing but apparent. She has nothing to hide. The wind won’t knock her down, it blows straight through her. A girl laughs, with real envy in her voice. “You are so lucky, you don’t have to worry about your ass hanging out of your jeans.
“Yes”, she smiles, skin pulling back across her teeth, ghastly. Her friends can’t afford to lose any more people. They want to cry, don’t leave me, but they can’t even speak.

My mother used to tell me not to worry about the monsters under my bed, because imaginary things can’t hurt you. But they can. They can kill you.

I pick distractedly at a small scab on my ear. I have a series of little sores around my hairline, which I pick at constantly, like a hobby. Malnutrition does that to you. He grabs my shoulder, cut glass under his wiry fingers, and hisses, “Don’t faint. I won’t pick you up.”

How many identical broken columns do you see? How many twin angels? How many draped urns? This is it. This is all there is to it, this death business. Mass-produced gravestones. Production-line death. Supermarket eternity. Buried in an alabaster ashtray. Look at all the bromides they chisel onto the stones: with Jesus, which is far better, too dearly loved to be forgotten, the gates of memory never close. Bullshit. You can hear the gates of memory banging shut all over this place. Your ancestors and mine are nowhere and unknown. Their graves, if they have them, are unvisited. They are done with. And so am I. You’ve passed on your DNA, to me, incidentally, so I shall spend it wisely. Your wretched spawn have stolen it all, and now you’ll shuffle off. And we’ll put you under one of these chainstore stones, and we’ll chisel some insincere bullshit into it, and once a year we’ll plonk some plastic flowers into these pen holders at your feet. It’s not dying that should worry you. It’s all the crap that comes after.

So now I've found someone who actually likes me for who I am and doesn't fuck me around like you do.
Have fun leading your pathetic little life, I really couldn't care less anymore.
This is goodbye, forever.

I’m getting bored with all the usual questions: Don’t you get hungry? I wish I had your will power. You’re going to make yourself sick. Are you naturally thin? What’s your secret. That’s my favourite: What’s your secret? I answer, evangelical, I drink twelve glasses of water a day, I exercise every morning, I don’t eat lunch, I’m allergic to chocolate, I’m too busy to worry about it and blah blah blah, but I know what my secret is and I’m not going to share it: I don’t eat, I don’t eat, I don’t eat, you fucking idiots, I don’t eat.

Don’t you get hungry? Is the next best question. Oh, no, I smile condescendingly, not me. But inside my shell I scream, I am so hungry I can’t tell you about it, I am so hungry that there is nothing in the world that would satisfy me now, I am so hungry I can’t sleep, I can’t dream, I’m hungrier than you could ever understand. I’m starving and you don’t even know what that means.

Day 30: Who are you?
I'm Emma.
I'm 15.
I'm both happy and sad, and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be.

Day 29: In this past month, what have you learned?
I've learnt that everything happens for a reason.
I've learnt that people change so that you can learn to let go.
I've learnt that things go wrong so you can appreciate them when they're right.
I've learnt that we believe lies so we eventually know not to trust anyone but ourselves.
I've learnt that good things fall apart so better things can come together.

Day 28: A picture of you last year and now, how have you changed since then?
Picture's aren't working so I'll just say how I've changed;

My hair's changed, I've gained a bit of weight and I'm so much happier now.

Day 27: Why are you doing this 30 day challenge?
Because it gives me a reason to blog every day and I can't be slack about it ^.^