Letter Left In A Desk Drawer

Dear Friend,


 I have so many things I would love to tell you. I would love to tell you I'm healing and doing great. I could write you a book for all the things you've done for me. Maybe on day, I will. Until then while I'm trapped in this downward spiral, I'll give you a look form my end, a walk in my shoes.


 Every morning, when I wake up to my mom pounding on the wall, I wish I hadn't. When I pull on my clothes they feel like iced barbed-wire on my skin. I gather my things and trudge down the stairs, dizzy, wobbling, ready to fall. I can't even say I'm semi-conscious.


 Either it's to school, where I sit at the screen, trying to do the mathmatic latin that twists my mind making me want to cry with frustration, shivering, knitting while the others eat lunch and wondering what class you're in or who misses me, or
 It's to my gramma's, where I sleep until my heart's content and wake to noonday light. I jog to the cold, lonely trail, and run like the sky is falling, then go home and cut and paste scripture in my own bible. My bible. Filled with thinspo and glossy pictures from magazines.
 I dance. I clean. Anything to stay out of the kitchen. And when I do scarf down a few bites, it's either the porcelian goddess or some bloodletting.
 I feel so worthless for the people I've hurt. I cry when I think of letting this life go. I can't yet. I'm filled with guilt and yet it's still not enough. I'm so sorry.