kajsa ㅇㅅㅇ

Shoulder… devil?

April 29, 2023

 

The happy has gone

I knew it wouldn’t last

The raindrops it mocked have come

Flooding my mind

Heating my skin until I think I might combust,

Boiling,

Roiling.

Do I have a fever?

 

I already know the answer to that.

 

No. It’s just that little voice in my head again

Assuring me that I will never be enough.

My light is not bright enough

Because I’ve lost His

And can’t figure out how to get it back.

Do I want it back?

I can’t say the answer.

 

I wish I was as good as them.

 

The voice is going again, 

Assuring me that my body is not skinny enough

That my hair is not long enough, not blonde enough,

That my eyes are not blue enough and my skin is not tan enough. 

That I am not good enough.
And I believe it.

 

I wish I could be like her.

 

It’s that voice in my head again

Twisting compliments into insults

Weaving passive aggression into what was once nothing but praise

But now is the bane of my existence

The reason I hate waking up every morning

The reason I test the sharpness of my razor every day in the shower

Just to see if it’s sharp enough

To cut.

It’s not.

And I don’t bother trying to get a new one, a sharper one, because that little voice is going again

Telling me I don’t have the gut, hissing that

I’m not brave enough to do it

Anyway.

 

I wish I had a knife instead.

 

That little voice is the same one that keeps me awake to ungodly hours of the night

And early into the morning

The one that makes me miserable and makes it impossible to cry

Because maybe if I don’t drink enough water, 

I’ll be skinny enough.

It’s the one that makes me long for lunch but dread it all at once

Because my stomach aches.

But maybe if I don’t eat enough food,

I’ll amount to something more.

 

Is that really true? Do I have to submit myself to this? 

 

Yes.

 

If I made marks on my wrist,

Would I be good enough?

Would they notice?

Would I stop being a joke?

But that little voice knows I can’t take that physical pain

And it reminds me every day.

So instead I pick up a pen

Draw cracks on my skin 

Or emblems and designs I know will get compliments.

That little voice is fed by their compliments.

 

Do it again, it says.

 

And when I scrub it off, it rubs my skin raw almost to the point of drawing blood.

And yes, it hurts.

And yes, the voice likes it.

So yes, I do it again.

 

Am I broken? Dysfunctional? I must be. 

 

That voice…

It must be my shoulder devil.

 

But that wouldn’t make sense,

Because I don’t have a shoulder angel.