![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
panicking posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
skylarksNotes: written to a loop of smooooch. lmao. Word count: 845.
She looks at herself in sections. A body in its entirety can be comprehended, but in all the worst ways; so much disgust will come of it that it'll fill all the veins, block blood, take it over. Her feelings are plaque: she exudes, breathes in her own thickness, yellowed, clinging to the has-been efficient paths of arteries.
Veins, in fact, are a section all their own. She peers at them and they please her. They are thin, mostly, and colored blue-green. 'Blue-green' carries ideas of seawater, and she likes that. Underneath me sits the sea. Grand imagination. She can only hope.
It's her wrists she watches most, maybe. Or, she seeks to - she'd like to. It's because she doesn't hate them. Still, they could be thinner, and she scolds them for that: they are underachievers. (She is.) She is their work-weary and long-suffering mother and they are illiterate, previous potentials, having forgotten all they knew of her childhood appearance in favor of lounging and carelessness despite her begging. Her wrists are her sons. She needs to think this way, or she really will hate them, and with how few sections she can cope with, she can't afford that. As it is, she stays at the edge of disappointment; she knows they could have been pretty. After all, they're almost thin. They are sharp in some places, and they're adorably angular. The veins stand out.
Underachievers.
Forearms. They're all right; fluorescent. She remembers that she was tan, once, or even pink. To the inside, where it's soft — slap. There. It's pink again. She wishes she could be made of skin from the inside of her forearm. It's smooth. There are freckles, and they've been there since she was younger and able to be considered dainty. People call them imperfections sometimes and she never understands that. The body she keeps in general is an imperfection. Freckles, she says, are quaint.
Hipbones are lower down, but they're the next section she tolerates. They are about as sharp as her elbows: they protrude. Hips themselves she hates, at least on her own self - she shouldn't widen there is what she thinks darkly, and her ears are hot. She shouldn't require the extra flesh.
Disgust bubbles, like bile that refuses to (for all the pressing fingers and furious hacking, it stays low and laughs at her), and that's entirely unfair. Her insides tremble and her ribcage notices and mocks her; it keeps everything behind bars and it widens what once could have passed as a doll. She cannot remember whether she was tan, when she had a face and everything else like china decorations.
Her hipbones stick out and every time she admits that she can't let a child sit there for long for how much it hurts her, there's a shock of pride. She has lain, carpet-made, lionskinned, across the floor on her stomach, and it's left bruises, it always leaves bruises. That's undeniably one of her favorite things. She likes to prod at them.
Interlude, with regard to hideous things. That encompasses most of it, actually, but until now it's mostly been focused on her dear veins and darling bones. There's more atop them, of course. That statement, while truth, is infuriating.
Something frustrating: it's impossible to be made of communion wafers. They are pale and brittle and she feels that she's got that much going for her; why can't she have the rest? Take one between two fingers and hold it up to the light and look - it's sort of see-through. That concept is probably the most appealing thing.
Yeah, Jesus Christ had a pretty lucky body, torture aside.
Back, for now, to what she likes. Only one more section, but we can hope, for her, that it's an accomplishment. She likes her legs.
Legs, for this one, start at a certain point. There are thighs, and then there's everything else, and it's the latter which she loves. Knees are nearly enough to change that (and sometimes, calves), but she bears with and tolerates. Isn't she strong?
They can be kept covered, and that's how she manages.
The rest, then, she hates, right. It's an interesting sort of hate because there's plenty to hate: vegetables. Sudden sounds. Bad manners. Body, though, stands above all of the other hates things, and it envelops with its outrageous filth, with its audacity; it exists and survives and does everything else that she's reprimanded it for. She looks at it and it moves with her. Stop copying me. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Which says which? It's a unison deal. Thinking of it makes her see it. Seeing it makes her want to hurt it. It's an offensive thing, it ridicules and calls for ridicule, it manages to be crass simply by taking up space. She could open it, she thinks, take from it, console herself with what's tucked away.
She stays under blankets for hours and hours and hopefully days and she takes comfort in those prized veins, never satisfied, wishing to drown herself in the saltwater, which has betrayed her by retreating, in horror, to the shore.
She looks at herself in sections. A body in its entirety can be comprehended, but in all the worst ways; so much disgust will come of it that it'll fill all the veins, block blood, take it over. Her feelings are plaque: she exudes, breathes in her own thickness, yellowed, clinging to the has-been efficient paths of arteries.
Veins, in fact, are a section all their own. She peers at them and they please her. They are thin, mostly, and colored blue-green. 'Blue-green' carries ideas of seawater, and she likes that. Underneath me sits the sea. Grand imagination. She can only hope.
It's her wrists she watches most, maybe. Or, she seeks to - she'd like to. It's because she doesn't hate them. Still, they could be thinner, and she scolds them for that: they are underachievers. (She is.) She is their work-weary and long-suffering mother and they are illiterate, previous potentials, having forgotten all they knew of her childhood appearance in favor of lounging and carelessness despite her begging. Her wrists are her sons. She needs to think this way, or she really will hate them, and with how few sections she can cope with, she can't afford that. As it is, she stays at the edge of disappointment; she knows they could have been pretty. After all, they're almost thin. They are sharp in some places, and they're adorably angular. The veins stand out.
Underachievers.
Forearms. They're all right; fluorescent. She remembers that she was tan, once, or even pink. To the inside, where it's soft — slap. There. It's pink again. She wishes she could be made of skin from the inside of her forearm. It's smooth. There are freckles, and they've been there since she was younger and able to be considered dainty. People call them imperfections sometimes and she never understands that. The body she keeps in general is an imperfection. Freckles, she says, are quaint.
Hipbones are lower down, but they're the next section she tolerates. They are about as sharp as her elbows: they protrude. Hips themselves she hates, at least on her own self - she shouldn't widen there is what she thinks darkly, and her ears are hot. She shouldn't require the extra flesh.
Disgust bubbles, like bile that refuses to (for all the pressing fingers and furious hacking, it stays low and laughs at her), and that's entirely unfair. Her insides tremble and her ribcage notices and mocks her; it keeps everything behind bars and it widens what once could have passed as a doll. She cannot remember whether she was tan, when she had a face and everything else like china decorations.
Her hipbones stick out and every time she admits that she can't let a child sit there for long for how much it hurts her, there's a shock of pride. She has lain, carpet-made, lionskinned, across the floor on her stomach, and it's left bruises, it always leaves bruises. That's undeniably one of her favorite things. She likes to prod at them.
Interlude, with regard to hideous things. That encompasses most of it, actually, but until now it's mostly been focused on her dear veins and darling bones. There's more atop them, of course. That statement, while truth, is infuriating.
Something frustrating: it's impossible to be made of communion wafers. They are pale and brittle and she feels that she's got that much going for her; why can't she have the rest? Take one between two fingers and hold it up to the light and look - it's sort of see-through. That concept is probably the most appealing thing.
Yeah, Jesus Christ had a pretty lucky body, torture aside.
Back, for now, to what she likes. Only one more section, but we can hope, for her, that it's an accomplishment. She likes her legs.
Legs, for this one, start at a certain point. There are thighs, and then there's everything else, and it's the latter which she loves. Knees are nearly enough to change that (and sometimes, calves), but she bears with and tolerates. Isn't she strong?
They can be kept covered, and that's how she manages.
The rest, then, she hates, right. It's an interesting sort of hate because there's plenty to hate: vegetables. Sudden sounds. Bad manners. Body, though, stands above all of the other hates things, and it envelops with its outrageous filth, with its audacity; it exists and survives and does everything else that she's reprimanded it for. She looks at it and it moves with her. Stop copying me. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Which says which? It's a unison deal. Thinking of it makes her see it. Seeing it makes her want to hurt it. It's an offensive thing, it ridicules and calls for ridicule, it manages to be crass simply by taking up space. She could open it, she thinks, take from it, console herself with what's tucked away.
She stays under blankets for hours and hours and hopefully days and she takes comfort in those prized veins, never satisfied, wishing to drown herself in the saltwater, which has betrayed her by retreating, in horror, to the shore.
