Peach PRC
ive heard songs romanticise “her blood shot eyes” and getting high by my favourite bands with lyrics like “cause they’re just girls breaking hearts, eyes bright, uptight, just girls,” sung by the 1975. and i sing along about manic wild girls who are troubled, but sexy. as if i too, am sexy when troubled. i bet they’ll drift off on fitted sheets and he’ll kiss her over colgate teeth, while i rot into my mattress on the floor growing roots into the dusty carpet underneath. because building a bed is too difficult, fitting a clean sheet is too difficult, brushing my teeth is too difficult, im too difficult. who would kiss cracked lips that haven’t opened to speak in days? how can i love myself when im so draining to everyone else? self love is hard when i know i’m a burden, we’re not supposed to say that about people, especially not ourselves but i know it’s the reality. it’s all i’ve been told, i’m heavy to hold.
i hear cars pull up outside and ring doorbells but they’re never mine. i don’t invite people over, there’s dog piss on the floor and mold growing from cups in my room. what would i talk to them about? what if they ask about my day? would i have to tell them i woke up on my side around 5pm right as the day was about over and stayed there, on my side until the day started again? so i play sitcoms on vhs while the laugh tracks echo friends that have left. canned artificial laughter, like the tv is prompting me to enjoy what i’m watching and clicking it’s fingers in my face, grinning and demanding i reciprocate, but i don’t. how can i brave this storm when i just burn them trying to keep warm? im being ripped apart by gushes of cold air and swirling leaves and when someone steps in to offer their hand and pull me out i erupt into flames in a frantic effort to show them i am not the storm. but i burn the leaves around me and singe their fingers. so i’ve been told, i’m heavy to hold.
they say they won’t run away, but “fix you” is only pretty when it’s sung by coldplay. fixing me tastes like pouring an opened bottle of old vinegary rose from the fridge, desperate to take the edge off because i’ve made the day so long. it smells like a sanitary bin in the bathroom that hasn’t been emptied in months because i dont care to take it out so you’re forced to clean up after me or endure it. it feels like waking up to scratches exfoliating your skin from stale crumbs stuck in the creases of the bare mattress. it looks like someone in their final days. you care for them and bathe them and feed them but your empathy slowly burns out as you exhaust yourself trying to fix someone who can’t remember who they were before they broke. so you break too. but they’ll kiss me! “manic pixie dream girl” but wont want to love me because it feels too risky, and i understand. the wild girl with the bloodshot eyes will crash into your routine and put pills on your tongue when you have work in the morning and smash plates on the driveway instead of rinsing them, and it’s exhilarating. but it isn’t love, it’s only fleeting curiosity, an interactive side show that leaves you with a breath of relief when you step out of the tent. it’s all i’ve been told, i’m heavy to hold.
lay me down, im getting tired. back to the micro-biome mattress and the moldy cups, the canned laugher and the setting mourning sun. i’ll be around if you decide you’ve changed your mind but know that i won’t have changed mine. i’m hard to love there’s no denying that, ill dig my nails into your sides hoping to climb into your rib cage and plant flowers and butterflies will come, but your bones will break and i’ll become the weeds. i’ll dress you up and paint you into a landscape masterpiece only to critique my own work down to the very brush stroke. im a full glass of water that feels weightless when lifted from the bench, but becomes heavier the longer you can’t set it down. so if you’ve had enough, thanks for trying. go ahead and set me down, cause after all i have been told,
i’m heavy to hold.
