Wearing trashy old jeans from like, 1998. They're pretty beat up. I fell on a sidewalk once, skinned my knee, and tore up a good portion of the cloth. I patched it over with some tie-dye-ish blue cloth. That also hid the blood stains, which never came out.
They make me feel very GrungeRock. I like that. They're my favorite jeans.
When I got them, they were sort of tight on me; I'd gained my "Freshman 15" and fifteen pounds or so, although not really visible, brought me from a size four or so, to a size seven or so. Give or take. I don't really know.
They've been tight on me for two months now. I couldn't even wear my other jeans, the skanky tight pair I got at Goodwill.
My GrungeRock jeans fall off of me now.
They didn't last week.
Maybe my whole body will disappear.
Still can't get up the nerve to take a shower. I "wash" with diaper cloths. Whatever the fuck you call 'em: those things you use to wipe babies' asses. I can't get up the nerve to look at my body. I can't touch my body. I sleep in pajamas again so I don't feel my non-belly touching Jake.
I'm a seashell without an animal in it. A seashell that's really quite battered and raw. My body is about the ugliest, most useless thing on the planet.
I wanted so much to be fat. Every damned day, I'd poke Jake and ask him if I was fat yet. Now I'm scrawny again.
Was my body ever much use anyway? It killed my baby...
I'd like to shrivel up and die.
~Helena*