forever is scary for a lot of reasons

I was fourteen years old, completely innocent and lost and struggling.

I was in a dark place literally; emotionally and physically. I still am sometimes.

Chronic means never going away, it means always, it means "sorry honey, there is nothing you can do about this for the rest of your life."

I am not my favorite subject to write about. My illness is not my favorite topic. But it's easy for me, all the things I dare not talk about easily flow from my pen.

I'm having a hard time writing today. I keep forgetting that this is a journal, not a final draft.

In some ways, I try to find the beauty in my defective colon and my body that hates itself.

And my in some ways, I mean that just now, I am trying very hard to find the beauty.

The beauty and uniqueness, not the tragedy or romanticization of it all. I'm looking for the practicality in it, the okayness in the words "forever" and "sick." I think the beauty and saving grace don't lie in the illness itself, but in remission. Remission and hope and normalcy, all foreign words any chronic disease sufferer longs for.

And I hate that this comfortably ends in a preposition.

To Each Her Own

Here’s to the girls with a pencil in their dyed-dark hair

With messy pieces falling, nearly blocking their vision

Sitting quiet in that too small classroom, scribbling in their golden notebooks

Desiring to catch every precious passing moment

Desiring to create a new world out of the one they already have

But nothing appealing or worthy of note is happening

Here’s to the girls with expensive socks

Nobody asks, only assumptions

Are you okay? How do you feel today?

Trying to fit in and eat less and silently screaming in the mirror, “you’re not good enough

Unless you wear Nike”

Here’s to the girls walking home in the rain

Feeling powerful and nostalgic all at once

Because for the first time in a long time

He’s gone and she’s okay

Letting the heavy drops drench their curls

The puddles reflect their mascara stained faces

But the storms don’t reflect what’s in their hearts anymore

Here’s to the girls with their noses in textbooks

Skipping out on teenage euphoria

Studying Spanish and symmetry about the origin

But they've forgotten their origins

Sacrificing social acceptance for college acceptance

Letters

Here’s to the girls with chalky hands

Pushing and pushing and pushing

Pleasing parents but perishing internally

How long until your bar routine begins to waver

because the bar is set too high;

How long until you don’t stick the landing?

Here’s to the girls onstage

Refusing to hide behind the grand drape

Creating characters in the spotlight

Memorizing so many scripted personalities that it’s hard to keep track

Claiming it’s their passion

But forgetting how to act like themselves

Around the people who know their lines better than they do

Here’s to the girls who have absolutely no idea

Their infinite worth

More than silver

More than gold

More than those Marchesa F/W 2015 heels

Here’s to the girls in the waiting room

Who know what they’re in for, but don’t know how to get out

Who have learned to call a needle a savior

And eleven pills in the morning a few friends

Who notice the carpet matches the walls

And refuse to be defeated by their own bodies

Here’s to the girls with smeared lipstick

Who constantly have that one boy on their mind

Who pretend not to care about what people think about them

But inside they’re dying to know

Here’s to the girls who can’t sleep

But can’t stay awake either

Here’s to the girls driving alone at night

Blaring their music because they don’t want to admit they’re still afraid of the dark

Here’s to the girls with messy hair and a messy mind and a messy room

Sometimes messes are beautiful

But sometimes they need to be cleaned up