You crawl out of bed at 12:30 am.
You drag yourself up the ten
flights of stairs.
You poise your hand over the
handle to the roof and open the door.
The cold night air of New York
City hits you with all of it’s power.
You breathe it in as you walk
around this garden knowing you should be downstairs asleep.
It’s one of those nights again.
A night you are restless in worry
and torturing yourself with imperfections.
You work your sleepy, panic
driven self over to the low wall and look down.
You see cars lining the streets
and people of the night crawling their way along the road.
You begin to think.
The worst possible thing to do is think.
You hear your old friend saying
that you won’t ever be attractive.
You hear your exboyfriend saying
that no one will ever want to be with you.
You hear those girls in the
bathroom commenting on how your “shirt hugs you in all the wrong ways and shows
your stomach in unpleasing ways.”
You think about how bad you wish
you could get back at them.
You think of the anger you have
with God for letting you feel so terrible.
You start feeling even worse for
being mad with God.
You can’t handle the need for
perfection that society has placed on you.
You think it could all be over
and no one would give it second thought.
You could trip right there and
fall into the wind feeling thick as butter.
You think and think and think.
You feel your chest tense up and
you stumble backwards falling onto the grass on this rooftop garden.
With tears streaming down your tinted
pink, numb face you crawl to the door that feels heavier than a grand piano
filled with bricks.
You open the door and stumble in
your soberly drunken way down ten flights of stairs
You run yourself into walls and
trip all over the trash scattered among the floor.
You force your way into the room
sputtering helpless sounds of agony while you cocoon yourself in the marshmallow of a blanket.
You try to calm yourself down so
you will stop hyperventilating and keep crying knowing you have to be up in six
hours.
You have to drag yourself into
those hallowed halls with those dreadful people.
You know you’ll receive comments
about your size, clothes, face, and intelligence.
You feel so helpless in this
large world.
You feel so lonely.
You feel hot, sticky tears
flowing like blood out of an open wound.
You desire for this hopeless
attack to be over.
You feel yourself get dizzy and
see your vision tunnel until finally your body gives up and stops fighting the
pain of imperfection and sadness.
As you pass out you think maybe
this will be the night.
Maybe I will be finished with
being in this hell called life.
