The Rooftop Garden

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.