I am fifteen years old. Again.
For No. Good. Reason.
I want to cry and listen to loud music and punch someone.
Until their teeth break.
Until their skin splits.
Until my skin splits.
Until my knuckle snaps and I'm punching my bones into their bones.
I feel like I'm in the wrong skin. Again. Everything hurts, between the top of my head and bottoms of my feet.
When I was fifteen, I would sneak down to the kitchen and find my mom's bottle of vodka. She kept it behind the crock pot, shoved way to the back of the cupboard.
I would crawl out my bedroom window and sit on the roof with a plastic cup of vodka and smoke cigarettes.
I keep my vodka in the freezer these days, and the only cigarettes I have are from the day I sort-of quit smoking five years ago. Grody.
Where has this fight been? Why have I been wearing this suit?