Real Girl

I feel like clouds of lightning in the dark, but the lightning is black. Static that is sharp and clinging to the binary in my mind. I am good. I am bad. I am angel. I am demon. Binary. On. Off. On. Stuck somewhere in the middle, between living and dying, like mushrooms born of decay. If I’m born of decay can goodness exist? My brain keeps telling me I’m broken. Useless. Deluded. Insane. Dead inside. But if I’m dead inside why does my heart hurt so much, so often. Like a gaping wound with him screaming at me from inside. Fingers clawing at me, trying to break out, to make me as broken as he is. Why is he even here? Why does he matter? Why are his nails so long, why do his teeth gnaw at me? Jagged stumps in bloody gums telling me I deserve this. I can’t get better because I’m not a real girl. I’m just a blow up doll filled with air and cum and hatred. Sit me on the couch and hold my hand, the squeak of rubber on plastic, of the air escaping out of the hole you crawled through, like a balloon stabbed with a toothpick. Thousands of tiny pricks. I look for blood to ooze, pour, spray, but then I remember I’m not a real girl after all.