I tell the tale of a girl, but I call her a woman

It's a boiling snarl that doesn't suit me, pulling my lip from somewhere around my nose, inclination of my eye. It's the sound of a kitchen knife being pulled from it's drawer. It's the sound of the skin snagging and tearing. It's the pop as my teeth break my skin again and again, disfiguring my smile by distraction. One drunken kick to my face and I can still taste his boot. I laughed into the treads of mud and rubber. With each new lie I build a better model. I read somewhere recently I forget where, I read a lot, too much that's what they told me. I read too much, I think too much. They warned me I'd strain my eyes with all of those words and they were right. I'm formulating a headache right now reading this shit. I read somewhere about memories, how we change whatever it is we're remembering because we are remembering them. We replace the memory each time we think about it. I rewrite my history every day and there's a small part of me that knows I'm lying. That knows that never happened but I shut it up because hey, it could have happened. It should have happened. It's a better fucking story so keep your mouth shut until I say it's safe.

I wrote a goddamn masterpiece, smiling at my ruined face in the reflection of the empty bus. The hints of eye liner smeared by the rain into the grey bags of my eyes. You look tired she said to me every day. First thing before saying hello. You look tired. Fuck you I answered on the last day. Why haven't you died yet? And I met her on a bus with her new man and she laughed and told him how I had hated her. Wasn't it funny? Irrelevant.

I wrote a goddamn masterpiece. It was a plot you wished you'd written. You wished I'd told you before this bus had crashed and I'd been eviscerated so it could have been yours. But I stared hard at the little wisp in the dark window, my raincurled hair scraped back as short as it should be at this time of year and I knew as soon as I pulled the pen out of my left pocket I'd only write about myself. And look it's just as true now and maybe I'll hit publish, I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll let this rot with all my other drafts. Maybe I'd regret it and maybe you'd be interested but seriously go read something else. I update this constantly to bump the last post away from the top.

t-i-r-e-d spells it.