I feel fat with discontent. It’s like, when I breathe, I get fatter, sadder and more and more annoyed. I’m walking a plank sweetheart. Did you not notice my chin quiver, when I told you it wasn’t poetry? I’m not a poet. I don’t get turned on by the squalour and madness. I need a nice room, a job that pays well, good food, good skin, great hair, a pretty boy with a hot bike – you know. I’m not your mother. I can’t love you unconditionally and make you hot rotis every time you’re hungry. I’m not your keeper. I’m not. I’m not.
I’m a girl, who is not a clown, not always. I’m not the one you turn to when you falter. Not all the time. I’m not funny. I’m not wise. I’m a stupid girl in a stupid novel written by another stupid girl. I need to be taken care of every once in a while. I need to be looked at appreciatively. I need to be important to you or to someone else, sometimes.

Yes, it’s all about the attention, the pat on the back, the perfect ad moments, the tadas and the glowing hums. It’s fleeting, it’s superficial it’s vain, but it’s IMPORTANT. Indulge me. Sometimes. I need it.

Maybe it’s the drugs. My moods are as fickle as a house of cards. I love you I hate you I’m leaving I can’t live without you. I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

I didn’t come to you to crib. I didn’t come to cry. I didn’t come for anything.

I don’t feel comfortable in my body anymore. Even when I was very fat, I never felt as though I was not in my own body. It was my doing. My tub of lard. Mine. I could fix it. I could mend it. But now, I can’t control it. I don’t connect with it. I can’t run it the way I want to. Every pore has a mind of its own, and I just sit and observe it making one mistake after another. I’m full of self loathing, self denial. I’ve never felt so physically disconnected from myself. If you meet me, understand that it’s only a fourth of me. I don’t like my sluggish, weepy mind much either.

I wish I could be that clown girl for a bit. The bright eyed, happy but wise clown with rose tinted glasses.

“Why are you so angry with the world?” remember you asked once? I’m angry with me, fish. I’m very angry with me. And I miss your voice. I miss your nearness. Only you are not you. And you are definitely not mine.

I hate that. There must be one that's mine. Why must they all be like my body?