Old Things Whisper

I sat there after an hour and a half wasted arguing with the ex on the phone.
Pulled up the leg of my shorts to reveal the line of small scars running horizontal.
Six, I counted.
Running my finger up and down so that it stretched them.
Only two are most visible.
Sometimes I wonder if L's family notices them when we're at the lake.
Squish my skin together so that they make four indentions and two raises.
A time, not but months ago, when I thought I wasn't going to see the sunrise.

I thought about the conversation and I wanted to tear my skin off.
See that ugly inside.
We aren't going to talk anymore I guess.
Maybe I really am spiteful and maybe I hold a grudge, like he said.
Maybe I really am selfish, like he said.
I don't know.
I don't want to cut out that part of my life and I have to.
Why are we asked to give up such "valuable" things for the sake of better?

Knot in my throat.
Why does it hurt so much?
It's as though there's a tennis ball lodged in there.
Two tears slide down my cheeks.
Everything is too much.

Right now I'm taking 21 credit hours until the 19th.
Then it's down to 15.
The things we do to graduate on time.
I feel like I'm trapped inside my body pushing and straining to get out.
Looking around, there's so many people around me and where do I fit?
The stress is unbelievable, like a white hot light all day.
A sense of dread grows more and more every day.
Don't get behind. Don't get behind. Don't get behind.
My mind flirts with the idea of restricting again so that I can make all the pieces fit like last semester.
I hate this.
I hate college.
Why should people that have never met me and don't care about my hopes and dreams get to dictate who I am based upon a grade?
Hoop jumper, tell me the secret.

It's not fair.
It's not fair the way academia makes you want to harm yourself.
Never good enough.
Let me out.
Never enough time.
Let me out.
Hurry.
Let me out.
Wake up early, go to bed late.
Let me out.
More, more, more.
I can't give more!

You could if you came back.
Just one semester.
Or until you're done with grad school.
You're only a few months into real recovery anyway.
You could have the world again.

I just want to be happy.
Go away.

You broke his heart.
You lied.
You cheated.
You walked away without giving him a chance.
You could have done that assignment instead of watching Netflix.
You worked out for too long and now you have to wake up earlier tomorrow.
You never come through when you make your list; there's always something left.
You keep talking to him, stringing him along.
If only you were a better student and maybe a better person...
There's a way, you know.

I don't know how to stay afloat but I try.
I know I don't have some worthwhile thing to say but I want to write.
That itch is back.
It started today, when I felt my spine out of reflex.
It grew to feeling my stomach, thinking about what I ate and compared it to how much homework I had gotten done.
It starts when old things whisper.