It feels like i'm at an awkward age where my writing is getting too dark for teenage magazines but not quite mature enough to become adult literature. I slide knives across my skin in a desperate attempt to gain sensitivity or any sort of feeling. Sometimes i think of the smell of pizza and gag in my mouth, having to run to the toilet Eating has become difficult. Food seems to revolt under the rule of my stomach, always back up the hatchet and in the proverbial shitter.

I had an episode in staples a week or so ago, a few days before school. My skin had been freshly destroyed due to old habits and overly eager fingers. They are stubby and antsy, frightened, overpowered and ruled by some greater stomach, some greater feeling i cant define.

The cluelessness of my father combined with my sudden personal analyzation rock slowly inside the back of my mind, with the constant shameful battle against failure and slow designation of my own body, it all smacked me in the face. Soon i will not be able to eat any foods at all, soon i will die.

Beige collared minimum wage employees are posted at the end of every isle, too helpful and cheery to be getting paid 9.50. Today they disgust me with their barricading questions that i wish my dad would ask me; “Are you doing okay? Can i help you with anything?” I give nothing to them but horizontal shakes of my head, wishing they would f*** off.

I gather supplies dryly and quickly; humorlessly. My father has not decided on this mood for himself today and finds it annoying on me. I am empty when him and I speak, averting eye contact at all costs, feasting my sights on the wooden floor beneath me.

I am ready to leave but my father is inspecting the laptops. He pulls out his shiny iPhone to compare quotas. I plant myself lifelessly in front of the gift card rack and run my eyes over them; Starbucks, best buy, subway. As i stand on staple’s wooden floor i feel crushed in with small talk and other people’s ideas being shoved at me. i decide i am slowly dying inside, a little faster than everyone else for some reason. I stare at the wooden floor and start to hate and envy it. No fluctuating capabilities or possibilities of paralyzation, you’re just a hard solid floor. I often resolve to follow in the footsteps of alike inanimate objects, mostly wooden because trees are strong and beautiful. Trees don’t get scared of spontaneous combustion while picking out hair mousse at London drugs, they just stay in the forest and shade picnic tables.