Lillian Heckler Portfolio

october 29, 2020

Most of the time, my skin feels one size too tight on my bones. I feel my knees crackle and grind as I pace, straining against the pressure of the epidermis. The sound is unbearable; a low-pitched creak reserved only for my ears. When combined with the shuffle of my shoes across the linoleum of the school building, I cannot think of anything other than the sound waves banging through my skull. I blame my skin for my slipping grades. If it weren’t for my crumbling bones, I would be able to pay attention. 

Most of the time, my stomach feels two inches too round. I nibble an orange during lunch and then try to pinch the weight off while listening to a lecture in science class. The feeling of it digesting in my gastric acid sets my brain on fire. Suddenly, my waist is growing and expanding and eating up all of the space in the room until there is nothing left but me and my three-hundred-pound body. I blame my stomach for the fingernail marks lining my hips. If it weren’t for its constantly increasing size, I wouldn’t have to pinch so hard. 

Most of the time, my brain feels three feet too far away from my body. I walk down the hallway without my conscience, watching as it floats next to me. I reach out to grab it, but it dodges my stretched hand. I function for short spurts–when it slides back between my ears–and then feel myself turn into a zombie again. I blame my brain for my empty stares. If it weren’t for my misplaced neurons, I wouldn’t wander without purpose. 

Most of the time, my feet feel four pounds too heavy. I leave deep indents on the pavement behind me as I walk toward my car. I do not look back to check how many because I feel the gravel bite into my ankles with each grotto I create. I grit my teeth as rocks lodge themselves into the open wounds. I blame my feet for my popped tires. If it weren’t for the pothole-filled roads I produce, I wouldn’t have to swerve so much. 

Most of the time, I get five hours too little sleep. Most of the time, I leave six minutes for myself at the end of the day. Most of the time, i feel seven deep breaths away from suffocation. Most of the time i am buried eight feet under the ground. most of the time i feel the ghostly presence of nine friends lost most of the time i pass by ten people who hate me and i watch eleven unfinished assignments sit in my folder and i accept twelve second chair finishes and i hear thirteen snakes hissing secrets in my ears and i rot in my bed in my room that’s been dirty for fourteen days and i can’t get up to clean it because i can’t find my way out from under my fifteen tons of unwashed laundry 

Most of the time, my age feels sixteen years too old. I picture myself as a seven-year-old, curled up in the lap of my mother. I observe every day as that image grows increasingly blurry and I try to commit it to memory. But my efforts are fruitless. I am growing up. And I am breaking down.