Everything Hurts When You’re Dying Inside 

“You perform poetry,” Bee laughed. 

“It’s true,” I said, taking in a deep breath, “I do.” 

She wrapped her leather jacket around her shoulders. 

“So, do you get all pumped up, like you see on YouTube?” 

“…Not exactly, no. I’m more of a quiet reader.” 

She tilted her head. 

“Huh, I pictured you as this huge presence, just stomping about the stage.” 

Huge presence. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not that intimidating…actually.” 

I grabbed the last raspberry vodka jelly and used my tongue as a spoon. Bee clapped her hands together. 

“Right, I’m going to find Brandon—he owes me money. Good luck with the…slam thingy.” 

I still don’t know why I went that day. I hated everybody at school; even the ones who paid attention to me. The invitation mentioned free drinks, and I’d not been to the supermarket for four days, so it was as good an excuse as any. It hadn’t changed much. The computers hadn’t been updated since the ‘80s and the carpets still smelled of rotten eggs. 

I decided to skip out early, leaving Bee and Brandon to slyly kiss in the corner. Nobody really cared about what I did—they couldn’t even name it. I took the train home. A drunk man sat opposite me, swaying back and forth. All the seats were taken, so I had to put up with his symphony of singing. I’d chosen to wear a silky green dress, somewhat like Keira Knightley in Atonement. Except that we are in no way the same body type; her svelte figure would be swallowed whole by my apple-shaped midriff. 

That’s how everyone thought of me. Bee said that she saw me as a huge presence. You can’t be fat and demure, apparently. It didn’t matter that I was sensitive or shy because those extra pounds I carried meant that I was scary. People being kind always made me think I was being pranked. Ten years out of school and nothing had changed. 

As I stepped onto the platform, my boot got caught and I crunched my toes. 

“Argh,” I yelped, albeit quiet enough to avoid drawing attention to myself. 

Now limping, I walked to the local bar that hosts poetry on Thursday’s. This is where I first got my start a few years ago. Aster—the owner—was outside, smoking with the bartender. 

“Hello, Aster.” 

“Alright trouble, where’ve you been?” 

“I thought you quit the cancer sticks?” 

“Nah, I’m tee-total, not completely insane.” 

I started to shuffle past the horde of artsy folk in flares when Aster grabbed my arm. 

“The poetry is off tonight—new push by the boss for more music. His idea of Literature is The Guardian, so…” 

“Oh.” 

He smiled. 

“Another night.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

There was no point in staying, so I finally went home. I ordered teriyaki noodles from the local Japanese place. I liked that place because it came in a cardboard box like you see in American films. They were good, but I couldn’t help noticing that I was never full. I had an eating problem, you see. It was something I tried to hide because I hated feeding into the misconception that people are only fat because they overeat. 

I had Asleep by The Smiths playing through my speakers. Aster used to date a woman who knew someone who went to school with Morrisey. I was always jealous of her—of how put together she was. I’d silently fume as she rubbed his back with her immaculate nails. Elena, sweet, suave Elena. 

Aster shot me down when I told him. He said I wasn’t his type, which is a complete cop out. I’m never anyone’s type. I don’t know how to be. Things are awkward for me now; I try to be civil, but I feel a dull ache, similar to period pain, every time I see him. 

I felt like I’d be alone forever. In some ways, I made peace with it, but not entirely. It was painful to watch love play out on TV. They tear their clothes off like the world is about to end. They kiss like they’re trying to break through walls. I couldn’t pretend to feel any of it, so I wrote about it. To those who watched me perform, I was living life, but in reality, I blew out the birthday candles that I had lit. The candle wax, as pink as Pepto-Bismol, burned me. Everything hurts more when you’re dying inside. 

I ironed my coat before going to bed. It was a habit. It always got shoved back in the cupboard, only to be taken out the next night. I got a text from Aster. 

Hey, trouble. So, I have some bad news. The boss has cancelled the poetry nights. It was fun while it lasted, right? Anyway, I notice you’ve been quiet with me. I hope we’re still friends after what happened. It doesn’t mean I don’t like you. You’re a great girl. Don’t be a stranger.