I might say something stupid

Brat summer, or innate goodness and suicidal tendencies summer

This summer was spent hotboxing my closet and eating mangoes on the living room couch. I forgot things as soon as people said them.

Nothing bad has ever happened. Not to me then and not to me now. I scrub at the wine stain on my jersey. I love open bar events.

I spent two weeks as a camp counselor even though looking at children makes me feel sick to my stomach. In each one I see myself and wonder how anyone ever hurt me.

I wasn’t a bad kid. I was polite and had good handwriting. Sometimes I would talk to my friends during class but I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt me.

At camp there was one girl who definitely had undiagnosed anxiety. Homesick, she told me about her mother. My mom used to sail, she said. I came here for her. I want to follow in her footsteps.

She was afraid her mother would be angry that she wanted to come home. I asked her why she didn’t tell her mother all this and she responded, There never seems to be a right time to say ‘Mom, I think you’re perfect.’

I was grateful this conversation was cut short soon after, or I would’ve had to excuse myself. I sat with her while she called her mother and we both tried not to cry.

I’m always excusing myself anyway. To go throw up in the bathroom or hit my vape or hate myself for not being skinny. I want to be the most alone in a crowded elevator. I want to be the worst person in the room.

Charli xcx wrote,

I snag my tights out on the lawn chair
Guess I'm a mess and play the role

and I imagine how beautiful it is to die and to be bad.

But I can’t die and I want to be good. That’s the thing, I’ve been clawing my way out this whole time— what reason is there to turn the claws back on myself?

Dead girls can’t dance or drink or read poems. Art relies on morality; I couldn’t be a poet if I was bad. (I suppose indirectly, but to be understood would require viewing through an ethical lens. The understanding of bad by badder feels mildly ridiculous).

Sometimes I am surprised by the kindness of boys. Hatred seems to be taught earlier and earlier these days.

At camp, one boy loves his girlfriend. Another wants a tattoo of a crab, because he has a Cancer sun. A third is gentle and I can’t figure out why, but his friend is angry at every little thing.

I’m not used to any of this. Seeing children with their innate goodness and listening to them disregard it. For the first time in my life thinking it might be better if I lived.