A Realistic Pokemon RP

Valerie Lux
ID Number
Adventure Started
6-October 17
Currently located
Last Seen
Nov 18 2017, 03:11 PM

AGE:25 HOMETOWN:goldenrod city OCCUPATION:gym leader FACE CLAIM:fernanda ly PLAYED BY:kipper
tw: miscarriage, disordered eating, body image

the haiku form is
of appropriate length
to describe this fuck

I lost my virginity at the age of fourteen. It's a ridiculous thing, virginity (and fourteen, I suppose). I woke up the next morning and looked at myself in the mirror, hoping the gap in my teeth had miraculously closed, that my lips would be rouge-red and glossy, my hair long and lustrous, my eyes sultry and shadowed in a dark and cloudy mystery.But nothing happened. Nothing changed the dumpy awkward teen in front of me into a 40s movie starlet. I still wore a shirt down to my knees. The only thing that changed was how little I learned I cared.

we used to have sex
so we didn't have to talk
now we do neither

We were like shadows in a stranger's dream. Ships that passed in the night. A romantic notion that never quite reached the page. And though your hair smelled like roses and your eyes were darker than black holes, I knew you'd never love me and I knew I'd never love you. We were pretending all along, and the whole world pretended with us.

i shouted my love
from the rooftops before
almost jumping off

I have a place in my heart for every boy I've ever loved. And there are a lot of them, all clamouring for attention, like my heart is a crowded lobby, like I'm a rarely-seen star who deigns on occasion to give autographs to her fans. I've seen all the films, the black and white ones that show, flickering, at the tiny theatre down the street. The leading ladies pull scarves around their heads and wear sunglasses that hide their eyes, they ride in motorcars and men open doors for them, place their coats in puddles so they won't dirty their shoes. I dream in black and white now, though it's too clear to really flicker. I dream of car chases and bank heists, of money, of money. I dream of fame. I dream of dying in a blaze of glory, flying off a cliff in the arms of my lover, shot through the head in the theatre. Forever remembered.

entangled, twitching
we came down as cenotaphs
numb with limbless minds

He wrote me poems. One every day. More. Less. They came scrawled on napkins or stolen scraps of paper. The ink spilled across the parchment, filling the smallest cracks like a river through canyons: they made me think of tiny spiders flowing across walls, more liquid than creature. His words were more creature, too. They crawled into the attic spaces around my heart and bored tiny holes there, so small I often forgot they existed until, on the lonelier days, they froze up like icicles and stabbed into my chest.I never loved myself. But him... Oh, god, I loved him so much, I forgot what hating myself felt like.

i liked to be choked
you stuffed pokemon for fun
you were just my type

I crave attention. I long for it. The desire to be loved sinks deep into my bones. I was unattractive, unwanted: my thighs pressed against each other when I walked. I couldn't stand to look at myself in the mirror some days. I was fiercely convinced of my own insignificance. I wasn't a girl who walked and drew gasps from all who looked upon her. I hid myself in my cupboards during those soul-destroying weeks before Valentine's Day. Nobody would ask for my hand for the holiday. Nobody would even notice I was missing, I was certain. And then when I turned seventeen, something changed. I grew four inches in six months: my thighs no longer touched when I sat down, those awful things I once compared to pancake batter settling in the pan now rigid and tanned and clear of spots. It was hard to discover that people only paid attention to me once I was useful to them. Girls invited me to go shopping with them; I was a handy addition to their group of entrapment and heels. Boys once only asked me out on dares. I borrowed my friend's clothes and I washed my hair once a day and eventually I learned to accept that the only ugly thing left on me was my heart. It was difficult to relearn everything I had taught myself when I hid inside cupboards and cried myself to sleep. I had once starved myself to fainting point and still been too mortified to look at myself in the mirror. Some years, bathrooms saw more of my lunch than my intestines ever did. And now, I could eat anything I wanted and it never showed on my bones. I wanted to cry with the confusion of it all, but crying now felt so incomplete, now that I was only grieving for a past version of myself I once would have given anything to discard.

it's strange to think it
but before i miscarried
was i a mother?

She was a she as much as I was a she. Tiny fingers curled into the flesh inside me, bumps and bones and tiny hands, tiny hands. I watched as the doctors projected the images of her onto the wall and though she was nothing on there but a blurry mess, she was a she and she was my she. But I wondered if the world was ready for such a precious creature, so dependent and cold and young, desperate for affection, attention, pale and small and brave. Everything I couldn't be, that was what she was going to be. And then my demons reared one night two months later, shaking their ugly heads and spattering darkness on my sheets, spreading like a curse, a plague, and no amount of bleach can get that stain from my heart.

you didn't like me
but you did like my body
i guess that's enough

Filthy attention is better than no attention at all. Dirt smearing my skin is better than no touch at all. A kiss from a fist is better than no kiss at all. I long for the touch of humankind in all its squalor and despair. It always seems more real when the words come from a man who has nothing to lose. Poetry carves into my bones and echoes eerily in the night: inked quills scratch at my skin like parchment. My ribs become an ivory cage for my ailing heart and I learn to forget nights before the sun begins to rise. I don't need alcohol to wash myself free. Sometimes I look at the things I write down and I'm worried I'm more poetry than human.

you learned of my pain
and said you'd try to fix me
i am not your job

A man once held my arms by my side as I glared into a mirror and told me to appreciate myself. He told me he was worried I would hurt myself, that the way I plucked at the skin beneath my ribs warned him that I was dangerous. I am nobody's responsibility but my own. I never liked being pitied, never accepted charity, always had to do things on my own terms. Being given anything made it taste raw and unearned. I longed for the authenticity of my own success.More than anything, I loathed being looked down upon. Only I could look down on myself: everyone else could fuck right off. I was my own worst enemy but I was also my own fiercest protector. I'd let nobody destroy me, but me.

you weren't attractive
but alcohol and codeine
made a mess of me

I've become fond of gutters. They seem like an appropriate home for me. I've woken up in gutters more often than I've woken up in hospitals, at least. The muck clothes my skin and keeps me safe from harm. I can't be burned if I'm coated in mud: elephants taught me that. I think there's a strange kinship between all of those who have fallen, even from not-so-great heights: an honour amongst thieves, sort of. Everyone who lies in the gutter could claw themselves away by stepping on those they roll with, but they don't. Instead, they revel in their shared darkness. It would almost be heart-warming if it didn't terrify me. The extent of the human experience, their shared lows, their exaltations, their fears, they all congregate in the gutter. A man who's dying of liver failure could speak more truth than any preacher, strike fear into the heart of even the staunchest non-believer. It's all a matter of perspective. I don't remember who said it, but it's said that we all lie in the gutter--But some of us are looking at the stars.

you liked taking charge
and i went along with it
out of laziness

There's a stubbornness in me that won't lie still, won't sit back and watch my life pass me by. I don't know why I thought the life of a Gym Leader would give me the adrenaline rush that I need but for some reason I found myself swept up in it - the lights, the dramatics, the fame. But it's responsibility, too, responsibility and caring and a need to succeed, to look after the trainers who make their way through the region; and that's the horrifying part, the part that makes me want to abandon myself - my name - toss this broken mask to the mud and run away, start again, start again. But something keeps me here, something brave and unknown deep inside me: I'm stronger than I believe myself to be, there's more to me than just a pretty face that runs at the first sign of trouble. I give badges to those who win and I give advice to those who don't and all the while behind that pretty kimono and that mask of mine I'm left wondering when it is that I'll finally break.

halfway through i sobbed
said i was lost as a child
you stopped and held me

I feel filthy when I think about it, but I revel in my filth. My past - my self - won't be swept under a rug, it's a living breathing beast that bears down upon me in the night and licks my toes. It won't be forgotten and neither will I. I can't change myself for them, but I try. I scrub the dirt from beneath my fingernails like Lady Macbeth.The water when it curls down the drain is stained with black and red and soft off-white.