I left a bowl of macaroni in my room for three weeks.

I’d only eaten a third of it;

My appetite has shrunk since I moved,

Leeching off the generosity of friends

Rather than family.

The other day, a friend

Informed me that I, and my room,

Were producing a noticeable odor.

They did so as politely as possible,

At least pretending they didn’t want to hurt my feelings.

And I tried to respond with reassuring humor

But I doubt it worked.

I went to clean my room of

Old macaroni and

Sandwiches and

Wet cat food and

Rock-hard couscous and

Chocolate milk left so long it’d burst like a corpse and

Sauce packets and

Old soda reduced to syrup and

Remnants of a mockery of Chinese food and

All their associated messes.

The macaroni was the only thing that had molded.

I’d bought ten boxes of it,

Used half within a week,

Haven’t touched it since,

I don’t want to touch it again.

Beneath the orange, crispy surface

Was white, blue, green, black fuzz that glued the noodles together

And stained the plastic bowl

So it had to be thrown away.

I didn’t dare tell my roommates this

(even though it was their bowl)

Because I didn’t want to see the disappointment on their faces;

I didn’t want to hear any well-deserved scolding;

I didn’t want to deal with the reality of being the biggest pig in a ten-mile radius.

The pleasant, soft, idealized daydreams that keep me clinging to life

Are constantly interrupted

By the fact that I’m an unpleasant person.

Having moved away from the family I’ve been suffocated by my whole life,

I can say with confidence

That it’s me, not them.

Fat, ugly, smelly, rude, antisocial, lazy, stupid—

The list goes on.

That isn’t the sort of person who will be loved

Or appreciated for their “talent”

Especially considering they don’t have any.

Even at my lowest, I pretend my failure

To be a competent human being

Is at least a unique type of awful,

But it isn’t.

When I die, a worm will infest my flesh

And think to itself how this meal

Reminds them of one they had a long time ago,

The same fattiness and rotten flavor,

The undisturbed soil because nobody visits.

The two barriers between myself and suicide

Are my cat and my roommates,

Because no matter how much I am convinced they hate me,

They’ve stated they need me for financial reasons

And wouldn’t be able to find a new roommate.

So, of course,

My response seems to be unemployment.

Apparently I will drag my reasons for living into poverty with me

And curl into a ball alone after they curse me

And pity myself from here until eternity.

Poor, sweet Eloise can’t stand anyone who isn’t me.

So for her, I try to stay alive and healthy—

But if I gave her to my parents and never returned,

She’d adapt.

These words were more polished,

More focused when I thought them during the afternoon.

But I end here knowing that I won’t make it to twenty

And I have only myself to blame.