I feel a murderous rage welling up inside of me. I feel the confinement of this angry being slip through the cracks of the glass mask I wear. The painted smile has faded, and a smear of dark circles illuminate through to others. I feel its cracks against my skin, and I feel a fire in my bones that may overpower me. Every night I imagine myself with the pretty necklace of death and every night the tear of my existence haunts me. I have become my own ghost. Trapped forever in this feeling that even if I pass it will always pass grief. And I wonder “what is life without me” it’s a selfish question. Those who love me will try to silence my outspoken death word, but they’ll never cease the constant battle in my mind. I know they don’t understand. Even if they deal with the demons themselves. Even I cannot communicate with others sadness.
I have no more words. I have been spent, and I feel the evening of my life try to close in around me. Why do I have this suffering choice? And why do I play these games with my mind. I have love, I have things around me to make me happy, but I cannot yell at the distance that I am capable of loving. I can only cry, and that hurts me like a million slivers of hope slipping through my fingers.
I hold a place in my heart for negativity, because circumstances must be the saddest thing to exist. I hold it because we need emotion. I sometimes wish I was emotionless. No love, no happiness, no sadness. Only numb. I feel parts of myself open the door to numbness; it creeps in slowly making a shadowy appearance. Then full darkness will swim in my vision, and I fall for the stars above my head.
What is the feeling of having no idea what you want out of life. Yes, I love him and cherish him, but I am mean and unrelenting. Stubborn and unkind. I want to change that but behind the layers of formality I fear this is my true self. A hopeless girl drowning in her own scars, angry at those who love her because she feels too close. I do not want to disappoint them. But if I truly said what I wanted I would be the failure in every way. So, I keep my mouth shut up with a smile that’s painful to uphold.
I want my cuts to run deeper and draw more blood, so what am I afraid of? Surely not death, or pain. No. it’s something else entirely. I am afraid that I will be caught. Sometimes I think of blurting it out to the stranger across the street but even for strangers it’s a burden to carry. And one I wish I could bury. I am not the product of a bad situation I am a product of my own fears and obligations.
And I wonder what it would be like to never taste food again or cut so deeply the wound will fascinate me and forget the pain. I wonder at filling the tub full and submerging inside holding my breath until I drift into an eternal slumber. I wonder at the pills, wondering about the taste of medicine filling my stomach and going to sleep to never wake again. These are the simpler things, the more brutal thoughts come in waves that make my lungs feel collapsed and my heart vibrates with the tension and fear that it won’t be who hurts myself. Those are the thoughts that do not feel like my own. Like I am in an entirely different body, soul and mind.
Signed,
The Poet
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