there is no amount of pain that i can cause myself that will make this go away. it doesnt make any sense i know... but its just this growing desire to wrench a corkscrew through my heart... to cut deeper and deeper and deeper... it somehow feels like if i hurt myself then all horribleness will go away? CANT YOU SEE THATS WHAT I HAVE BEEN DOING THIS WHOLE TIME? i am digging deeper and deeper scrubbing it away but i cant get it off me and in the process i am losing my mind, my dignity, and my friends. LOOK AT ME! i am a beast, i cant control my thoughts, emotions, one day i am fine the next i am buried in the lowliest of pits. once i think i cant get any lower i find myself lower still and no matter what i do i cannot rid the earth of the wretchedness that is my instability, my inconsistancy, my unfaithfulness. LOOK AWAY FROM ME! for i cannot bear for you to see the reality of my soul. nothing is hidden to you... all of my secrets are laid bare before everyone, i never lied about how awesome i was or pretended that i had it all together. its not a game to me, this is real. its not a want for me, its a need. its a matter of life or death. there is no playing around for me, there is no time just to live carelessly and shout out peace when there is none. there is no peace within my frame, there is only harlotry, confusion, loneliness, and hurt. i multilate myself to make myself feel better. my heart is seeped in sickness and disease. this is a poem i wrote a few months ago... just recently i realized that it is about myself:
Lemon Juice
Tiny wine bottle cork screws behind the lemon bar.
She shrinks beneath the pool table and listens to rocks
roll down the hills. Sliding, peeling, blood like pomegranate
juice oozes down her arm unto the imported Italian
grapevine floor rug. Above the game continues on as
red striped universes fall into leather netted black holes.
And heart slows with less and less to beat about
as the white peach hookah smoke seductively wraps
itself around her self-abasing cherry lips. She lies
facedown inside of her green felt ceiling world and
finds herself looking at an imported pair of leather
soled shoes with the subway map etched on the bottom.
With the one contact she has left in her summer’s afternoon
hazelnut eyes she squints and seeks out her destination.
Run away, Lilian. Run away to the pineapple beaches and
orange grove valleys. Now the pomegranate juice seeps
out of her current spacial confines and the corkscrew winds
itself deeper into her wrist like a music box turn key finding
its ways to faster melodies. In her last few minutes of passion
fruit pleasure she remembers the time she found
tiny wine bottle cork screws behind the lemon bar.
i dont just talk about self-multilation and suicide to get attention. there was a time where i was seriously questioning if i was just making all this up because im so lonely. but now, now that i know that suicide is no longer an option, now that my heart has explored that road and has decided that it leads no where, i thought that the thoughts and images of killing myself would be gone. but they are not. do you know what the first thing i saw in my minds eye this morning was? a picture, an image, of a razor making a vertical cut all the way down the inside of my arm to my wrist and then me reaching my hand inside the cut and pulling the skin off my arm. ITS INSIDE OF ME. when i wake up, when i go to sleep, and in the middle of the afternoon. i see flashes of myself hanging from the bar in my closest... i picture blood running from a neat straight line on my arm. if i let this devil in then i have no idea how to get him out. you can see it in my poetry even. the enemy is seriously trying to get to me. why? i have no influence, no power, no significant redeeming qualities, i just dont get it. i am just a mess of a person in a mess of a world. what is happening? why is this happening? i feel like im stuck in a horror movie.
sadly its the second best poem i have ever written. the best poem was coincidentally also about someone killing themselves. its seems like the only value i have is in that which pertains to darkness, and when representing beauty the only reference point i have is sorrow. i couldnt paint a picture of a flower if i wanted to. a dead flower on the other hand... now i can do that. what a pleasant realization to come to.
angela
No comments:
Post a Comment