REPORT A PROBLEM
I tried to write about myself again, tried to tell the whole story. I got a few hundred words in, and my fingers froze. My brain locked up. My heart closed its eyes and huddled in a corner of my chest.
"Not this. Not this. No this." they begged. "Don't open this door again. Don't look at this memory. Don't think these thoughts."
It was almost as if I could feel a physical weight of sorrow settle on my shoulders and begin to seep into my bones. Such
What made the center of my soul this warped?
There are days when I look at the world and imagine it covered in blood. Blood and bodies. Such a lovely color. Such lovely screams.
I want to snap your bones with my teeth. I want to sink my nails into your flesh. Your skin will make a nice blanket with a hair braided fringe. Cover me. Warm me with your stench.
Life is so simple when the dead don't talk. Life is so easy when the ghosts are laid to rest.
Shhh, sugar darlin'. I wouldn't hurt you. Not for the world. So come with me. Burn the world.
Mmmm... That's the smell of insanity, baby.
We'll deal with it in the morning.
I'm so tired. I'm tired of trying to be responsible. I'm tired of looking in their eyes and seeing the cracks I'm no longer allowed to have. Strung out. Hung up. That deep, slow slur.
Yeah, man, where can I get me some of that?
So they say everything will be ok. It will all work out. Hell, I'd almost believed we lived in a fairy tale. But there it is--the opening to hell, and the demons won't leave me alone.
I wanna fuck up.
I'd write you a letter, babe, but the only words I remember are screams. Grunts. Groans. Snarls.
Little bitty angel has a feral side.
God, do you remember me at night? When those fingers pull the sheets off my bed and pull me under, under and out. There used to be a voice that kept those hands away. There used to be arms that anchored me to the world.
The devil took him away, see. The devil bit him until he left me for western skies. Now I fall asleep with the sound of sorrow echoing in my ears.
I smell jack-o-lanterns. That wafting scent of candle-cooked pumpkins. I love October. I love Halloween. I love the stiff chill in my fingertips and the taste of magic in the air. I look forward to Halloween more than Christmas.
And yet... this is a bad time of year for me. Perhaps it's just that I let my hopes get too high. I expect too much. I'm a little girl dressed up in shiny new shoes and a pretty black dress, only to learn the party I've been invited to is a funeral.
The lilies are just plastic.
Stress stress stress stress stress.
Some days I want to sleep forever. I would like to curl up into a ball beneath all the blankets, pillows, and laundry on my bed and not emerge until the whole world stops asking things from me.
"We're sorry," people would say. "We didn't realize how stressed out our demands made you. What do
want to do?"
But... no, that would never work. Because no matter how much they wanted me to be happy, I could never chose something that might make them unhappy. So I should just sleep. Forever. In total ignorance.
There was a time when my mind split into a thousand different pieces. The good, the bad, the young, the fragile, the witch, the boy, the one with the mask and puppet string fingers...
Every bit of me that I had hidden inside congealed, intensified, and finally broke out with voices of their own. It was a terrifying experience.
Worse than waking up someplace completely new with wounds I couldn't remember was the shame. Everyone knew now. They could see why I hated myself. They witnessed every bad trait I owned (almost).
How? How could they possibly love me now?
I don't trust myself.
I've been down this hole too many times. Covered in black-sin oil and steep as the walls of hell, this is a place even angels can't escape. No, I can't go down there. Not this time. There's too much at stake.
So I clutch the threads thrown over the edge by the people who love me and keep my face tilted towards the sun. I will try and climb my way out. For you. For us. For myself.
But I can feel my grip weakening, and if something is not done soon, I will fall.
"Panic quietly." This is the mantra I've followed my entire life.
Internal bleeding? Panic quietly.
Accidental drug overdose? Panic quietly.
Spiraling depression? Panic quietly.
Of course, eventually someone notices. Hyperventilation and seizures are a pretty big clue. But it takes a while. It's not until I've lost all control that I start to show signs, and by that time, the only solution is hospitalization.
I'm not sure why I do it. It's not so hard to say, "hey, I think my organs are shutting down." Perhaps I think people won't take me seriously?
Regardless, here I am, panicking quietly.
Shut your eyes and dance, little starshine.
Sometimes you'll dance on the softest moss or across the tips of trees. Sometimes you'll stumble into a patch of brambles or broken glass. Your legs will grow tired. Your feet will be sore. Your mind will wonder what's the point of dancing anymore.
Dance, little bird.
For the taste of life, whether sweet or sour. For the hum of existence warming your skin. Dance to forget. Dance to remember. Dance for the joy of being alive.
If you dance with your soul and dance with your heart, you will never step wrong.
Brown eyes that spilled out warmth but hid a cold heart.
A firmer grasp on fantasy than reality.
Dark fingers on white piano keys.
Green eyes that burned and a tongue that cut.
Black hole of greed and self-hate.
A voice that rumbled the walls.
Dimpled smile and hidden sorrow.
A temper that provoked my own.
Similar mind, similar flaws.
Soft, soft lips and the silkiest hair.
And always, without fail, the one with dragon magic.
Of course... I didn't touch them all. Not with my body. I touched them, though, and they touched me.
Have I missed a secret club, that so many entries sounds so similar? Perhaps it's a school project? I'm terribly intrigued.
She had the face of a little china doll with the eyes gorged out. You could look straight into the darkness of her skull, if you wanted. (You wouldn't want to. You'd never be the same.) Sewn into each finger on her left hand were bright purple strings that disappeared into the mirror at her feet. To the girl on the other side. Red strings stretch from her right hand into the lake above her.
I have escaped hell. I have crawled my way back to earth out of my own grave. I stood on the street corner and shouted my story of demons and terror.
No one believed me.
"Oh, that one," they'd say. "Yes, we know her. Unsettled in the mind, you see. Sees things that never happened."
They weren't there. They didn't see the bruises. They didn't hear the screams. They do not understand all the little things that were used to break me, humiliate me, to force ownership upon me.
I have escaped hell... and not a soul thinks it's true.
This is the point when she wakes up, crawls from the center of my eyes, and claims my side of the mirror. Not this time. This time I keep her locked up. She doesn't have the control.
"I'll rip out his throat," she growls. "I'll feast on his blood. Let me hurt him! Let me destroy him! Let me OUT!"
Ah, but love is a powerful thing. It gives you the choice to trust. It gives you the ability to forgive. It gives you the strength to hold back your demons.
Hear that? I trust you. Don't fuck it up.
You were the one who was always there for me. You loved me, and you asked nothing in return but my company. I mattered to you. Because of you, I began to believe that maybe I was special after all.
You were the one I trusted beyond anyone else. The one I loved more than I had ever imagined possible. And, somehow, you felt the same way about me.
You are the one who is worth any amount of pain, any conceivable agony.
I put you through some terrible shit. Now, I guess, it's my turn. Let me help you.
I saw a star burn its way across the sky tonight. I was crying, nearly short-circuiting my phone with tears when I saw it. My breath caught mid-sob. Such a beautiful, wonderful thing.
Funny that I only see falling stars at the worst moments of my life.
Do the stars fall because of the darkness they see below? A kind of ethereal suicide out of hopelessness and despair? Or do they leap from the skies, not to be extinguished, but to plunge into the darkness and light it from below?
What's my wish?
I want to tear off my skin.
Peel back the scalp. Shrug off the shoulders. Push down the hips. Step out of the legs...
I will be just bones and blood, for someone this weak couldn't possibly have muscle. Just bones and blood and a heart that pumps black tar onto the floor.
My heart is poisoned. Soured. Toxic. You want my heart? Take it. Sip on that wine and smile. I will turn you bitter. I will burn the smirk from your mind--teach your soul the meaning of pain.
Angels can't curse, but you fell for a witch.
There are times in the night when the fury wraps so tightly around my lungs that I want to give in to it. I want to become it. Just to stop the pain of resisting. I want to sink into the darkness and let the rage control me.
Oh darling, please believe me. I wouldn't do you no harm.
Kiss me. Taste me. Feel that lust, that desire, that overwhelming need. God, but it's beautiful, isn't it? This passion that builds within you and turns your thoughts blind. It's beautiful.
Now understand, you will never know satisfaction. Not from me.
I'm not calling you a liar, just don't lie to me.
I'm not calling you a thief, just don't steal from me.
I'm not calling you a ghost. Stop haunting me.
--Florence + The Machine
Oh honey, I'm trusting and I'm forgiving, but I'm not stupid.
That pipe of yours is pretty. The stain on your two front teeth from smoking it? Not so much. But I won't notice.
Those red skittles you love so much make your words jumpy and slurred. I know the sound of your mind reeling in an instant. No, I won't notice.
Nothing is wrong. Nothing. Nothing.
I want to carve myself to pieces, one thick slice of skin at a time. I want to see the muscles controlling my legs. I want to map out the network of veins. Blood is such a soothing color when it covers the floor.
Do you know the texture of dried blood under your fingernails? I do. Do you know the sound of flesh ripping when a knife is dragged through it? I do.
We have such scars, you and I.
You know I don't have the power to hurt you. So kill me. Finish this, and let me sleep.
I fight sleep because I know the hands and eyes and voices will come back tonight. I stumble through random websites without understanding what they are because it's easier than allowing my mind the chance to think.
If I close my eyes, I see you on the floor, drunk and oblivious. So I don't close my eyes, not even to blink. If I stop writing, I hear the whispering.
"I told you so. I told you so. I told you so."
Please, oh god, don't leave me alone with myself. Be what you were, just for tonight. I need you.
There is desperation in your lips. It sinks into my skin with a tangible sizzle and burns its way through my veins. I feel it gather in my heart and burn out with a sigh of relief.
There is a desperation to me too these days. There is a need, a ferocity, that shivers through my bones so hard I wonder if they'll break. I wonder how I ever survived without touching you. I wonder how I did not notice my soul gasping for air while you were gone.
Breathe, baby. Breathe. Together we can torch the world to oblivion.
I have sometimes wondered why there is so little joy in our entries. Are we as writers just naturally hopeless and depressed? Do the broken cluster together in places like this?
But I am not broken or hopeless or depressed. Not all the time. I smile. I laugh. I enjoy life. I come here to empty my brain of a few seething, poisonous thoughts. This place is my sanctuary, where I can write without fearing repercussions.
Is that true for you too? Do you need to show anger and pain here so you can live happily out there?
She was a woman with the weight of the world on her shoulders. So heavy were her burdens, her steps caused the earth to wobble on its axis. Hunched in a wool coat three sizes too large and nine years too old, she stumbled down the frozen streets and earned a look of pity from everyone she passed.
At night, huddled in her bed with her cats and her rosary, she prayed for peace.
"God?" she whispered to the ceiling. "Do you remember me? Have you forgotten us down here on Earth?"
God never answered, but she never stopped trying.
Half of me wants to forgive you, to bury myself in your arms and accept the oblivion your kisses offer. I believe you, and I accept you, and I want nothing more than to save you from the darkness creeping into the color of your eyes.
Half of me wants to dig my nails into your flesh and poison your blood with my suspicion and pain. I want to fall into chaos and control, to own you and use you and leave you weeping. I will never let you touch me like you once did.
Yet both sides love you.
She wants to tell him. She wants to tell someone--anyone--the thoughts that threaten to break her. She opens her mouth to spill out her soul, and her own hands circle her throat and strangle her.
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.
No one needs to know how dangerously deep we've fallen into this hole. They wouldn't believe us anyway.
To keep yourself safe, you clasp your hands between my knees and command yourself not to move.
To keep myself safe, I close my eyes and cover my ears and hope to god someone hears me screaming.
When the rooms grows dark, I see colors creep out of your skin like the blood of the sun dripping to the floor. There is blue in your eyes and orange in your breath. There are shades of purple and red and yellow drifting near your hands. There is green above your head. When you touch me, I can feel the low, slow hum of your indigo thoughts.
I have dreams of you with wings. Not soft angel wings, but leathery, scaly dragon wings. Angel wings are easy to break, but yours are everything I need, want, and love.
The room was lit only by the porch light soaking through the blinds. "Too bright," you said, but at least I could see your eyes. There, where your pupils used to be, were the slits of madness. Of crazy. Of a beautiful, damaged mind.
Shadows fell across your face like a drawing from a comic book--too sharp to be realistic. Your hands looked too big for your arms. You moved like a puppet with rusty joints.
Inside of you, there are voices you can't silence. Inside is a terrible darkness. But inside you, there is greatness.
I see it.
I see a little old man, no bigger than my hand, with big squirrel eyes. His face is rotting on the right side. He looks so sad, huddled there on my pillow. He tells of disaster averted.
Stepping through the cars outside is a skinny giant in a top hat and white gloves. He peels them off one finger at a time just before he attacks. He warns of disaster to come.
Bleeding through the paint on the wall is a girl with ink hair and a gruesome wail. Self inflicted scratches decorate her cheeks. She watches disaster happen.
From my right eye, the world is full of hope. The colors are paler, but the flaws are charming, and the bad things are never as bad as they could be. Things will always get better.
From my left eyes, the world is full of pain. The colors are rich and vivid, but that makes the blemishes easier to see, and things are never as good as they should be. Things will always get worse.
On my right, I am a sweet but helpless princess. On my left, I am the self-sufficient punk with a spiteful attitude.
Tonight doesn't feel like Halloween. There's no crisp and magical mystery to the night air. I don't even see any children skipping around as witches and superheroes. What a shame.
Regardless, today was a good day. I seem to be climbing out of my depression. Let's hope this new peek in enthusiasm sticks.
I don't have much else to say, nor the time to say it. A lame way to end the month, I know, but you'll have to forgive me.
Happy Halloween, my fellow 100worders. May it be full of candy, costumes, and, if you want it, alcohol.
The Tip Jar