As I curl in my living prison watching the leaves that shielded me all day I realize that it is happening again. The reason why I live my life in this desolate land of twisted images and all things sharp and dangerous. Sometimes I am ok and can peak out into the world, the real world. It usually isn’t long before the mask slams down over my features forcing a smile that never quite reaches my eyes. My frayed and fractured world is safe behind the walls inside me.
Most of the time I can function in both worlds, the one of pain and pleasure, and the real one with the people in it. Then there are times that I can’t. I can feel it happening like something blooming deep inside my chest. I can feel the darkness spread seeping through the organs and bone more efficient than the spread of the most aggressive cancer and the darkness is twice as deadly.
This is not new. This is not different. This does not change. I can only hide from it for so long before I start to slip. This is just the beginning. I know it will get worse, I know how bad it will hurt, and I know what my body will scream for. I always hope it won’t come back, always hope that it is gone for good, and I can hide in my world letting the architects of this existence build their strange constructs.
People say that it will pass, and that I shouldn’t think about it. These phrases along with cheer up make me wonder what the person saying it looks like without skin or better yet choking on their own tongue.
The question that is always asked is “Are you homicidal or Suicidal?” I have always wondered what would happen if I grinned at the person asking and answered with the truth “Both.” Something in my eyes always keeps them from asking – it also keeps the people close to me from pushing me too far for fear of me snapping which one day will happen.
Some days I am reminded that I am still crazy. Not the subtle kind of crazy that most people are but the screaming kind of crazy that most people run away from or are locked up for. In a way I am locked up. I allowed myself to be put into a straight jacket a long time ago and decided what the hell straight jackets can be fun when applied correctly. Then again most things can be fun when applied correctly.
The soft whisper of canvas knowing that you can’t move even if you tried. There is something inherently lovely about that in the right circumstance. Unfortunately this is not the right circumstance.
I am tempted to take a look to glance up into that slick blackness of his eyes and taste the darkness there. Wondering if the red on his lips is from the kisses he has recently given another or from running his tongue over the open wounds that the glass has left in my skin as I clawed my away out. I don’t want to see what is in his eyes though. Whether they are the deep blue that I love or the swirling black I know is hidden there, that is reserved only for me. I can lose myself in either one only one is more frightening than the other. The swirling memorizing black fascinates and hypnotizes me to the point of compliance, complacence. The danger in them is not even a thought.
His hand moves up to brush against my skin and I realize that I don’t know if it is the soft caress of his fingertips or if the razor is just to sharp to feel at first as it cuts deep into my flesh. I don’t know because I haven’t looked into his eyes. Nor do I want to. I realize now something that I should have known all along. I want to know which it is. I don’t care if it is a lover’s caress or if I am going to feel warm liquid slide down my neck soaking my chest. I almost risk a glance down wondering if the warm that I feel around my heart is emotion or my life draining from me.
This one is mine – Not my eye but my picture.
Take this phrase, I often used it with my students when I was a teacher.
“Let’s eat, Grandma” and
“Let’s eat Grandma” Two totally different meanings and a tiny thing like a comma makes so much of a difference. If you don’t get how, that is ok you probably need to go back to elementary school for other things as well… oh and YES I know I am an elitist snob but there is so much to make fun of about people sometimes I just can’t help myself. I would never do this to someone who honestly didn’t know or had no reason to learn it. But if you were in almost any westernized nation you would have heard something similar to this.
I have often said that suicide is the point where a persons pain outweighs their ability to cope. Some of us cut ourselves for that endorphin rush that follows. The physical pain outweighs the emotional for just a while. It soothes what is wrong with us. Those of use who cut know why we do it. Those that don’t will never understand the brief respite that it brings.
As all of you have probably guessed I include pictures with many of my posts. These are pictures that affected me in one way or another. They meant something to me. I have been looking for one in particular. It seems that no one has been able to capture the haunted hunted look that I see in my eyes when I look in the mirror. Perhaps that is why I stay away from mirrors.
People see the scars and ask. I tell them that yes I did it to myself, yes I had a reason, and yes I wear the scars proudly. They are a sign that I am still alive, still me, and still breathing for the moment.
I have been asked why I don’t raise my voice and why I don’t scream. I don’t scream because I am afraid I might never stop.
An empty room with an empty girl sits silently on the floor she stares at the exposed skin and drags the blade and presses in the comfort that this action brings are worth the scars that will not have the chance to heal soon she will know what it is like not to feel.