A Night Like This

It is a night like this that I pace the house my mind not able to settle on any one thing. I close my eyes and I am somewhere else. Sliding back and forth between safety and sanity. I find myself muttering “where did it start, have to find the beginning.” It started with the horse. With the death of me. It started when the horse killed me… wait that is not right… It started when I was killed by the horse. I pace the house like something caged and alone.

I chew my lower lip and repeat it had to have started with the horse and the death of me or was it the jackal… no it couldn’t be it couldn’t be he ate himself after the horse killed me… long after… but then I woke up or maybe he did. The Jackal woke up he saw he knew. It was before the monkey went mad or maybe it was before I went mad. No that’s not right because I am not mad am I? I close my eyes again startled by what is behind them they snap open and I begin to pace again.

I can’t remember any more… In a way it saddens me that I can’t remember what happened first. I taste a coppery thick liquid on my lip and realize that at some point worrying at it I have broken through my bottom lip with sharp teeth. The taste of blood reminds me of something more making me wish that I would just forget for now and not want to remember the smell, the taste when I opened my mouth to draw in breath that I realized that I had been holding in that moment. And my mind blanks the rest. This is why I can’t remember.snb_text5

Yet Another Holiday – Happy Ishtar Everyone… or is it Easter – No I don’t mean the bad movie

No I didn’t spell that wrong. It is pronounced Easter and is the name of a guess what… Pagan Goddess. Now I thought valentines day was bad with the strange origins but Ishtar is the goddess of love and war in some cultures and just love or just war in others. I always thought love and war were the same thing which is why I probably never married.

So we have the goddess of love and war whose symbols are rabbits and eggs – fertility yeah. Let me just jump up and celebrate fertility. Sorry not quite my thing. Sex yes whelping no…

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Wind

lust-71

Today the wind slides across the black sand as I have decided to stay inside my cage for a while longer. I can see it blow tiny puffs of dust across the stark plain. In the distance A plumb of dust floats toward the swirling sky as if something is coming. I wonder vaguely what it could be before shaking my head and allowing it to hang down once again.

I take my finger and draw the symbols I once knew and once cared about. They seem strange to me I stare at them and try to make sense of what they should mean. Just as love once meant something, as did life, and hope. I wonder how I got this far, how I could bury myself so far inside. Yet to be glad that I did it it doesn’t hurt so much in my self made prison, I don’t feel as much the only thing that still stays with me is the knowledge that as soon as I am no longer needed I will no longer live. I will seek out death and make its acquaintance perhaps we will be friends when it is all over with.

no-medication-for-stupidity-mental-insanity-best-demotivational-posters

The Beginning

I sit watching the sunlight dance off the black sand as the hot breeze rustles the leaves that my prison has grown to protect me. Why the architects protect me I am not sure, why I am not impaled on the cross or pinned to the earth with spikes to be burned and torn apart like Prometheus.

There was a time before here. At least I think there was a time before here. There are vague memories that float through my mind things that when I try to hang onto them they slip like mercury through my fingers. It had to start somewhere right?

Tonight I give myself a headache trying desperately to remember what came before but they whisper to me, their hissing voices seem to overlap making it impossible to distinguish reason from sanity or sanity from hope.

As the day burns bright I lay on the floor of my prison trying to listen to what the voices are saying no longer sure that they are talking to me or each other. I want to ask about the beginning, the start of things, how I came to be locked in this world kept safe even from myself.

I remember the monkey, his laughter and playful nature, how he would make me smile even when the world was falling apart.

I remember the jackal, his quick wit and subtle mind along with his viscous nature, how I felt safe and terrified at the same time, feeling his strength ripple under my finger tips and the sharpness of his teeth as they tore into my flesh.

I remember the horse who was my strength, my loyalty, my heart, and my hope, and my peace all wrapped up in a massively powerful body. A mane that I could wrap my fingers into  to pull him close and hold him against my heart.

I remember the cat the inscrutable one who always had a cheshire grin. The one who taught me what it was to feel fear and enjoy it.

They created the quiet. The precious calm that wrapped itself around me the same way they wrapped themselves around me until there was nothing left of me. Sometimes one at a time and sometimes they would all be around their hands on me and bodies pressed close.

In the end the horses strength failed, the monkey slipped into madness, and the jackal like his counterpart in the Inuit legend ate himself and the cat lost his grin and his drive and ultimately any feeling he had for me, I think his quiet is gone just like mine is.

I miss them more than I miss myself. It is only a matter of time.

So true!
So true!

Not a Good Day

It is no secret that I work at night. It is also no secret that I am a dark person. Today is one of the days I remember just how crazy I am. It is a panicky shaky overwhelmed sort of crazy that overflows and washes over the inside of my body. It is not the pleasant warm rain that just makes you want to stand in it and enjoy the feeling. It is a if my blood has turned to acid eating its way through my body making the blood vessels seep as it burns through them searching for something leaving tattered blistered remains behind.

The uneasiness consumes me forcing me to want to hide inside something even if it is a building as twisted as I am. I am uncomfortable in my own skin as if it is a million insects attempting to crawl off my body on its own. The acid in my veins encourages it and if I looked in the mirror I doubt that the skin on my face would remain there. It would melt away slipping down and dropping away with wet clops only to scuttle away going to hide in the black spires of the world inside my mind. My face would be left with exposed muscles and bone without expression and without a sign of the pain wracking my already too fragile body and mind.

Darkness ripples around me like a poisonous cloud forcing its way into my lungs making it feel as if I am breathing through sand. Shards of the ever present colored glass slicing through poking grotesquely through the spaces between my ribs. Scarred bits of me slip open weeping tears of blood that my eyes cannot. The misshapen mouths split from skin open wetly as if they are shrieking with a pain of their own as they choke on my blood. As I watch them gape open I expect to see eyes peeking at me through the smaller ones that rest above the widest of the splits. Staring at me accusing me through the truth of the mirror.

I don’t know what they would say. I want to but I cannot understand it through their choking gurgles as blood stumbles out of them increasing in both amount and speed. I strain my ears to understand because just maybe they have something valuable to say.

openwoundYes, Mine

 

Subtle Kind of Crazy

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.

blackeyeThis one is mine – Not my eye but my picture.

Why do you do this to me?

The cold stings my knuckles as I quietly tap on the door knowing that you will hear it. I admonish myself yet again for not using my palm, knowing the bone on would tapping wood only cause pain. Footsteps echo in my head as I hear you approach the door and turn the handle. You know it is me, you knew I was coming the polite call that I placed first is always a warning.

I often wonder how you deal with the thoughts that float through the air between us. I can’t read you like I read everyone else and this is a good thing because despite the reason I am here I really don’t want to know. The door opens in a rush of warmth, you must have the heat on or maybe it is just my body reacting to the cat like grace you use to step aside to let me in. I move forward slowly, cautiously, still afraid you will spook like the wild thing that you are. Walking past you making sure that no part of you touches me because the tiniest touch will have me undone. Sitting down on the worn sofa my hand automatically reaches out to pet the feline that stretches lazily on the armrest. Touching the feline is almost as natural a gesture as it was to touch you. Soon the others are there curling around my legs asking quietly for the attention that they know instinctively that I will give them because they are as much a part of you as anything else in the room.

I watch you for a moment as you move through the house only glancing up to meet your soft brown eyes with their almost girlish lashes for a moment as you set the usual choice of beverage down next to me. Not a word is spoken, even though your voice would send a shockwave up my spine. You move to the chair that normally sits near your desk. Your eyes flitting over what covers the wall before resting on me for a brief moment and then on the television that plays an inane drama that neither of us is interested in. After a moment of indecision you move closer to me making me wonder if you know how dangerous you are to me. How addictive you are.

I am almost sure that you do. You use it well to control me without making it seem like that is what you are doing. I watch you out of the corner of my eye, my hand still moving restlessly over the cat soft fur sliding through my fingers. You speak softly telling me about the things that you do and those that you wish that you were doing. I listen more to the timber of your voice than the actual words. One of these days you will catch me listening to you rather than what you are saying, trying to understand why the voices quiet and the glass doesn’t seem as sharp when I am this close to you. I am tempted to reach out and touch you but am afraid that you will dissolve into darknesscheshire

Would I feel lonely if the voices in my head stopped talking to me?

No for those who wonder I do not hear voices… well sometimes I do but I don’t believe what they tell me… ok so sometimes I believe them but never act on them… oh hell I do often act on them because most of the time they are right.

I often wonder at what point I stopped caring what others thought of me and at what point I stopped caring about what I thought of myself. It was probably the point when I realized that I am the person you don’t want to meet in a dark alley mostly because I am in that dark alley for purposes that might offend most people’s delicate sensibilities. I am the person who makes the statement “Good friends help you move, best friends help you move the bodies,” and means it.

My value lies in the pleasure I give others and only in that. I am the one who when you ask what my name is I look at you and say “what would you like it to be.”

The value I get from writing all of this down is that maybe one person will read it and think to themselves I am not alone. There is at least one other person who understands this. Yes this blog is not cheery, inspiring, or of any extrinsic value but somewhere along the line it might help someone feel. It doesn’t matter which feeling it inspires in some it will bring the creeping sense of hot breath on the back of your neck the second you realize something is standing right behind you in that second before you turn on the light.

In some it will bring the sense of belonging that only cold brick can bring as you are pushed up against the wall and fucked in an alley behind that bar that you frequent.

In some it will bring the desire to push against those little things that are commonly called limits and bend them until they break.

And in some it will simply bring understanding that pleasure and pain can exist simultaneously in a mind shattering way.

 

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Things That Most Definitely Suck.

Ok. Tonight I have the perfect chance to do what I want, to play how I want and quite possibly to get the dual sided affection I crave. Am I going to do it. No. Despite my desperation and absolute desire and longing I am not. All it would take is standing up getting into the shower and finding my keys (it has been a while since I have driving my truck oh fuck it there’s a spare) say screw my responsibility for ecstasy for just one night. No sex no obligation just pure unadulterated energy and something I have always wanted. I am almost tempted to stand and get dressed and go and then reality comes crashing down on me. I have lost too many friends speaking the truth what would happen if they knew how real the truth was for me. What if they knew what I am and what I want. I think they would run and I wouldn’t be able to stop screaming from the gaping hole that is just waiting to be reopened. Imagei

 

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On Suicide Cutting and Other Things That Make People Cringe

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.

let it be