don’t ever tell me
that you’re not good enough;
that you’re worthless,
or ugly or fat or stupid.
don’t you dare
give in to those ignorant,
heartless people.
they want to watch you burn,
but you’re already
far too bright.
she is pale
and furious
shining like
the stones
at the bottom
of a lake as
clear as the sky
in summertime
she is her own
definition of beauty
yet still terribly
afraid of the face
in the mirror
that seems so
warped and
terrible
her mind glows
like an opal
in the light of
the stars
she is hatred
and also
adoration
an empathetic
mess.
all that glitters
will burst and shimmer
in the sky
and when it rains
down upon our heads
we will open our hands
and reap for greed
but far above
god will cry.
These words become so real
as I whisper to myself
for what is written is no more
than an illusion of pen and ink
paper burns, but sound reverberates
into infinity, the sky above,
these syllables will sleep
beside the stars
I will live beyond my years
within an echo
spread by the wind
that rushes by your ears.
Slamming my shoulders into
the cold hard reality
that time goes by too quickly
and there is no one to blame
for my mistakes
but myself
let me go to sleep
where the skyline
meets the sea
where the salty air
can take care of me
tuck me into a crashing wave
i wish to make a grave
of the swirling ocean
where the ash and fire
inside my chest
sputters and dies,
let me go to sleep
where peace and quiet
reigns in the deep.
My life is becoming an enormous black hole of disappointment, discomfort and death. Every day it is growing in size. I’m not equipped to handle things, I’ve gone so long running from my pain and I can feel it eating me inside.
My maternal grandfather, my Papa is currently suffering through the last stages of Cancer. Apparently when he went in to receive his radiation therapy today they discovered that the cancer has eaten a hole in his esophagus. My Papa is going to die within the year.
When I was little, that man was my entire world. He was Pups, my Papa and only mine. Our relationship was very close, I loved him more than life. But when I was about fourteen I learned of how my Mema, his wife, was raped by her own stepfather and had a baby when she was sixteen that she had to put up for adoption. I also learned that my Papa had cheated on her when my mother was around my own age and the woman he had the affair with was the person who told my mother that she had a sister she will likely never meet. The reason my mother told me this was because my Papa, who had suffered several strokes over the past seven years, left my Mema for another woman, again.
I haven’t been able to forgive my Papa for hurting her. The reason why he cheated the first time was because he blamed my Mema for what happened to her when she was so young. She’s officially my absolute hero, and I can only hope to be as strong as she is. I can’t forgive him. You get what you give, and he most certainly got it.
Now that he’s dying, I know I don’t have much time left to speak with him for a last time. My mother is hurting because of his illness, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that I DON’T want to speak to him.
I’m conflicted as to whether I want to let him die without hearing my voice one last time. I don’t know how to face him, when I remember how much I loved him as a child and then think about how disgusted I was with him when I found out about what he’s done to my Mema.
I digress, that isn’t the only thing wrong with my life. Aside from the ever prevalent depression and mood swings I suffer from, I feel as though I should blame myself for setting a good friend up to fail. I knew her relationship wouldn’t work out, because I am also good friends with the boy she was with. I knew that the time would come when he pushed her away.
The worst thing is, that after all I’ve been through with him, I’m more concerned about her. And I’m frustrated, scared that she might blame me. I brought her to him, watched and knew what was most likely to happen; but I didn’t do anything but help her through it. Evil is, at times, watching something bad happen and not doing anything to stop it.
My parents won’t stop fighting, they bicker and scream about how poor we are and it scares me. They make me feel as though I am a failure because they imply it so often. They have this notion that my sisters and I will have a much better future than their present predicament. But I am not a successful person. I am haunted and easily hurt and dismayed. I am a procrastinator and a cynic, lazy and generally fucked up.
I’ve been seeing Heather a lot lately. In my dreams she’s beside me. I’ve been seeing the bugs again as well, feeling them on my skin when there’s nothing there.
I don’t know how to help myself, I don’t know how to cope or succeed. I don’t know how to be sane or productive. I just want to hide.
I searched Heather today and found that she is eternally 37.
I have been feeling, that perhaps the person inside my heart is not me; someone else that lives inside the walls I’ve built. A manifestation of my fear and fury. I feel her bristle, coil and wait to spring. To bite and tear, to claw and rip. The beast I’ve swallowed thrashes in her cage, and I cannot help to want to pull myself away. Her hands are locked so harshly around my throat, her fingers plunging deep inside the fragile crust of my sanity. She tells me how to move and how to think, what to want; and all she says are feeling I’ve tried so hard to choke down.
Could the girl inside of me be someone else? Could I be only half, not quite whole? I wonder.
When she looks through my eyes and whispers in my ears, she sees us dancing. Celebrating the destruction of everything in reach. I want to touch her, let myself become her, but I won’t. I can’t be her any longer.
Is this just myself, Elise, projecting the anger that I’ve felt; accumulated? The confusion over Heather, the pain I’ve suffered from my awkwardness and the difficulty others go through while trying to understand me?
A lot of people think they know me. The truth is, they’re wrong. People I’ve known for years know little to nothing about who I am on the inside.
They don’t know anything about the facets of my train of thought, the insatiable rage I feel daily. My inability to truly access my emotions. Or how frustrating that is.
How, psychologically, I’ve been feeding the monster I’ve sealed up behind these stupid fucking walls. And how badly I want to let it out. Let myself breathe on my own again.
