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Writing

Scratch

I scratched the itch and now I can’t seem to stop bleeding. I have left nail marks on my skin, I fear the scabs will scar. This was the only control I had left, retaining it obsessively until I let it go in such the same way. Now, there is no way to staunch the blood flow, we are past the point of bruising. I cannot recall how I obtained the scratches that eventually turned into wounds, adorning my skin like stars in the sky. They did not matter to me until they started to hurt.

I cannot narrow the ache or the origin. There are too many factors for it to be the fault of one, except the obvious: myself.

At least my clenched fists no longer make me bleed. At least my tongue is no longer trapped between my teeth. No one asked me to do so, it was a self-flagellation of my own idealized martyrdom. I reasoned that people will like me if I try to please them, even if that left me resenting them.

Categories
Writing

Costumes

I always seem to feel like I am wearing the wrong costume. As if we switched scenes so rapidly and jarringly the director forgot to mention it to me. I cannot seem to keep up with the constantly changing backdrops and cast of characters—they all change costumes so naturally, fluidly, imperceptibly and I end up saying all the wrong lines.

I am persona non grata in each scenario–the odd man out, the sole person not in on the conspiracy and I watch as they sit in quiet corners and whisper in hushed tones about things I know nothing about. I listen as they laugh at punchlines I don’t quite understand. I wish I could throw on their personality and slip seamlessly into their behaviour, I could listen and understand, I could talk and be heard.

It would be easier if I simply had costumes to don to play the part required of me. At least that way, I would know my lines and speak them; at least that way I could simply play the part and not get hurt.

Categories
Writing

Constellations

I cannot see the stars from here. There is not enough clarity, they are drowned by their manmade likeness. I miss those nights I would lie sleepless beneath them, the broken sky my only companion. I miss how they would still my breath, bring peace to my frayed soul. I miss my dissolution into the constellations.

I wonder when I stopped trusting them with myself. When I started to build these cages to protect me (or keep me trapped, I’m not sure which). I cannot see the stars from within them. When did I begin to hide myself from them? When was peace replaced with suspicions and a weight across my back? Like Atlas, cursed to hold the entire sky. The stars have stopped looking for me and I have never felt so cold in the darkness.

I no longer feel taken care of, only judged from afar. Every poor decision I make becomes an isolated event, a stain upon only myself, the only one who cannot be absolved. Thus self-isolation seems the natural answer. After all, why look for stars that are not there?

I no longer have any place in their constellation. My star has faded, exploded into bleeding darkness, and the story they tell looks better without me in it. I am void and tearing through the night that has become me. I am destructive, but I am free. I am bleeding out, but at least my tears no longer stain the sky.

Categories
Writing

Bewilderment

My breath quickens and I’m not sure why. Tears spring in the crevices of my eyes and I think long and hard about what could have caused them. Every word out of their mouth is harmless, yet I feel like I could scream. I hate what makes me like this. I hate that people believe everything I say. I hate that I don’t say everything I believe. There is no sanity to this madness; no logic to this emotion. I want what I couldn’t possibly have and I don’t want to want what I shouldn’t.

I want to be enigmatic, but all I end up doing is confusing myself. I cannot seem to name, much less sort, the amalgamation that resides in my mind. I smother it in sitcoms I’ve seen before and I flutter from book to book all the while convincing myself that my next purchase will be the Goldilocks of stories. All this, in hopes of asphyxiating the rapid movement of my brain. I do not enjoy the constant berating of thoughts.

I want to love my little contradictory self, yet I cannot seem to stop doing the things that bewilder me post hoc.