Lover
It's a euphoric feeling
being in love,
if it were a color
it would be a brilliant red.
It goes straight to my head,
slowly rising like a bubble of air
from my feet,
to my knees,
to my stomach,
to my lungs,
to my brain.
My hands start shaking
and my heart races faster
then slower and slower
a calm like a warm wave of silk
My ears won't stop ringing
the world is still,
silent buzzing is all I hear
like voices under water.
Everything is glazed
in a halo of white light.
It feels so good to feel nothing
to fall asleep in the arms of the only one who cares.
4 Comments:
this poem is describing an experience I just had after cutting my arm in nine different cuts. I really didn't lose that much blood, but I was sitting down with loud music playing, and I seriously collapsed to the floor when I tried to walk back to my room. I couldn't see anything, the hallway was spinning, and I ended up falling into my bed and just laying there. "Tell Me Where It Hurts" by Garbage was playing on my playlist (ironic), and I could faintly hear it as there was a ringing in my ears then a buzzing. Even though i was laying down, I still felt like I was spinning. It was like the first time I got drunk. It was an AMAZING feeling!
Why? Why? Why! Why do I do this? Can I not just be happy with being happy? Can I not just look on the "brighter side?" I don't walk across a bridge terrified it's going to collapse so why and I always so hesitant to be close to people, to let my guard down, without expecting a bomb to be handed to me in return? It's always over before it begins with me. I'm always looking at yesterday instead of planning for tomorrow because my perfect tomorrow would never begin. I don't want to be alone, but who thinks like this? And who wants to be around someone who thinks like this?...aside from my own mother who wants so much to have a daughter and was instead burdened with raising me. I try my best to keep my hands to myself, to not reach out, lash out, at the nearest person so that I might hold on to something real for at least a little while. Sometimes I feel like I am merely a head floating through air then I look down and realize there is more, but even when I touch my fingertips to the bare flesh on my forearm, I feel like I'm touching someone else...a numb...dead...detached body that acts more as an appendage. Do "normal" people feel this way? Do they bite and pinch their arms to see the skin redden, to see the marks fade away? I wonder, if you eat your own flesh and drink your own blood, if that makes you a cannibal...or just sick? I am sick. I am self-consumed, rotting in my brain. I push everyone away because I don't want them to get sick too, and I don't want them to make me worse. They bring pathogens on their backs that infect my wounds. The infection becomes a tumor. I am irritable, hateful, violent, afraid, lonely, and entirely damaged. I am poisoned. My brain is my poison. I can't escape it. It can't be cured.
You see me smile because I don't like to let you see me cry.
However, if you'd look past the mouth, past the eyes, and past the skin
You would see that I am sad.
I'm always sad somewhere.
Yet you assume that beautiful people are happy.
The truth is...beautiful people are only suits for sick souls.
Inside I walk through broken glass
Sometimes stopping to pick up the pieces
In attempt to put myself back together
But I'm hopeless.
So hopeless that I see a building
And imagine my body plummeting from it,
So hopeless that I see a pair of scissors
And imagine it slicing through my skin,
But I will not die by my own hand.
Because it's my burden to live physically
Dying, alone, inside every day
Waiting for someone to see me,
Beyond the smile.
Some people think I'm just craving attention,
but that's only the half of it.
Some people think I'm sick,
but what I have has no cure.
I am poison, simple as that.
I have waited silently on the roadside
watching the bombs drop
as families fell apart
friends died and moved away
everyone lied to cover up their mistakes
and I just sat there
a child, absorbing the mass destruction
feeling entirely at fault
because no one could tell me why
things are the way they are.
When I was four and five and six
I'd cry alone, in the dark,
curled up in a ball under my bed
holding in my screaming sobs
by covering my mouth with my blanket.
Now I'm older, and it's hard to cry
because all of those tears were wasted so long ago.
Now I must free that pain elsewhere,
hiding the wounds
by covering them with gozz,
bandaids, wristbands, and long-sleeves.
If I am sick,
I'm not the only one.
The world is sick,
it corroded me,
and I just kept rotting,
a black knot of nastiness
like a bundle of snakes
entwined around my aching heart.
I want to be happy
I want to believe in good things
I want to stop hurting myself and others
I want to stop being so mellow-dramatic
so easily broken over another heartbreak
but I can't...more correctly stated...
I don't know how.
My brain is poison.
Post a Comment
<< Home