#53 cheers to the life i never lead.

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I could say i’m grateful for the lot that I have, but the predictability of my character says, I probably won’t be.

I am a petulant child, filling out the roundabouts of a crooked life I’ve been hoping to rebuild.

I think of things I will never do.

I lie far more compulsively that honesty could ever justify.

I smile for far more different reasons.

I am the hypocrite I pray not to be.

I am looking for the answers when I should have asked myself the questions.

I look nothing like the youth of literature.

I sigh more then laughter becomes me.

I am but a child who hopes fear can be conquered,

only to continue seeking more fear.

#52 the satellites.

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 ‘Touch her.

I did, and I wound up breaking her.

So, in favor of my words, don’t touch her.

Leave her be.

Never heed my words; they were cemented into her brain.

But then,

They became cracks and within slipped hope.’

I chose to be the volatile and destructive human being I am today. Prayers did me no good. Nothing did me any good. Except for her touch. I would write letters of undeniable, heart achingly true love. Insurmountable, not a word of objection to be heard, nor the blink of any eye in the opposite direction.

 I touched her once, dared to submit her.

Her skin is a drug, please listen to me, I was once a drug addict. It must have relapsed a thousand times, the feel of fire under my cold hands. It was stone turned to flesh. I was alive with her. In depth, I was her single soul. She breathed me in like a survivor does to keep their chest rising above dangerous waters. I let her, because I needed the warmth of the one million entities within her. The gasps that traveled across her body as they escaped, whispering in my ear, ‘tell her she’s beautiful.’  A pricey habit of mine, to bite down on her skin and remind her that I think of her higher then the stars. I cannot bring up the words; they don’t allow them to drip onto your skin, into the silence that was our presence.

I don’t know your name; it’s a shadow I cannot capture. But I know your skin well, not even do I know the back of my hand so well. I could map out the route of your collarbone to your torso, and not yet know how to map the area around my home.

She was so beautiful, and aside from that, much more.

My hands ache to become buried within your skin. Eternally, they always will. Don’t run; let me carry your body. She was wary of the destruction they caused. My body, with yours was a denotation waiting to be discovered. An implosion under the eyes of the satellites, a signal to stop my actions. But, I’ve never followed the rules; the laws were but blasphemy to me. You liked that, didn’t you? Although not when I defied your body, your screams were almost a pleasure. In fact, they were ecstasy to me. I wish I could apologize. Hear her heartbeat and synchronize with mine, without tears fumbling to fall across her bruised face.

I tried to cry with her, but it was spilling, it was this dark color. It’s a blur. Drugs tend to leave you winded. I caused it, my ephemera of ecstasy had given out. The brutality was gone. My words had spilled out, not into her skin, but into the air. I was clad in her blood. Her breath was leaving her. I couldn’t ask for her to love me. I didn’t love her, or her touch any longer. The pit-pat of her feet on the linoleum is deafening, she’s running. Forgive me. The sirens are blaring. The clamor is giving me a headache.

I was destructive. Her touch was frozen, and my hands were warm. I clenched my fists and refused to touch her any longer. My addiction was fatal, to her.

 So please, believe me, I was once a drug addict. Touch her lightly, don’t let the one million entities tell you she’s beautiful. They were my corruption.

#51 blood & charcoal.

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“Your past is just a story. And once you realize this, it has no power over you.”

Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

 

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There’s this thing about memories, they either have the power to destroy you, or give you a sense of security that it is only the past. Unfortunately, it becomes a whole, a progression of darkness that would dawn over you and make you feel like you’ll break under the heavy mist of fear. A preemptive feeling of chaos that wanted to form inside, concave until it was a massive crater that was your chest cavity. Your throat struggling for breath. Your hands trying to reach for silence.

You will get nothing. Apathy will become an uproar between your ears.

A child, whom is solemnly and innocently unbroken.

A smile that still retains an infant’s innocence, and the child’s curiosity still retains the brilliance of my yesteryears. I’m wearing dark washed denim, a shirt two sizes too big. I’m pressing my palms against a swing, waiting a turn. Then, two boys attempt to play roughly with me, and as I was a child of age, and spirit, I followed suit to their dangerous game.

Soon enough, I’m pulled beneath a ceramic free-standing tortoise. I’ve been sat on, and I relent. I am left concerned and gasping for breath. He’s my friend, I trust him.

There’s no need to ask him why he’s doing such a thing.

Now, this other boy is my friend too. I trust him as well.

They would never bound me and force me.

I feel someone place a hand along the length of my back, pressing their fingers along the bumps of my spine, caressing them, slowly. It can’t be, what are they doing. This is a strange game, I say. None speak nor sigh. I am the only one who struggles for breath. I cannot speak.

“Matthew, let me up, please.” I beg, grappling at the cement. I am unseen, the clamor of children drowning out any form of my struggle.

I was so close, yet so far from help.

He’s unrelenting, and I don’t resist for the slightest moment of time, until I feel my pants fall around my knees. His touch is brimstone to my skin. I yelp in surprise. Gasps are escaping, but no other sound. A lewd smile decorates his face. I swallow, I’m not sure yet of what’s happening. I only feel it is wrong.

I plead, and scream, but yet the minutes go by, an eternity as the boy starts to fumble with his zipper, desperate to get this done. I’m sobbing, confused and feeling estranged. They grope and make unwanted noises, the sounds slipping from their mouth in pure arousal.

I start to tremble, and fight. To no avail, I’m a little thing, under the weight of two boys who had once claimed their friendship. A new fear was forming deep within me. I could not place a finger on it, but as fingers slipped along the edges of my untouched skin, discovering where else to emit my fears.

I screamed.

I tore at my lungs for breath, for the courage to fight the fleeting breaths.

Just about to succumb, I found it in me to scream once more, where I was spotted. I’d escaped the whole night terror come to life.

Only for it to become an apparition that follows me to this today.

Tears come in splintered motions, my hands trembling under that one memory’s burden. It’s lucid, an acid being poured over my memory, darkening the image as it grossly curled along the edges, my mind in complete loss for words. Thoughts are closed behind gated alleys, blood spilling along the clusters of my distraught.

I hid this memory from all. Pretending what had been done was all right. That I’d be fine, the years come and go, as do those past flashes of terror. But, as life went on, there was this innate fear of the gender, I was afraid they’d try the same, that I would be dragged along the concrete and lead me under a dark cemented escape. Where he would try the same, and touch me, disgust me as his hands roamed where I would not permit. That he would answer it for me, clasp my mouth shut and whisper sweet nothings, which would become threats soon to come.

I was afraid, a phobia unexplained. It led to something strung events; my mind was a corrupt web of lies and fears.

I wasn’t at fault.

I remember my principal say.

“Why would you provoke the boys, you know better, sweetheart.”

I was wrong, I was at fault.

What a shame, I silenced myself for years.

Depression swelled within me like a disease. Festering inside me, causing me to damage and falter every step I took to fix myself.

Now, at the peak of adulthood, the memories surface, the repressed anger, the tears that failed before to leave me, poured, I was breaking. Those boys ruined me. I was scarred and it took me ten years to figure it out. Now, I break so often. But I have to thank the very few people who help. One in particular, he’s carried with my burdens for not long, but someone who tries to repair what you felt couldn’t, is the greatest blessing of all.

n/a: Terribly sorry for my absence, but so much has been going on! I’m glad to be back, although!

#50 darkness, come forth.

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‘sweet and tender, was your life, dark and low, was your departure.’

Yesterday, just after dusk, Snoopy lost his battle. The puppy with the rapturous glint adrift in his wondrous eyes, has laid to rest. My hopes were drowned with sorrow, and I will miss him dearly. But the thought of that pained gaze, no longer there, comforts me. Among others, he has left me with a lesson and admiration. He fought to save himself, alas failing, but never once did he give in to pain.

It won’t quite be the same, but he gave me happiness, even if for a while.

#49 heartened fighter.

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“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace.”
― Milan Kundera

So, recently I’ve had a few uncalled for emergencies. As one falls for the emotions pooling inside an animal’s gaze, it’s hard not to crumble when it hits a low in the health scale. He’s been diagnosed with a debilitating heart condition, and ascites. As someone who tries to be empathetic towards him, it’s something I cannot amount to recreating the pain. He is simply an animal who cannot speak, and his pain is a static portrait upon his face. He’s young, lively, and most importantly a fighter. He’s become my inspiration. Albeit, just a dog, whose often deemed not capable of intelligence, or emotion. Time an time again, he proves me wrong. He’s a child. A creature burdened like one. He’s sharp. Quick. And inane at times. He has much to teach me.

Observation is their key source, and it’s amazing.

I only hope he’ll be around for longer.

#48 broken shutters.

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The only way out of the labyrinth is to forgive. – John Green

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broken paper planes,

torn dolls,

neglected touch,

strewn across distant fantasies,

her knotted mind,

her trembling lips,

precious girl,

pick yourself up.

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This tale of fragility is many years in the making, almost eternal. A girl who decided not to fall for the crumbling structure of her family. She found she stumbled, many, many times. Brought upon her were straps of legions. Words that struck not a chord, but flesh. Her eyes seeing what she should have not, but still, she glanced, curiosity killing her feline inhibition.

I am nine.

“Marriage is lie.” I whisper.

Why, they ask me?

For it’s right before my eyes, the constant berating, the down pours of suffering, the sound of a hushed tear. There is never a smile to give, and promise to keep, a hand to hold, never more. I know it all. It’s a ruse. Maybe for a time, they can keep up their play, for they’re quite good I heard!

I learned to play along, my bright facade was my latest achievement. My hands should be kept plastered across my chatty mouth,

“Daddy taught me that, see, see!”

A faint line is written across with a dark turn. It’s scarred and bent.

“Daddy says the family’s ordeals should be kept behind the cracked shutters.”

A tear’s found its way to the cold floor.

“Mother, you say your tears are neither joy or of sadness, but what are they Momma?”

I keep my head between the creak in the door.

She answers, “Regret. But, worry not, baby girl.”

I smiled, imitating her smile, it’s a bit tipsy, but I liked it. I want that smile.

I am seven.

Years crossed and aligned with the stars, and the cries of a baby are heard.

“She belongs to me.. as well?”

I crane my neck to see the baby’s hands, too soft and to small. It’s a wonder to me.

“She’s yours, and ours.” Mother says, and she searches for Daddy’s hands.

She finds them, and the last time she ever will.

“Love her dearly, because that’s important.” Daddy says, but that’s a lie. Silly daddy.

That’s not true.

He says so himself years later.

I am fourteen, little sister’s seven, and mother’s dying on a hospital bed.

Daddy’s crying.

I do not.

“Mother’s severely sick,” Daddy says.

“Oh.” I say, little sister grapples my arms.

I am seventeen, little sister’s ten.

Daddy’s screaming again, the door’s wide open, no use peeking.

I can hear the brash truths and the breaking hearts.

Mother’s screaming now… I want to help her. I can’t. I’m trying, but it’s pushing me back.

Trying, are we?’

‘It’s doomed.’

I hush the voice inside me, rattle my head a few times and sit beside the door with the echoes of regret, that’s what Momma had said.

Is that what it meant? I still can’t know.

I start to cry.

I’m loud, but not as loud as Momma’s tears.

I’m trembling, the darkness envelops my emotions.

I’m confused and afraid. I pray, fervently.

Momma’s certainly crying as well now.

The darkness envelops her now as well. He’s not my friend, the darkness I mean.

He’s not hers either.

There’s a threat… Little sister is mumbling.

“I want to die.”

She’s lying.

We’re experts, we lie to cover the darkness that surrounds our truth. She’s fibbing. I know it.

A white cord goes around her neck, I’m peeking into her door.

I scream.

She looks up.

We’re screaming.

Our door is closed.

Hush, hush.

They might hear us. They will scream.

Fairness in life comes sparingly to us.

Tears come abundantly.

It’s a tragedy.

Who will keep up this charade longer?

I can’t say…

#47 beneath the crumbling skies.

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“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”
Elbert Hubbard

It’s been a few days since I’ve posted, but it seems my writing prowess has left me barren for the time being. I’ve also piled books upon books haphazardly, hastily written on a torn paper, waiting that I scribble off their name. Summer is just upon us, and I have much to learn, much to do. Recently, things have come, lingered longer, feelings slipping in, like ichor. As if breathing can, and does become difficult.

I feel sometimes, quite so naive. So, I’ll slap my knee, and choke back laughter. People will tilt their heads, scowls etched in quite brashly. Scribbles of worn lines across their forehead, eyelashes uncovering a gentle gaze, it’s aged wisdom beckoning I sit back, and watch. I sometimes rebel, and the dying gasp of a rebuttal echoes, only to volatilize in the wind. Every giggle, every cry, every smile, seems to have a story behind it now. And I want to know them. I want to be able to sketch their every detail, create a canvas, a chronicle.

But I’m left with a vacant mind, and an acquired sense of blatant disregard.

So, to finish,

I am this naivete girl.

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