I hurt so much
But what sometimes
hurts more is not knowing
if that hurt is real or a phase.
I'm scared of the passage
of time. But it's not time
that passes, it's us. I'm
afraid that I'll pass
doing the same motion over
and over
and over again. Afraid that
the people I love
will never stop killing
themselves
and me in the process. I'm
afraid
that the tears will never
stop
like a stormy sky, paused,
dripping, soaking
everything. My soul or
heart, whatever they call it,
is drenched, so heavy, no
movement is possible.
I'm afraid that, like so
many children, I will
be a mirror of my parents
and those I love,
that I'll be molded by
the wavelengths of light,
shaped into something I
don't want
to be and once despised,
when it was in front of
my eyes. My eyes are
empty, my heart is hollow,
like my words. I don't
mean anything I say anymore
because I'm afraid of
living in the truth, because
it hurts the people I
love. It destroys facades,
which are so much easier.
No one ever did say that
the truth was better than
the facade. They
said that the facade was
weaker than the truth,
and the fall is worse than
the truth. I'm so afraid
that I'll never be able to
let go, like them. That
I'll be stuck, lost in the
dark wood my family
have trespassed into. But
they thought that
it was theirs, and they
realised it wasn't. But it
was too late. Dreams tore
off the branches, flew
off like envied doves, and
were gone so much
quicker than they had
arrived. Mum needs to rip the bandage off.
Dad needs to rip away from
her so she can stop fearing.
I need to leave, but I
can't. Bound by nerves, anxiety and pressure
of the world around me.
Scared that if I turn away
the nightmare will
melt away and I'll miss
the best.
Scared that I'll always be
the one with the bad luck,
that the good luck will be
a rarity in my life
forever.
So frightened that it will
never
end.
So frightened that it
will
end. What if it does?
What will I do? I'm the
mammoth
trapped in a world I've
not prepared for.
I can't even travel on the
road outside,
because there are aliens
on the road. Violent. Aggressive. Bitter.
Sour lemons for mouths.
Kind. Too kind, sometimes. Kindness
is a killer. Like with
those cases of starvation. Empty stomachs
suddenly filled with food,
desperation replaced with logic: death.
And I'm scared
that I'll always be this
pitiful, self-pitying mess on the floor
of my bedroom.
I see myself swinging from
a shower rail, that slide-to cupboard above the
phony wardrobe, floating
in the bath, or red-wristed, like one
of those Western Indians
who fought for their country, because
they thought it was right.
Stopping won't stop this,
though. Stopping won't help them or myself.
I don't care if it's a
sin, I've sinned often enough with
my mind. It's not in the
book: that it's okay to sin
under certain
circumstances.
Seeing is believing, they
say. But I've seen,
and now I believe in
nothing. No
God.
No life. No
future. No one. Not
myself, either.
I'll leave,
metaphorically, with a little optimism, because
that's what you all want,
isn't it?
This is a dream, a
nightmare - and all nightmares end. We
are all born under certain
circumstances, easy, hard, it doesn't matter,
it's no ones fault, not
even your own. Sometimes you're built for
that hard life, built to
be hard and unflinching; sometimes
you're not. It's no ones
fault. You've just got
to live with it. Because
life is unfair, and you
can't remove the
irreversibly attached un from the fair.
I'm sorry. I truly am. I
failed to be optimistic.
I failed, but it's not my
fault. It's no ones.
