Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’m tired of seeing things that existed before you now as nothing else but reminders of you. I can’t erase you…but I’d give anything to have those things back, without you..

She reminds you of birthday cake and lavender hand soap. Her smile contains hints of vanilla summers and cinnamon winter’s. She speaks, and it sounds like fresh movie theater popcorn and the fizzling of a perfectly topped off cup of Coca-Cola. You hold her hand, and warmth rushes through your body like hot chocolate, and you feel nervous butterflies under every inch of your skin. Yet just as quickly as she sets your nerves on fire she also gives comfort, the same comfort you used to find sleeping in, snuggled tight under warm sheets on snowdays. She is…everything in my life that has ever brought me happiness…and she’s gone, but those things, vanilla summers and fizzing soda and hot chocolate snow days, they are all still here…she wasn’t all those things, because they existed before her…so keep moving forward, one day at a time, and I’m sure the day will come when those wonderfully comforting things will be comfortable once again…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I’ve grown accustomed to my own lack of patience, pushing aside the reality of my short temper by hiding behind a mountain of excuses, like my insufficient sleep schedule or my diet of razor blades and a nightly bottle of pills. But let’s break that down to it’s pieces, shall we?

My sleep isn’t so much a lack thereof, but a world of nightmares that makes nothing feel like real rest. Every wall is a mirror, and my whole body is covered in bright red scars, and everyone I’ve ever known is watching me and walking by and offering help, offering hands and tissue paper and tears and so much pity that I can’t help but feel like the smallest person to ever exist, and I know it’s a dream because I’ve been so good about never talking about my scars, just cat scratches and kitchen accidents, but even knowing I’m asleep doesn’t help, and I’m stuck sitting in real time, trapped in my mind, forced to live out my nightmare of having the world see me as cut and broken as I feel, made all the more real by the knowledge that if anybody did happen to see me with my shirt off, that this dream wouldn’t be a nightmare at all, would it? If anybody did see me, talk to me, have to interact with me, they would see, and find out, and ask so many questions I am ill-equipped to answer, so I would cower into a corner and cry and be inconsolable and God, I don’t want to put anybody through that, having to watch me break like that, never again…

So my sleep acts as a reminder that it would be better, so much better, if I just kept my mouth shut and stopped pretending I’m ever going to be okay, because scars don’t lie, especially as new ones keep popping up, so having to feel nothing but terror and shame, those are feelings I have earned. I used to avoid sleep to avoid the dreams. Now I give up and let the dreams take me, and wake up in a cold sweat, dry throat with blood-shot eyes, and I let my terror slowly fade as I realize it was all a dream, and I cry, like a pathetic fool, until I am all dried up, not a tear left in me, not an ounce of strength, and I let my head hit my pillow again, let my body fall against the warm sheets, feel the sticky spots against my bare arms and don’t even flinch because of course I know why my sheets are sticky and why I only buy red colored bed sheets and why falling asleep won’t be restful and why I still have to, because at least in that hell I can tell myself I’m not actually hurting anybody, right? At least I can’t hurt anybody in my dreams…and that always, it always leads back into the same realization…that I could disappear and never hurt anybody ever again, not myself or my family or friends, I could get to that point, be my own hero, save myself from it all, right? It’s not me being selfish, it’s me saving myself, right?… 

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I think of you as still being here, with me. I feel your weight on my shoulder when I lay down alone, the scent of your neck filling my lungs, the cold of your feet chilling mine. I’m not lonely, I’m just alone at the moment, and this moment is bound to pass, eventually. 

I left you, ran away from you, rented a Dodge Charger, drove that bitch till the gas ran out, got on a sled with a full 10 Husky sledding team, road those bitches (a more appropriate use of the term here) until running into the Alaskan never-ending summer skyline, and STILL, when I caught my breath taking in that shimmering sunlight, I found myself holding out a hand and feeling empty when no fingers slid their way into mine. I say my hand felt empty because even though I did look away from that nightless view, my eyes felt cloudy, like the grass outside my parents house around 6:49am on a mild September morning; not so much wet, with drops falling off one after another, but moist, with the feeling that somehow a sudden drop in temperature has occurred, a chill down my spine, causing dispersion of the H2O molecules and suspending them in my field of vision. I was not crying for your hand, but without that weight my eyes did make the rest of the world seem a whole lot less clear.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I still remember your favorite ice cream, and the way you smelled, and I’m obviously not taking enough pills to melt you away tonight.

I lost track of the time as soon we turned on the TV. The lights and sound just served as background noise; my attention was all yours, and you knew it. We were laying down together on my couch, me the big spoon and you curled up with your head resting on my arm. Your hair was covering my face, but I didn’t mind. I love how your hair smells, how all of you smells. You would periodically turn your head and kiss my arm, and every time you did I couldn’t help but smile like an idiot. My other arm alternated between rubbing your stomach and scratching your back. I swear, you were just like a cat, making little noises to let me know where you liked being touched, and then making it even more obvious where you really liked being touched. I had learned most of your preferred spots, but there was always more. More ways to touch you, a different finger here, a swift stroke there, a gentle hand followed by a tense grab, and you reacted to everything. I etched you into my everything, contoured my soul to better suit your desires.

But now that couch is empty, and my hands are cracked and rough, and my soul is aching from the stress of trying to just hold on. My senses are failing me one by one, as if the lack of seeing you every day has caused my vision to blur everything else together, as if I can’t ever wake up and smell the roses, as if every noise is now a tree falling alone in the woods, making me question if I’ve ever heard a single sound before you while I ignore the phone for the hundredth time this year because I haven’t heard a sound since you. I’m eating away my feelings because I don’t know what it means to feel full anymore; I feel bottomless, so I just shovel everything I can reach into my mouth, and I don’t even know what I’m doing because it’s all just the same thing; never enough. I burned away my fingertips, cut away my soft skin, marinated myself in self-pity to the point I am always stuck in the shower, scrubbing with water I assume to be hot, feeling nothing but a sense of guilt in my gut, praying I’ll just keep sinking and sinking until I reach the bottom, where no light or air can reach me, and I’ll fade away before I ever have to wake up again.

What do humans do with all of this old, now useless, knowledge? Most people will retain it for a time, some information sticking around longer than other bits, and they use it to learn, to grow, to move on. They don’t replace everything they have with a single point, a single mass. People are collectives, so what should you expect when you discard down your hand to leave just one card? Well, you just pray that card isn’t the Joker, or else you’re just plain out of luck – but it’s not luck, since you made the conscience decisions, right? So it’s not luck, but stupidity in the highest form, akin to Russian roulette with a semi-automatic gun. You are making the choice to die, here and now, and painting it as this portrait of fun and games. Keep them all laughing. Keep the room entertained. Keep your head held high, then come to realize… the room is filled with only mirrors, that the laughter is scratching glass, that your head is still attached to your neck, but it’s coming off awfully fast…