I am October’s colors, my skin the reflection of bruised peaches and burnt honey. I stick to all things green, suckling away at their breast, until only a shriveled husk remains, clinging onto skeleton branches, begging the wind to let them be. My winds are not so kind as to carry any calls for help, even if it would be in my self-interest. I am October, Winters harlot and Summers whore. I welcome September with amber whispers, while Death waits in the kitchen for crumpets and tea. Before November arrives, I will have suffocated every cul-de-sac’s front yard with the flesh of ancient oaks, and laugh along with the children as they make piles of the refuse skin to jump and play in. I am October, a fire without heat, burning the sunset past the horizon, leaving life tinged the shallow shade of a red run dry. I am October, because we are the same; we are only beautiful when we are dying.
So, what now? I’m at a tipping point, and I don’t want to spend another year, another summer, another second, wasting away. I want to be done dreaming. I want to see my world for what it is, and not what my pride twists it into. I know I’m not worth anything, yet my greedy ass still wants everything. I’m not willing to work for any of my desires though. I’m a sloth when it comes to putting effort towards anything, so failure is assured. That just leaves me feeling empty, and so my gluttony works to fill me up with whatever my hands can grab hold of. And through all the trash being stuffed into my big mouth, the empty hunger shifts to primal desire, and I’m transformed into a red engine of lust. Nothing can stop me now as I tear through body after body, treating souls like snacks, not even bothering to enjoy the feeling, living only to quell this desire for more red. Time ticks away, leaving my bereft of company, and so my lust twists inward, corroding into an envy for the crimson beneath my skin. Nails attempt to peel back this shell, but they are too slow. Teeth attempt to rip away this husk, but they are too dull. My jealously tapers my desire into a fine edge, and from that edge is born a wrath for everything that is me. Nothing is safe from that hollowed point; it will continue to cut away at my threads until all that remains are loose ends, soaked in a bitter cherry. And in that pool, filled with the contents of my own bleeding heart, maybe I’ll find the piece of me that desired forgiveness, or the me that wished for a home, or the me that knew what it felt like to accept love…or maybe I’ll find more of the same, and I can be at peace knowing I carved out that monster all on my own…a feat I can finally take true pride in…
I was so caught up in the rush, I didn’t bother to think about it at all. I wanted to ride this wave, to live in the fast lane, to never lose the wind blowing through my hair. I wanted it all so badly…that I never noticed. Well, more like I refused to acknowledge the facts. The wind, this ride, our moment in time…I thought of it as flying, but from the word go, this was nothing more than falling. So, given enough time, I’m going to hit the ground. I know that, but maybe I don’t care. Maybe I just want to enjoy this ride for all it’s worth, and I’ll be satisfied with only this. Maybe I’m riding this fall with so much enthusiasm because I want to hit the Earth that much harder. Maybe I want that fall to be so brutal that, not only will it cripple, but perhaps it will kill…Yeah, I think that’s it. I’m not being ignorant of the consequences, but in fact I’m counting on them. I know you aren’t good for me, but I don’t care. I’ll take you, all of you, and let you take not only everything I have, but everything I could ever have. It’s all yours, and for the low, low price of a few moments of your time, and some memories to cling to in my final moments.
It’s the beginning of August, so the sun it setting earlier and earlier. It’s something anybody can observe, but for me it feels more personal. I can feel the days becoming shorter, but for the first time in my life I’m okay with this. I used to want summer to last forever, and every year I looked forward to the next, and for a fresh summer. But I’m okay with this. Everything has to end at some point. I’m okay with ending. I’ll enjoy this last summer, these last bit of fireworks. I’ll ride until everything is closed. I’ll enjoy this fall until I crash. And I’ll make sure that crash is hard enough to ensure I’ll never have to crash again. I don’t care if you hurt me anymore, because pain only matters if you are alive to feel it. I’ll be okay, I’ll escape the pain. So I’ll enjoy the ride, for all it’s worth, until my fall finally ends.
I hope for things that have yet to come, and I wish I could go back and change everything. I’m nothing but a mess of what ifs, weighed down by a mountain of could have beens, and underneath it all is nothing but an ugly husk of questionable, molting moralities. Hoping is bullshit. It’s what those who lack the will to act get high on so they can ignore their own pathetic reflections. Wishing is kiddy garbage. It’s for idiots who can only make mistakes and never have the guts to break the cycle. Hope is for stupid people who think only of tomorrow, while wishing is for morons who can’t stop thinking of yesterday. I’m not sure which is worse, so I might as well fucking overdose on both.
“I hope that I can make up for everything, before my time is up.”
~I wish I wasn’t so fucking useless. ~
“I hope I don’t die without having accomplished anything at all.”
~I wish I wasn’t afraid of an afterlife. ~
“I hope that I’m gone before I have a chance to hurt anybody else.”
~I wish I hadn’t thrown those bullets out of the car window before I got home from work that day. ~
“I hope that when this year ends, it’s really the end.”
~I wish I had found the courage to take a few more pills, just enough to get some silence. ~
“I hope it stays warm through October; I don’t want to be buried in the ground when it’s cold.”
~I wish I had cut myself deep enough to bleed out. ~
“I hope I can do this before August; I don’t want to ruin my Sisters birthday.”
~I wish I could have died before wasting so much money on college. ~
“I hope that, when the Spring finally melts this snow, it can also melt my cowardice and I’ll be able to pull the trigger.”
~I wish I had killed myself before my first high school crush. ~
“I hope that I crash this car into a ditch and freeze to death; I fucking deserve to suffer quietly and alone before I die.”
~I wish a baseball would have hit me in the head during little league, so I wouldn’t have to live wishing I had the strength to hit myself hard enough to fucking die. ~
“I hope my death will somehow make up for all the shit I’ve caused throughout my life.”
~I wish I had jumped further from the pier, just far enough so my Dad couldn’t have jumped in and saved me, just far enough so that I would have suffered and drowned like the idiot 6 year old I was deserved. ~
“I hope that as this year begins, I don’t let it begin.”
~I wish I had never been born. ~
Wow, it’s truly amazing how pathetic I am. Hoping for an end while wishing that end had already come to pass, what a fucking piece of shit, what a truly disgusting, terrible, ugly creature I am. Fuck me. Seriously, just…I can’t even comprehend how fucking awful I am. Please, stop hoping and stop wishing and just pull the fucking trigger.
Just fucking die.
I love the smell of water in the air. It’s so fresh, and it makes the air feel soft as I take a deep breath. That scent adds some sort of fluffy tail to the lasts wisps as they trickle in, tickling the back of my throat, making my lips curl towards the sky. It’s amazing how different my entire body feels when I’m wearing a genuine smile. It’s a feeling I recognize and cherish.
But just as quickly as that familiarity invades my bones, it also begins to seep right back out. That smell of water clicks with other wires in my brain, and I’m rushed into a common scene; me, in front of my bathroom mirror. My clothes lie all around me, and my eyes are focused only on my reflection. I’ve done a good job hiding the scars for years and years, but I can’t hide them for more than a day from myself. And the image I see in the mirror, it always hurts so much…
I love the smell of water, because I love being in water. I love swimming and floating in a lazy river. I love cannonballs and diving into the deep end and going down the waterslide 1 million times. I love playing catch, making insane dives off the pier thanks to the soft landing the water provides. I love relaxing on the beach, sprawled out on a towel, working on my terrible tan lines. I love chowing down on watermelon and popsicles and cans of root beer. I love all of that…I loved all of that…I loved the water when I was a kid. I looked forward to going to Turkeyfoot Lake every weekend. I couldn’t wait to spend an entire day swimming, followed up with barbeques and backyard baseball. I loved catching fireflies at dusk, and lighting sparklers when it finally got dark. I loved my summers.
I loved being in the water, so of course I love the smell of water. But now those memories make my stomach cave in, because I know what will happen now, if I tried to relieve any of those moments. So many questions would be asked, and I wouldn’t be able to answer more than a few.
“When did this start?”
Before my first trip to the lake, I was already cutting, but I was just starting. I made sure to keep things small and in more hidden places, like my thighs and legs, places people wouldn’t see so readily. I already understood at 9 exactly how fucked up this shit was.
“Why did you start?”
I don’t have a good answer for that. The best I can do is this: I started cutting after I stopped peeling my skin and biting my nails. I would pull the skin from my fingers in 1st grade, I remember. I peeled that skin until they would all bleed, and it drove my parents and teachers insane. So, to avoid being yelled at, I progressed to more subtle, accurate methods. A pen prick here, a tiny slash there. It was just easier to maintain.
“Why do you feel the need to hurt yourself?”
Does a cut hurt? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m sure a deep cut would sting. I’m sure if somebody stabbed me, or a samurai sliced my stomach open with his katana, I would be in pain. But these little lines running the length of my arm? Those don’t hurt. They are shallow, hardly breaking the surface. They look worse then they are. But to answer your real question, I don’t know why I feel like I have to hurt myself, especially when I know my scars will hurt others much more than they hurt me. Lately I think it’s because I know the more scars I have, when someone finally does see them, they will see so many scars that the hope they can help me will immediately be lost. Basically they have become a sort of insurance, a fail safe to ensure that I fail.
“Why do you want to fail?”
Because I want to die.
“And why do you want to die?”
Because I can’t fix me. I can’t fix who I am. Dying won’t make up for the horrible existence that is me, but I can’t make up for it by continuing to live either. So my choices are to either keep going, or call it a day. I need to call it a day. It’s what’s best in the long run, for the world and me.
“Then why are you still alive?”
…because no matter how hard I try, I can’t completely give up dreaming that I’ll find a way out someday…
“So what will you do next?”
I’ll think about change. Then I’ll talk about change. Then I’ll plan some changes. Then I’ll make some changes. Then I’ll slip up. Then I’ll slip up again. Then I’ll give up on changing. Then I’ll find myself at the bottom again, in awe of how the bottom just keeps getting deeper, and I’ll start the whole process over again.
“And what happens, when the bottom never comes?”
It will mean I’ve either grown some wings and taken flight, or I hit the bottom, broke both my legs, thus making it impossible for me to ever climb back out.
“And when you can’t climb back out?”
I stay down there, and I starve.
And then…. I can finally accept myself…. and I will finally be able to die…
I woke up today thinking it was Wednesday. This was odd, as yesterday was Monday, and I didn’t recall doing any time traveling. Where did my Tuesday go? I checked my phone and it confirmed my internal clock must be broken, because of course it was Tuesday. It was Tuesday, April 24th, 2018, the day directly following Monday, April 23rd, 2018. I was moving through time and space at the same speed as the rest of the people on this planet.
But that can’t be right.
My phone is telling me it is not only Tuesday, April 24th, 2018, but it is also 9:43PM. That’s PM, as in post-meridiem, as in 2 hours, 17 minutes of Wednesday, April 25th, 2018. It’s so close to the next day, it might as well be the next day. But then that day ought to just be the next day after that, and so on and so on and so on. Why am I bothering to move at all? Why am I letting my world be lived out in the forward progression of these clocks and calendars? I can just forfeit my time, right? I can just wake up and decide that today is not today. Or maybe that yesterday never happened, or that tomorrow has come and gone. I can do that, any and all of that, and find myself at the end.
I can stop my time.
So what am I waiting for? I’m blowing up my career because I’m too embarrassed to explain away the fresh cuts covering my arm, and I’m too drugged up to concentrate and get anything done in a timely manner. I’m actively attacking my body in new ways, ranging from punching myself until I throw up to breaking my own wrist and arm with a wooden baseball bat. I’m sick, very fucking sick, but I refuse to get help. I want to fix myself, but I can’t. I have people offering help, but I won’t accept any. I am running out of time…but wait, I can’t be running out of time, right? I mean I stopped my time. So I’m not running out of the stuff. But I guess, by putting my time on pause, I’m making it impossible to get any better. So when my time does start moving, it’ll be a split second of light at the end of my life, and in that moment I’ll feel an eternities worth of regret, and then I’ll be nothing.
And that’s all you ever were.
You were always nothing. You were not flowery words and similes of love. You were never a broken hearted teen. You were never a good son, or sibling, or friend. Hell, you never even knew what love really was. You were never good. You never mattered. You never could have amounted to anything. You never were meant to live. You never had the courage to just fucking kill yourself.
You’re a fucking coward.
I hate myself.
I hate everything about me.
I hate my stupid hair and how I play with it so much, as if I could ever get it to look good, when I’m such an ugly monster.
I hate my stupid laugh, because it’s loud and comes at the worst of times because I have the worst sense of humor. It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, and it grates my ears and makes me wish I would just choke on my own spit and never make a noise ever again.
I hate my arms because they are covered in scars that only prove I was to weak to push that extra inch, where I would actually reach a vein and bleed a bit more, so I could do the world a favor and just disappear.
I hate my eyes because they look so tired even though I do nothing to warrant that feeling.
I hate my nose because it’s too big, but also to small, and it’s in the middle of the face that I hate so much.
I hate my ears because they hear how small I sound, I hate my hands because they can’t hold anything aside from my own greedy desires, I hate my heart because it beats away just fine, as if it has the right to keep beating, to keep pumping blood throughout this wasteful excuse for a life.
I hate the burns on my right arm I got from working as a cook because they remind me of the wasted weekends I could have spent doing anything, but I spent them as a nobody cook where nobody gave a damn about me.
I hate my skin, my smell, my stupid legs that keep walking me to and from work, but won’t really take me anywhere at all.
I hate my thoughts, all so ugly and unsightly, so conceited and lacking any empathy, any real love and care.
I hate…I hate that I can write about everything that has ever happened to me and twist every story, every experience, every single memory into another thing to hate. I hate feeling so empty. I hate feeling like I need to be saved and I hate knowing I can’t be the one to save me. I hate waiting for my time to start moving again. I hate waiting for someone to make my time move again. I hate it. I hate time, clocks and calendars to mark how much of a waste I have been in numbers and dates, months and lifetimes gone by the wayside, thrown towards the sky and cumbusting into nothingness because I am just a stupid speck of dust who ruined a perfectly good moment on the morning of August 10th, 1990, bursting into the life of 2 perfectly fine adults who would go on to be amazing parents to 2 amazing kids. I am a black spot on so many existences and I could make up for it all by dying.
What a thought though, right? Thinking my death would atone for the sin of my very existence. I can’t make up for who I am. I can never suffer enough to make up for what I am. I can only continue to hate myself. No praying to God; evil such as me does not deserve something as amazing as the idea of God. I am a monster. Monsters can only hurt, so do the one thing that makes sense, monster.
I hate myself.