Falling down takes time, and has layers, and can even appear beautiful. It’s sort of like a sunset on the beach in late September. It’s not truly autumn, so every evening is ushered in on the tail-end of a dying summer breeze. The light from the Sun plays games with that not so warm air, flickering more, almost dancing, as it descends onto the horizon. The space between the Sun and the Earth, the Earth and the sky, the skyline and the edge of our planet, stretched out across the deepest of blues reflected in the open Sea… For a brief moment, you can close one eye, and these vast distances and heavenly bodies all fit in the space between your thumb and index finger.
But the moment is only that, a moment.
The Sun keeps on dancing as it slips over the edge of the world. The breeze keeps on twirling, the oceans are swirling, but it’s all beginning to fade into the background as the Moon and the stars take their positions. The transition is peaceful, poetic even, and I find so much comfort in this daily sight. The world ends every day without a fuss. It takes time, but it’s never in a rush. The Sun goes down as its own pace, and it manages to stay beautiful every step of the way. So maybe falling down isn’t such a bad thing after all, so long as we remember that falling down always comes with the opportunity to rise again.
You are a sunburn; you came with happy times spent in sunny days, and you left me with the coming of autumn and the bright orange leaves. So were you ever really there? Will I have any physical reminders of your love on my person? I once heard that every cell in our entire body is destroyed and replaced every seven years. So in a short seven years I will have a body that you will have never touched… and that thought is both beautiful and the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard.
I caught up to you, on the last train of the night. For me, it’s the last train home. But where is this train taking you? I can tell it’s not taking you home, but it’s still the last train, so where is it you want this train to take you?
~Beyond the tracks, past the city lights, a place where not even the stars can be seen. I just need to find a place where the world can’t see me… because if the world can’t see me, that would mean I couldn’t see myself, right? That’s the only place left where I’d want to go, a place where I never had to worry about seeing who I am…a place where I could pretend I don’t exist, that I never existed in the first place…I want to find myself in a world without a shred of me…
Another day, another bottle’s contents swirling in my stomach, melting away the anxiety and replacing it with a physical sensation akin to choking. Or perhaps my throat is actually swollen shut? My lungs might be filling up with cheap liquor and cigarette smoke, leaving no room for something as silly as a chemical reaction turning oxygen into carbon dioxide. Perhaps that’s for the best, letting my words die in my chest before they find purchase on my breath, saving me from making another mistake, since I’m sure I’d just waste my final moments trying to tell you something, even though there’s not a single fucking thing you want to here from me…
I can’t resist the urge to break. It’s almost like a need, a physical itch that demands I scratch it with a freshly sharpened pocket knife.
I hate this feeling.
I am filled up with things and stuff instead of love and warmth, and it hurts. I want to cry. Every day I want to do nothing else but cry. I scream at myself in the car until the stares from strangers drives me into a deep enough shame that I choke on my stupidity. I want to be numb, so I take these pills. I want to forget, so I do these drugs. I want to erase myself from this world, so I spend as much time as I can on my own. I want to die, so I research methods of suicide and write notes for the police, my parents, and everyone else. I want to suffer, so I make sure God can do nothing but hate me. I want…I want out of this cycle…I want to live and smile and have hope…I want to not eat until I’m sick, throwing up in the bathroom, returning from every meal with a fever…I want to stop being so lazy and tired, to find the motivation to move my stupid body, to make it react, to force it awake…I want to find love for myself, any reason to love me at all…I want to do something with the love others have given me aside from ripping it up in front of their faces…I want to be proud, to make others proud of me…I want to exist without wishing I didn’t exist…I want to exist without thinking I have to suffer for my existence…I want that, all of that…but I did it again. In the time between my millionth plan to become a better person and lunch, I’ve tossed it all away again…again and again and again…all that planning, the time and energy and effort, and all of it wasted again…once again I did nothing…once again I managed to find a new low…again and again and again…I don’t want anymore, never again…I don’t want to suffer, and I don’t want to die…and I don’t want to live…so what can I do?
What can a loser like me do…
I’ve spent the past 6 years trying to erase everything.
If our lives are homes that grow with time, than what I have been doing is leaving the front door unlocked, every window open, and I couldn’t even wait for the world to rip out anything of value, so I actively participated in the pillaging, until nothing of value remained.
I’m an empty house, stripped bare from 6 years of trying to erase whatever we shared, and I shared it all, so it all came down.
20 years of life that I remember, and each memory has now be drowned, and it only took 6 years to destroy whatever I used to be, so the work is done…right?
Yes, that must be right…but if that’s true…
~Why am I still breathing?~
Coiled around every kiss is the taste of a temporary love. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but we’ve all forced ourselves to stomach worse things than this, in the name of desire. Nobody enjoys a burning esophagus, nor the rancid taste of stomach acid that accompanies every exhale. A goodnight kiss has been replaced with a shot of sour breath breaking across the face of a stranger. Going to bed alone would be the smart thing to do, so of course you drag a warm body up and under the cover of your sheets, because under those covers you can almost convince yourself that warmth is coming from a place of genuine care. But that lie falls down, down, down into the cavern that used to be your sense of empathy, and it keeps falling until the air is filled with the echo of shattered porcelain, and you begin to realize how empty you’ve become in your search for another love.