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 don’t know how it works for the rest of the world, but I fall in love in more ways than I can count.

We arrived at the theater right as the previews were starting. I was happy, because I love trailers and having something to look forward to. You always made it a point to gauge my reactions to every trailer, but regardless of my level of excitement you would enthusiastically proclaim that we’d go see that movie, then the next, and so and so forth, until we apparently will be viewing everything coming out for the rest of forever. I would point out how impossible that would be, but that didn’t seem to bother you one bit. In fact, you relished in the challenge, proclaiming in a voice barely above a whisper (it was a movie theater after all)”

“Have no fear! I’m pretty sure it’s my job to make the impossible possible for us, so we’ll figure it out! I mean, we do have forever.”

You were a bit too perfect, weren’t you? I mean, you weren’t even trying to be sappy and romantic at all, that’s just how you were.

Goddamnit, you were so freaking perfect..

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 promised you shelter, but I just realized my heart is full of holes. So maybe I was just using you to plug them up, to make me feel whole…

“You say that it hurts to be alone, but you are the one pushing aside your phone when it lights up, ignoring every invite from friends and family to go out or come over. You aren’t making an effort, so can you really say that being alone hurts?”

~It’s not being alone that hurts. I know I’m making this, a conscience decision, and it’s that feeling of giving up on me even when others haven’t that feels so Goddamned awful.~

“So it’s being self aware that causes you so much pain?”

~I can see that I’m not alone…that I’m not at rock bottom…but I feel like I should be. After all that I’ve done, and all that I haven’t, I’ve earned loneliness.~

“But being alone isn’t something you just decide for yourself. When you make that decision, you are making it both for yourself and those who want you in their lives.”

~And I want to say it’s the guilt, the unrelenting feeling of failure, that keeps me making the same, selfish decisions over and over and over…but no…that’s simply an excuse. I can say I don’t want to hurt others all I want, that it’s my desire that they all remain happy and healthy without me, but the only truth that matters is I am ignoring what they want to satisfy my own desire for punishment. And that guilt leads me further down this rabbit hole, cycling again and again and again AND AGAIN! IT NEVER ENDS, I JUST KEEP ON WANTING TO LET OTHERS DOWN, TO GIVE THEM A REASON TO HATE ME, BUT MORE IMPORTANTLY, TO GIVE ME SOMETHING FRESH TO HATE ABOUT MYSELF! SO IT DOESN’T MATTER WHAT MY REASONING IS! IT DOESN’T MEAN A FUCKING THING! IT DOESN’T!!!...It doesn’t matter…I’m picking self-hatred over their happiness…and nothing could be more disgusting than that…~

“…You want to hate yourself…that’s what you want? You want a reason for everything that has happened. You want meaning, because otherwise, what was it all for, right? What were all those nights spent doing laundry, desperately trying to wash off those dark red streaks for? What were all those days spent in a haze, throwing up regret only to purchase another bottle on the way home from work for? What were those nights spent sitting in the shower, fully clothed and freezing, watching as the blood tinged the water red, unable to take your eyes of that crimson river, what were those for?”

~They weren’t for anything. I already know…they weren’t for anything…if they were, then I would have found it by now.~

“That’s not the answer.”

~It’s my answer.~

“That’s not your final answer.”

~It’s the answer I came to, after using up all 3 of my lifelines, and having 2 choices in front of me, A or B. And I picked C, because I didn’t want any fucking chance to walk away…~

“But you’re still walking.”

~…~

“You’re still walking, and breathing.”

~The pills are starting to kick in, so breathing might become a bit more difficult here in a few minutes.~

“You’re still walking, and breathing, and living.”

~This…me…I’m not living; This isn’t fucking…You idiot, you fucking idiot…this isn’t…THIS ISN’T FUCKING ANYTHING!~

“You’re still walking, and breathing, and living, and screaming, and crying, and falling, and failing, and breaking, and cutting, and overdosing, and..”

~AND FUCKING NOTHING! I AM FUCKING NOTHING, NOTHING BUT A PATHETIC WASTE!!~

“…And you are still hurting, and loathing, and running, and..”

~JUST SHUT IT, SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT THE FUCKING HELL UP!~

“…And you are still here.”

~…why am I still…~

“Isn’t that really what you want? Not reasons to hate yourself, but a reason to live?”

~I don’t deserve something like..~

“Funny thing is, nobody asked you if you deserved it! Nobody asked if you wanted it, and nobody will ask you to give it back! It’s not fair, and it’s messy and difficult and maybe it’s not going to end up feeling like it was worth it at all! But YOU ARE STILL HERE!”

~It’s a joke…all of this is one big fucking joke.~

“Maybe. Maybe God hates you. Maybe God thinks this is funny. Hell, you might even be the main character in some weird, God produced sitcom, and the entirety of the Heavens are laughing at your expense. But none of that matters. At the end of the day you are still here, right here.”

~I’m only here because I’m too weak to pull the trigger.~

“And that’s still a reason.”

~Not a very good reason for living though, huh? I’m to much of a piece of shit to end it, so I just keep dragging my feet all over creation.~

“It’s not a stellar endorsement, but it’s a starting point.”

~It’s not the reason I want.~

“Meaning you don’t just want any old reason, but you want your reason to live.”

~…I’ll never find it.~

“But you’re still here, so you must not have given up completely, right?”

~I’m 99% there, at the end.~

“One out of one hundred. One out of one thousand. One out of one trillion. The odds make no difference. You still have the chance, a chance for a chance, a chance for that chance to dream.”

~…it still hurts…so much…~

“I know, I do, trust me, I know.”

~…I don’t have the energy to save myself…~

“But you have the energy to take a shower, and brush your teeth, and crawl under the covers. That sounds like a pretty good start, right?”

~It could be worse.~

“It could.”

~…will you stay with me?~

“…For a long as I can.”

~Thank you…I hate being alone…it’s so cold…~

“Just get some sleep, okay? Tomorrow will be here before you know it.”

~I don’t need tomorrow to come…but it will come anyway, right?~

“You’re starting to learn.”

~…please, don’t leave me…~

“…Get some sleep, okay?”

~I don’t want you to leave…please don’t make this goodbye, not again…~

“…It’s not a goodbye, just a goodnight. Goodnight Taylor…and sweet dreams…”

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

3AM is not the best time to write, but I’m out of pills and things to distract me. I’m letting the sound of my keyboard keep me company while I wait for everything to finally end.

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.

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

“I gave you a world of words, not leaving myself a single letter. So now I am speechless, and you’re just drowning in alphabet soup.”

I wanted to take my time with each word I wrote for you. I wanted to be as deliberate as possible, so everything had to have the perfect amount of weight. When you would read my letter you’d be able to hear my voice, like I was lying right there beside you, You’d have no doubt, even for a second, that you weren’t loved. I wanted to give my world of words to you every single day.

I wanted to give you so much…but I was pretty stupid, huh?

I was so lost in thoughts of you that I actually lost my way and stopped wondering if my words were what you truly wanted. Before I knew it I had given you everything, without ever asking if it was to much. I left myself empty, and expected you to fill me up, but that wasn’t your job. If I had taken even a second to think things through I would have seen, would have realized…

I wasn’t giving you love and care, I was giving you the world, and with the world comes gravity, and it just weighed you down, didn’t it? I gave you a world to balance on your shoulders and still wanted to give you more. And so I become a hollow wind, nothing you could touch, and I floated away into the far reaches of space, never looking back. I saved nothing, so I became nothing.

You learned it was okay to carry only what is yours, and used time as a shed to store away those pretty little words. But I’m not much of a planner, so I never thought about what would happen if you stopped trying to be my tether. The outcome is obvious in hindsight, and it was probably also obvious in the moment, but I didn’t care.

So here I am, and here I am not, and there I was, and there I wasn’t, and I held onto everything as tightly as possible, until I realized that it’s not human hands that hold and support and nurture, but human hearts.

My heart was never that strong to begin with, but it pumped away all the same. It craved love and affection, and wanted to give love and attention. I somehow forgot about that first part, and only focused on the giving. But if all a person does is give, eventually they will be void of everything.

I became void of everything. I expected you to give me your heart in exchange for mine. I was being so unfair…to you, and to myself…So here I am, with nothing but borrowed time and borrowed words and borrowed hearts…and I just want to know where my heart is now, because it’s cold…

It’s so goddamn cold…

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

He took the time between typing shaky lines to peak outside that office window, and wouldn’t you know, it was just wind and snow, but that white somehow felt like a clean slate.

Some people bruise really easily. My Mom is like that; she once just slipped walking up the stairs and her entire forearm was a mess of purple and red. I remember because I was about 9, and seeing that freaked me out. I was crying and screaming and running the the phone, ready to dial 911. But my Mom caught me, and when I looked at her face I saw that she wasn’t really hurt at all.

“It looks worse than it is, trust me. I’m not hurt, I’m just fine, you don’t have to cry. Come on now, Calvin, you weren’t even the one to fall, so stop crying already.”

I had a habit of crying whenever anybody would get hurt, and probably more so when that anybody was me. I hated seeing other people in pain, and I couldn’t handle pain at all. I was a terrible batter because I was scared of getting hit by the pitch. I always backed away as the ball was thrown, and pitchers just gave me outside pitches I couldn’t reach. I refused to watch boxing matches, thinking they were cruel and inhumane and that the people making money off of such events were just monsters. I didn’t find things like guns and swords cool like other boys my age, and I didn’t like roughhousing with other boys my age.  

This didn’t make me a social outcast though, not at all. I was funny and smart, so people always wanted me around. I made studying easy, and never had to wait around for a partner for any projects. It was like that from elementary school through college; I was always the same, reliable guy.

And I got over my aversion to pain. I found that boxing was more an art than a brawl, and saw guns and swords as some of the coolest things in the world thanks to videogames. I overcame my fear of being hit and became a decent baseball player, and I even found out I can rough it out with the best of them, although I was better at taking the hits and not so good at dishing them out.

I also found out I wasn’t like my Mom, I didn’t bruise easily at all. I took plenty of nasty falls during baseball seasons, but it never really showed. I picked up Soccer and backyard football and doing stupid, dangerous stunts on dares. I broke a wrist, ran into a fence and broke my nose, fell out of a slow moving car and lost most of the skin below my right kneecap. But it always seemed like I avoided the worst outcomes, and those things never left me with bruises to stare at in the mirror.

I’m a college grad, living the office life, using my Excel skills to produce some really insightful pivot tables. I play tennis now instead of baseball, but I’m still the funny, smart guy at work. I play video games still, and I watch boxing, and while my Mom hasn’t fallen down any sets of stairs recently, the new dog she convinced my Dad to get is bigger than she is, and while she was out walking him he pulled her down chasing a cat, and she sprained her ankle. Of course she refused to believe it was sprained and avoided the doctors for 3 days, until her ankle was so swollen she couldn’t get her socks on. So not much has changed, even after 18 years.

And wouldn’t you know it, I still don’t bruise easily! Nope, it’s not easy at all! I mean, I can take a hammer to my forearms, day in and day out, and barely be able to move my wrists, but no bruises! I can punch my stomach until I force myself to vomit, but no marks are there to worry about! And while the cuts obviously can’t not leave a mark, they are all located on parts of my body nobody has to see. My upper arms, chest, thighs…well, the point is they don’t have bruises! They take the punches and hammer blows, the backhands and mini-baseball bat like they are nothing, so that’s still the same.

And I still hate watching other people in pain, and I’ll cry about it and wish the world could exist in a state where nobody had to ever feel pain.

And I still can’t handle pain. So I cut and punch and beat and break every inch of my body, day in and day out. Because it doesn’t hurt. And it helps me to forgive myself, just a little bit, and makes this pain so much easier to live with. So I have to keep going. If I let up I know the pain will become to much, and I’ll end up dead. So I have to keep it up.

Someday…this body will give out, and even though I don’t bruise, I know my body isn’t invincible, and it will break. The only question for me is will my body break first, or will this pain drive me to give up sooner? It’s hard to get out of bed every morning, but it used to be hard because of the pain, and now my body is about 10% of the reason why. I wonder how long it will take to get to 50%. Or 75%. Will this pain win out before I get to experience that? What state will my body be in when I finally die?

So, some people bruise easily, but that doesn’t mean they are weak. Some people don’t bruise at all, but they can be the weakest, most pathetic fucking things on this planet, huh?

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

It’s easy to see it in hindsight, but in the moment everything feels so rushed; it’s impossible to tell up from down, or wrong from right..or living from dying..

But I love him…That was always my excuse at the end of every day that summer. Those nights spent awake wishing to be anything but real, the face of a harsh reality was revealed, and every special moment broken.

You felt special because he was yours? People are not possessions. When you do that, you are giving the key to your happiness to somebody else. So what happens when they no longer see you as the sun or moon or stars, but as waste and dust and not even an afterthought?

You break.

And it’s not beautiful, nor poetic. It’s ugly crying alone at 4am, it’s unwashed clothes and sheets and fast food wrappers overflowing from the trash can. It’s cold feet, empty eyes, bubbling guts and bloody vomit. It’s crying to the point where nothing comes out; no tears or sounds, you just can’t exist..And it leaves you missing days from the calendar and regretting everything prior to the here and now, and the here and now is something you want to destroy, and you realize that you are the moment, that you are the here and now, and you need no more tomorrow’s, no more chances, that time is a stupid harlot, a cheating whore, and you want her out of your life..You don’t want life..

That’s the kind of breaking that happens.

It’s not beautiful.

It’s death.

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

I know the right steps to take, and spending a week in the hospital because I downed to many prescription pills is not one of those steps. So why did I just do that?

Why would things have to turn out like this, huh? Can anyone give me an answer that would calm me down, turn my radical sense of self-loathing into a more calm, rational sense of mild self-hatred? I am aware; I am a creature of habit. I fall into the holes of life not because of poor luck or blind circumstance, no… I fall down because I am waiting for those around me to see that I am on the ground and for them to hold out their hands for me, so I can climb on their backs and have them carry me through life. A scathing self-analysis, but an accurate one.