vunerability
i've begun to hear screaming in my head.
if i stop and think for long enough my thoughts will dissolve into unintelligible gibberish, knit together by mindless syllables and frantic intensity.
what does it mean to be vulnerable?
i've never had a problem with opening up.
i'll talk about suicide with a smile.
i'll reminisce on every past flaw, spotlight every embarrassing moment, showcase every intrusive thought.
it is the curse of impulse.
in the absence of traditional restraint, i am forced to fill the void with words, even if it means slipping up and saying something i shouldn't have.
i've always craved the self-control to be silent.
silence is alien to me.
all i've ever known is noise.
noise is the comfort that lurks, constant, in my brain.
if i dare to fall silent, the void must be filled.
hence the screaming.
and the embarrassing stories.
is that what being vulnerable means?
turning my self harm into a funny story, a joke?
turning myself into a joke?
am i a joke?
i've always been told i need to open up, peel back the layers of my skin until the brain underneath is exposed.
and yet i've also been told i'm an open book, unwilling or unable to hide.
i don't know what the world requires.
what do i have to share that i haven't already told?
my entire identity is a display, cultivated for your enjoyment.
maybe that's the problem.
all the ways in which i have defined myself are becoming obsolete, and i have nothing to replace it with.
who am i, if not a joke?
if we strip that away, what will be left?
jokes are the layers of fat shielding me from the cold of my bones.
do i really want to see, want to know, what's underneath?
will it save me, or break me?
my head is screaming again.
this doesn't make sense.
is that because i've decided this challenge is too vulnerable?
am i saying too much?
i taught myself that no one cares what i have to say.
whether it's true or not doesn't matter.
i've been treated like i'm annoying every time i open my mouth, because once i start talking i am unable to stop.
once i start thinking i am unable to stop, until my thoughts dissolve into the gibberish of agony.
i taught myself that no one cares.
that i'm wrong.
that i'm annoying.
that i sound stupid.
my voice is wrong.
my words are wrong.
my opinions are wrong.
and yet, it doesn't matter.
i still can't shut up.
every word is forced from my throat as violently as vomit, pulled from the most acidic depths of my soul and spewed out onto anyone who happens to be nearby.
or no one at all.
sometimes i am so desperate to speak that i find myself talking to the walls.
craving an interaction that is impossible.
it is easier to talk to the walls than it is to talk to people.
walls are good listeners.
yet they cannot provide what i crave: real, honest discussion.
i want to say something controversial and be proven wrong.
i want to say something that people can understand, that people can support.
i want my thoughts to mean something.
but when you never stop talking, your voice eventually becomes meaningless.
devolving into nonsensical mania.
just like my thoughts.
i have stripped myself of my meaning, and now there is nothing left.
no vulnerability, because that would mean opening myself up and exposing my innards to the world, and i have no more innards left to show.
every time i open my mouth, a little more of me is stripped away.
but i still haven't stopped talking.
and the screaming in my head still hasn't stopped.