I'm drowning. Yet I'm no where near water.
I'm falling. Yet my legs are firmly on the ground.
I'm alone. Yet surrounded by people.
My heart pounds loudly in my chest as if I've ran a marathon, my palms slick with sweat as I watch everyone around me going about normally. Can't they hear it?Can't they hear the loud thudding of my heart? Do they not feel that same suffocating need to leave the room?
Scratching the soft area above my collarbone I nod at something someone said all the while I feel as if the world was tilting. Swallowing past the lump in my throat I look past the heads that gathered before me and over to the front door.
My palms itched to escape the nonsense chatter, to crawl back into the safety of my apartment where it was dark and quiet. Where no one was waiting to judge my clothing or comment on my lack of contribution to the conversation. To where no one would ask why I keep a rubber band around my wrist or why I rarely smile.
My chest tightens as I spare a glance at the clock. Ten minutes?! I've only been at this party for ten minutes?! I can feel the walls closing in on me as the faces surrounding me blur. My chest rises and falls with the breath I'm struggling to take.
How do I breathe again? My trembling fingers glide over my wrist in search for the beige rubber band. Lowering my hands from view I tug on the elastic band and flinch as it snaps against the inside of my wrist.
The sharp pain slams into me, momentarily distracting me from the dizzying thoughts that had consumed me. Desperate to feel anything other then this suffocating fear I pull on the elastic again and again. Careful not to attract attention I continue to pull on the rubber band as the tension in my body dims a bit. My skin is red and stings but I welcome the pain like an old friend.
Over the years I've discovered the pain helped chase the anxiety away, it feeds the darkness within me and reminds me that I can feel something other than this miserable numbness. That I'm not quite dead on the inside. The pain is a reminder that I'm still fighting my demons.
A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips. Are they considered your demons when they are you're only companions? When they are the only ones who sit along side you in the dark as you cry? The only real beings that have stuck around you? The same demons that wake up with you as you face another day, another challenge.
Yet they are also the same demons that lurk in the darkest part of your mind, awaiting the moment they can creep up on you. At your most vulnerable moments they will step into the light promising relief but only delivering pain.
Closing my eyes I take a deep breath and remind myself to take this one moment at a time. One foot in front of the other and slowly reopen my eyes.
The crowd of unfamiliar faces erupt into laughter and I follow in suit hoping it didn't sound as hallow and fake as I felt.
The things I hate
Sometimes, I feel the creeping of fear and helplessness rise up from my
Belly to my chest and to my throat
Sometimes, rage is there too
Not to mingle with the other emotions
But because I had THOSE emotions
But I haven't had these feelings
for so long that I'm paralyzed
From moving to take action
But if I did, it would not be
To wipe away tears or be sick
But to curl my fist and strike
The things I hate
Enough
"We are masters of the unsaid words but slaves of those we let slip out."
- Winston Churchill
Do I dare? Do I spill my blood for you?
Or is it for me?
The words trap and consume, never letting the meaning run free
Not good enough.
The page empty, drained by the letters stabbing in
I stabbed them because I want you to feel it
But they only hurt me
Can you feel it?
Do you see me?
No. Not good enough. I am still alone.
Please listen
Feel the curve of my pen make sorrow
Feel it make life
Feel me peele my ghostly skin back and expose my bones to you
Go deeper
See the way my blood flows, strong and corrupt
I am pure even as the dirt under my nails falls to the paper
I am brave even as I cower behind the pen
But I am not honest for I write in pencil
Soft and broken, easily erased, easy to make disappear
I control it, I am the master of emptiness
Slave to the full
Let me bleed for you and stain the shirt your mother picked out for you
Let me tarnish your shoes with dirt and step on your toes
Let me show you pain.
No. Not good enough.
I draw with stencils, neat and already placed
The pencil does not belong to me
Is this why you can't hear me? Are these not my words?
They have belonged to others, I do not deserve these words
But still, I use them
I bleed for you
My blood spills into the tightly packed letter stencils
It pools around the walls and falls to the ground,
Dirty and elusive, they miss the paper
Not good enough.
Your eyes pin me, paralyze me
The blues and browns are so beautiful
They disgust me because I have no eyes, they have been stolen by the page
Let me go.
I am screaming
Hear me.
Listen.
For the words are empty and I write nothing
They are mine. Not yours today.
Let them eat me tonight for dinner so you may eat yours
Maybe tomorrow I will be consumed
But today I am free
My hand is strong while I erase my blood from the paper
Leaving nothing but the comforting blindness of white
The notes are mine;
You can't listen if there is no sound
So I ask nothing of you
And of me?
Maybe tomorrow I will be just enough.
