(no subject)
I can't decide if sadness is something inherent in the air we breathe or if you can be sad just by force of habit.
When the same thing hurts you so many times, do we cry out because of the actual pain, or because it's a ghost memory of the pain that preceded it?
After the first step on hot coals, the rest feel so much easier.
After the first heartbreak, the first seem so much more bearable.
After the first lie, the truth seems so much more subjective.
I ended an eight-year friendship tonight by telling the boy to kill himself. I want to say that I didn't mean it, but I don't. Karma will get me for this sentiment and I don't much care at the moment. This is someone who's had every chance known to man, more than any one person deserves. He's used up all of his own chances and stolen some from other people who would've made good use of them. As such, he's a 30-year-old drug addict, divorced father of three, working part-time at a coffee shop to support the fact that instead of putting back money for an apartment of his own or a car or even some decent clothing, he is renting a laptop by the week so that he can sit online and roleplay and chat with people on Vampirefreaks.com. He's not grounded in reality. And as such, he fucked my head so many times. I spent eight years crying. Living for something that was never real.
But tonight when we fought, I didn't really feel anything. I could feel the tears going down my face as I screamed at him on the phone and told him to drop dead, but everything else felt numb. It didn't hurt. It used to feel like a sharp pinch between my eyes, but now it's just like someone put a weight on my chest and left it there. Just that dull throbbing pressure. Maybe that's how a heart really breaks. Not with a bang but with a whimper?
My mood swings have been off the charts lately and I'm honestly afraid sometimes for myself. I know I'm manic or something similar. I go from fine and lively and excited to broken and crushed and crying nonstop for hours on end in a heartbeat with no real trigger.
Earlier tonight I started thinking about small things. I was cleaning my room and kept finding things. The scissors I used to make a scrapbook for an ex-lover. In all of those pictures we are laughing and smiling and touching. I have a folder of photos of us kissing. I know I should throw them out but sometimes I look at them and remember what it felt like to be that happy, to be enough for someone, the way she'd put her hand on my cheek and for once I wasn't thinking about if I had a double chin at this angle or needed to shave my legs or anything else, just how she always tasted the same and how she smelled when we slept all day and stayed up until dawn talking and watching music videos and cuddling. I found a box she made me out of crepe paper and ink, things about crows written on it, and inside is a necklace I can't wear anymore. She bought it as a totem and when I put it on now it doesn't help me. Crows are supposed to carry your soul from a dark place to where it belongs. The one on the cord around my neck just makes me think about ice cream headaches and scratch-off lotto tickets and the time she showed up with a skirt on and feathers in her hair and I thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.
I can't pinpoint when everything changed. All I know is that it did, hipbones got sharper and so did our tongues until each kiss split our skin and let infection in until lockjaw stifled any "I love yous" we might have used to break the stony silence between us. It took months to die. We were children with magnifying glasses hovering over an anthill, prolonging torture and avoiding each other's eyes.
I never meant to hurt you. It's just the easiest thing to do sometimes, shitty as it sounds.
I feel this pressure on me constantly now, belt around my heart on its last notch. We will have to punch a new hole soon. Clavicle corset cutting off oxygen, but dying is too merciful. I've thought about it. My fingers kiss razorblades and broken glass like sorely-missed lovers and I wish I could give in and take them back into my arms. They never made anything better but they never made it worse, which is more than I can say for some modes of therapy. I still say I love you once a day. I don't know if it's more because I want desperately for you to believe it or because I'm a glutton for punishment and it makes my throat close the minute the words leave.
I found out today that my father was not only a coke addict, but a heroin addict. The same drug that broke Kevin and Jinx and Novak also worked its magic on my father. He never had love to spare for me or my mom or my sister, it was all caught in the barrel of a needle.
Everything you do, you do it to destroy me
Waiting for the darkest hour to put me down
Time is gradual, the surface is all you can see
And if I told you the truth you will not understand me...
Looking in the mirror all I see are flaws. I see blemishes and scars and badly-done tattoos and sagging breasts and fat rolls and stretch marks. I could trace them and show an atlas of my life. Start at the coordinates of the heart and veer south, you'll find a birthmark no one has ever kissed on their way down to eat my pussy even though every time I hope they will. Move right and you'll find a scar from when I fell off a picnic table while using a pocketknife and cut myself open. Move up and you'll find shave bumps and the ghost of everyone who has fucked me before, and if you spread my thighs you may hear me crying because I let a memory or two slip loose from their bear traps inside my head. I'm sorry about that; usually I keep unwanted hands and thrusting cocks in the Alcatraz of my memory banks but some of them are no good at taking 'no' for an answer...
I don't remember what it feels like to feel beautiful. I guess at some point in my life I probably did, but I can never remember anyone else ever making me feel that way.
I am now 21 years old, as of an hour and 23 minutes ago. Fucking weird to think about. I don't feel any older. Just sad and more or less disappointed that, like every other day of my life, I'm spending my birthday alone, depressed, and thinking about the past mistakes I've made.
When the same thing hurts you so many times, do we cry out because of the actual pain, or because it's a ghost memory of the pain that preceded it?
After the first step on hot coals, the rest feel so much easier.
After the first heartbreak, the first seem so much more bearable.
After the first lie, the truth seems so much more subjective.
I ended an eight-year friendship tonight by telling the boy to kill himself. I want to say that I didn't mean it, but I don't. Karma will get me for this sentiment and I don't much care at the moment. This is someone who's had every chance known to man, more than any one person deserves. He's used up all of his own chances and stolen some from other people who would've made good use of them. As such, he's a 30-year-old drug addict, divorced father of three, working part-time at a coffee shop to support the fact that instead of putting back money for an apartment of his own or a car or even some decent clothing, he is renting a laptop by the week so that he can sit online and roleplay and chat with people on Vampirefreaks.com. He's not grounded in reality. And as such, he fucked my head so many times. I spent eight years crying. Living for something that was never real.
But tonight when we fought, I didn't really feel anything. I could feel the tears going down my face as I screamed at him on the phone and told him to drop dead, but everything else felt numb. It didn't hurt. It used to feel like a sharp pinch between my eyes, but now it's just like someone put a weight on my chest and left it there. Just that dull throbbing pressure. Maybe that's how a heart really breaks. Not with a bang but with a whimper?
My mood swings have been off the charts lately and I'm honestly afraid sometimes for myself. I know I'm manic or something similar. I go from fine and lively and excited to broken and crushed and crying nonstop for hours on end in a heartbeat with no real trigger.
Earlier tonight I started thinking about small things. I was cleaning my room and kept finding things. The scissors I used to make a scrapbook for an ex-lover. In all of those pictures we are laughing and smiling and touching. I have a folder of photos of us kissing. I know I should throw them out but sometimes I look at them and remember what it felt like to be that happy, to be enough for someone, the way she'd put her hand on my cheek and for once I wasn't thinking about if I had a double chin at this angle or needed to shave my legs or anything else, just how she always tasted the same and how she smelled when we slept all day and stayed up until dawn talking and watching music videos and cuddling. I found a box she made me out of crepe paper and ink, things about crows written on it, and inside is a necklace I can't wear anymore. She bought it as a totem and when I put it on now it doesn't help me. Crows are supposed to carry your soul from a dark place to where it belongs. The one on the cord around my neck just makes me think about ice cream headaches and scratch-off lotto tickets and the time she showed up with a skirt on and feathers in her hair and I thought she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.
I can't pinpoint when everything changed. All I know is that it did, hipbones got sharper and so did our tongues until each kiss split our skin and let infection in until lockjaw stifled any "I love yous" we might have used to break the stony silence between us. It took months to die. We were children with magnifying glasses hovering over an anthill, prolonging torture and avoiding each other's eyes.
I never meant to hurt you. It's just the easiest thing to do sometimes, shitty as it sounds.
I feel this pressure on me constantly now, belt around my heart on its last notch. We will have to punch a new hole soon. Clavicle corset cutting off oxygen, but dying is too merciful. I've thought about it. My fingers kiss razorblades and broken glass like sorely-missed lovers and I wish I could give in and take them back into my arms. They never made anything better but they never made it worse, which is more than I can say for some modes of therapy. I still say I love you once a day. I don't know if it's more because I want desperately for you to believe it or because I'm a glutton for punishment and it makes my throat close the minute the words leave.
I found out today that my father was not only a coke addict, but a heroin addict. The same drug that broke Kevin and Jinx and Novak also worked its magic on my father. He never had love to spare for me or my mom or my sister, it was all caught in the barrel of a needle.
Everything you do, you do it to destroy me
Waiting for the darkest hour to put me down
Time is gradual, the surface is all you can see
And if I told you the truth you will not understand me...
Looking in the mirror all I see are flaws. I see blemishes and scars and badly-done tattoos and sagging breasts and fat rolls and stretch marks. I could trace them and show an atlas of my life. Start at the coordinates of the heart and veer south, you'll find a birthmark no one has ever kissed on their way down to eat my pussy even though every time I hope they will. Move right and you'll find a scar from when I fell off a picnic table while using a pocketknife and cut myself open. Move up and you'll find shave bumps and the ghost of everyone who has fucked me before, and if you spread my thighs you may hear me crying because I let a memory or two slip loose from their bear traps inside my head. I'm sorry about that; usually I keep unwanted hands and thrusting cocks in the Alcatraz of my memory banks but some of them are no good at taking 'no' for an answer...
I don't remember what it feels like to feel beautiful. I guess at some point in my life I probably did, but I can never remember anyone else ever making me feel that way.
I am now 21 years old, as of an hour and 23 minutes ago. Fucking weird to think about. I don't feel any older. Just sad and more or less disappointed that, like every other day of my life, I'm spending my birthday alone, depressed, and thinking about the past mistakes I've made.