Referendum.
If I can't be happy, why are you allowed to be? I'm drunk, cursing into voicemails and leaving messages that drip venom. You broke my heart, you ruined me, cast me upon the fire of love and left me here to burn, turning around and walking away after your bones had been warmed. There is no field of flowers to hold hands in anymore, I am falling apart and thinking of how long should I keep faking it. I have weddings and parties to attend but I can't keep this up for much longer. I'm sweating in my room, the windows are wide open and it is ten degrees outside, but I am burning up, sitting in the nude and still calling up the people I loved, the people who left me to the wolves of my unstable emotions.
I keep thinking of my skull, and how it will sit on the shore of our ruined oceans, how the waves of liquid ash will flow in and out of the cavities, send trails down the angles that look like tears. I'm hot and cold, scrutinizing pictures of myself, looking at all the dumb smiles and all the funny faces. I wish I could be serious with people face to face, open up the lock box of my fractured feelings, letting my true self out into the open, it's so hard being honest with people when I can't be honest with myself. I talk over the phone and often trail off, unable to finish a sentence because it will reveal a flash of the sadness, the pain, the regret that seems to be the entirety of my personality. I make jokes, I laugh, I smile but my eyes, do they betray my real self? Can anyone actually see through the facade? Can you see the rusting gears turning behind my face, how pained and slowly they turn when you look upon me?
The power that other people hold over me, the words they say, the body language, I can read it, but I can't bear to interpret the lexicon, the cadence, the very rhythm of true social interaction. I'm paralyzed with fear, anxiety, the slow welling of a bright dread, something that seeps into my dreams, the dreams of violence, of isolation, of oceans of blood pouring forth, oceans that I drink down and stare wild-eyed at the source, the dreams of rending flesh, of sexualized violence that makes me wake up with a start, breathing unevenly and crying into my hands. I'm not ready to understand, let alone cope with what is happening. I'm not even sure if these are my own dreams, maybe they're the dreams of some dying animal in my basement, some beast that is broadcasting what it knows, what it feels in its terrible bones and I am the unfortunate reciever, some cursed stereo.
I bite my lip when I walk by, to hold back the words and their blind sources. There isn't a single moment when I can let go and just be myself, I am always presenting, always revealing a distortion of myself. If I spoke about how thunderstorms are the frantic firings of my synapses, how the snow is the slow dissolve of medication in my stomach, how the rain is the sweat pouring from my skin as I work myself into a frenzy. I'm not comfortable with looking at beauty, because all I want to do is see it ruined, not out of anger, not out of spite or jealousy, but out of some need, some deep and secret plant that blossoms in my heart, it longs for bloodshed, for sorrow to sink into the soil and feed it, make it grow bigger, more grotesque. I am keeping it at bay, but will there be a time when it will be keeping me...
I keep thinking of my skull, and how it will sit on the shore of our ruined oceans, how the waves of liquid ash will flow in and out of the cavities, send trails down the angles that look like tears. I'm hot and cold, scrutinizing pictures of myself, looking at all the dumb smiles and all the funny faces. I wish I could be serious with people face to face, open up the lock box of my fractured feelings, letting my true self out into the open, it's so hard being honest with people when I can't be honest with myself. I talk over the phone and often trail off, unable to finish a sentence because it will reveal a flash of the sadness, the pain, the regret that seems to be the entirety of my personality. I make jokes, I laugh, I smile but my eyes, do they betray my real self? Can anyone actually see through the facade? Can you see the rusting gears turning behind my face, how pained and slowly they turn when you look upon me?
The power that other people hold over me, the words they say, the body language, I can read it, but I can't bear to interpret the lexicon, the cadence, the very rhythm of true social interaction. I'm paralyzed with fear, anxiety, the slow welling of a bright dread, something that seeps into my dreams, the dreams of violence, of isolation, of oceans of blood pouring forth, oceans that I drink down and stare wild-eyed at the source, the dreams of rending flesh, of sexualized violence that makes me wake up with a start, breathing unevenly and crying into my hands. I'm not ready to understand, let alone cope with what is happening. I'm not even sure if these are my own dreams, maybe they're the dreams of some dying animal in my basement, some beast that is broadcasting what it knows, what it feels in its terrible bones and I am the unfortunate reciever, some cursed stereo.
I bite my lip when I walk by, to hold back the words and their blind sources. There isn't a single moment when I can let go and just be myself, I am always presenting, always revealing a distortion of myself. If I spoke about how thunderstorms are the frantic firings of my synapses, how the snow is the slow dissolve of medication in my stomach, how the rain is the sweat pouring from my skin as I work myself into a frenzy. I'm not comfortable with looking at beauty, because all I want to do is see it ruined, not out of anger, not out of spite or jealousy, but out of some need, some deep and secret plant that blossoms in my heart, it longs for bloodshed, for sorrow to sink into the soil and feed it, make it grow bigger, more grotesque. I am keeping it at bay, but will there be a time when it will be keeping me...