The second I hit doubt
I was doing crazy things, seeing even crazier things on a daily basis. I don't know what possessed me to become so erratic but i was foul and wrong and hideous in my addiction. It seemed unusual for me to be under such an influence with little to no need of screaming it from the mountaintops, because this time, I wasn't high, or drunk, or hallucinating.
I was off the so-called euphoric drug and slumping down, down, even lower now than I had been when I was so quick to jump the gun. All I could do was imagine my body as an empty vessel and whatever allowed me to think and feel and move my muscles about was floating somewhere outside of that, somewhere off into eternity. And I shook myself to snap away from the ability to feel something that humans aren't supposed to. It was a bad dream where consciousness tries to contact subconsciousness by telling it to dispose of this atrocious imagery and wake the fuck up... but I was all too aware of my reality.
I was me looking down at me in a movie, a song about blood was blaring from the speakers, and every single photo I've ever taken was insanely imperative to the plot of this film of which I had no control over. I could not see the director, but he was like God with talent. I did not know his name, or if he was just a figment of the universe's imagination...but what it all came down to was that the real me could only be an actress, a pawn, a nothing. Just this pretty little thing marching to the beat of manipulation. And I shook, and shook, and shook, and nothing. Nothing could pull me away from the overbearing notion of unzipping my seams and jumping straight out of my skin. Up, up, and away. Take me away, please! Whichever Lord this may be, have mercy.
And what was left there on the bed was a person staring blankly, getting up to walk around in circles, sitting on the bathroom floor to take in the temperature of the earth, bringing her hand to her chest, to her head, to make sure this wasn't real. But the beat was there. There was no doubt about it. It was beating like the whip that struck the ribs of Christ himself. It was inevitable torture. How could anyone possibly live after all of that? Water. Water. Yes, that was it! Water. No, water. Why didn't you help me, water? Cold floor, why aren't you so cold to freeze these evil veins, cold floor? Oh cozy bed, why couldn't your comfort be enough for me? Why couldn't I think of anything to do to just let it all go? Just shut up, brain. Stop it. You're fine. Keep telling yourself you are fine. You are not as insane as you think you are. You are just experiencing the after-effects of everything that ever went wrong in your life all at once. Out of memory. No dick(this was a typo but I kind of like it even better than disk) space. This is as bad as it can get. This is as bad as it ever will be, but it will all be over soon. Things are going to be fine. Just fine. Just give it a rest. Restart.
And after the eyes did close, the fear of being alive lifted with the sun and the drugs eased slowly. My soul was asleep, like pins and needles running through a foot...but the results of a shake didn't come within seconds, or minutes. It was days.
I would never do that again.
My drug-induced coma was over and the message was perfectly clear.
There is not more to life than love and being together. That lyric was shit.
And i don't care if I know I'm setting myself up for another let down. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. Every bone in his body tells me he loves me. I just wish he would say it. I can't, as much as I want to. It's just been so confusing, between those periods of hibernation and the bold hints to our future. What do I take them for? Did you just freak yourself out that time you didn't talk to me for some odd days shy of a month? Have you realized that we are one of a fucking kind?
What sparked your sudden idea of buying me a hair straightener to keep at your place so I could get ready for work in the morning? Does that mean you do want me around? Or when you say the only reason you don't want to shave off all your facial hair is because I wouldn't like it? Or the lie you made up at the bar to get me to your apartment after three weeks of not speaking? How can we go from that to conversation that keeps us up all night? I made a quick confirmation check of the christmas present I made for you. Yes, it is still hanging confidently on your wall. The little peep stuffy that fell off my sock and onto your floor months and months ago is exactly where I left it in your recently organized room. The endearing nicknames are livelier than ever. The duration of time we spend on passionate kissing before any clothes come off just melts my heart, (if you wanna know if he loves you so,...) but I can assure you I live for the, "That was incredible!" sex as a follow up. The way you hold me is like you'd lose your life if you let go. Why is that? Don't make me the fool.
Come on, Pinch me.
I was off the so-called euphoric drug and slumping down, down, even lower now than I had been when I was so quick to jump the gun. All I could do was imagine my body as an empty vessel and whatever allowed me to think and feel and move my muscles about was floating somewhere outside of that, somewhere off into eternity. And I shook myself to snap away from the ability to feel something that humans aren't supposed to. It was a bad dream where consciousness tries to contact subconsciousness by telling it to dispose of this atrocious imagery and wake the fuck up... but I was all too aware of my reality.
I was me looking down at me in a movie, a song about blood was blaring from the speakers, and every single photo I've ever taken was insanely imperative to the plot of this film of which I had no control over. I could not see the director, but he was like God with talent. I did not know his name, or if he was just a figment of the universe's imagination...but what it all came down to was that the real me could only be an actress, a pawn, a nothing. Just this pretty little thing marching to the beat of manipulation. And I shook, and shook, and shook, and nothing. Nothing could pull me away from the overbearing notion of unzipping my seams and jumping straight out of my skin. Up, up, and away. Take me away, please! Whichever Lord this may be, have mercy.
And what was left there on the bed was a person staring blankly, getting up to walk around in circles, sitting on the bathroom floor to take in the temperature of the earth, bringing her hand to her chest, to her head, to make sure this wasn't real. But the beat was there. There was no doubt about it. It was beating like the whip that struck the ribs of Christ himself. It was inevitable torture. How could anyone possibly live after all of that? Water. Water. Yes, that was it! Water. No, water. Why didn't you help me, water? Cold floor, why aren't you so cold to freeze these evil veins, cold floor? Oh cozy bed, why couldn't your comfort be enough for me? Why couldn't I think of anything to do to just let it all go? Just shut up, brain. Stop it. You're fine. Keep telling yourself you are fine. You are not as insane as you think you are. You are just experiencing the after-effects of everything that ever went wrong in your life all at once. Out of memory. No dick(this was a typo but I kind of like it even better than disk) space. This is as bad as it can get. This is as bad as it ever will be, but it will all be over soon. Things are going to be fine. Just fine. Just give it a rest. Restart.
And after the eyes did close, the fear of being alive lifted with the sun and the drugs eased slowly. My soul was asleep, like pins and needles running through a foot...but the results of a shake didn't come within seconds, or minutes. It was days.
I would never do that again.
My drug-induced coma was over and the message was perfectly clear.
There is not more to life than love and being together. That lyric was shit.
And i don't care if I know I'm setting myself up for another let down. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. I love him. Every bone in his body tells me he loves me. I just wish he would say it. I can't, as much as I want to. It's just been so confusing, between those periods of hibernation and the bold hints to our future. What do I take them for? Did you just freak yourself out that time you didn't talk to me for some odd days shy of a month? Have you realized that we are one of a fucking kind?
What sparked your sudden idea of buying me a hair straightener to keep at your place so I could get ready for work in the morning? Does that mean you do want me around? Or when you say the only reason you don't want to shave off all your facial hair is because I wouldn't like it? Or the lie you made up at the bar to get me to your apartment after three weeks of not speaking? How can we go from that to conversation that keeps us up all night? I made a quick confirmation check of the christmas present I made for you. Yes, it is still hanging confidently on your wall. The little peep stuffy that fell off my sock and onto your floor months and months ago is exactly where I left it in your recently organized room. The endearing nicknames are livelier than ever. The duration of time we spend on passionate kissing before any clothes come off just melts my heart, (if you wanna know if he loves you so,...) but I can assure you I live for the, "That was incredible!" sex as a follow up. The way you hold me is like you'd lose your life if you let go. Why is that? Don't make me the fool.
Come on, Pinch me.