wow ramblings betcha never seen one before
Sometimes I think I really am as creepy as they always said I was, but then sometimes it's hard to tell. Like when the pain comes. Sharp and wrapped tight in cold, glittering steele. Iced knives so cold they burn. Burrowing in, setting up space. And I forget. Get lost in the pain. Don't want to be real. Don't want to feel it anymore. Weighed down by the emotions I should feel, but don't. Not really. Except for fear. Because that I feel. Feeling it smother me and shutting down everything else. Making it noisy and disjointed. And then I start to write and the words bleed onto the page. But I tend to lose the thread somewhere in the middle. No gentle segue from one thought to another. Just a jumbled leap from one thing to the next. Violent. A cacophony of misshaped, aching, searing need. A need for calm and normalcy, but all you get is blood, and violence, and sex. Sometimes it becomes hard to separate the three. To remind myself that the blood and the violence don't go with the sex, but only sometimes the violence does. And that blood and sex is just a bad idea because blood doesn't liked to be washed away. And sometimes the sex and the violence do. Like to flow down the drain and away. Away to be chemically treated and then recycled back through someone else's pipes. To be someone else's problem with separation. And it's hard to really separate anything. Because nothing and no one really wants to be separate. But I think I do and maybe I am most of the time. At least until I can't stand the pressure and noise of the silence. So I keep the television on, the sound easily lost among all the other sounds. Helps me focus. Grounding because it's something other than my own voice mocking me in my head. Cartoons are the easiest. Short, quick. Sometimes there is music. And always violence. Violence that doesn't hurt. That can be laughed at. People don't like it when you laugh at other kinds of violence. Makes you strange, abnormal, creepy. And maybe I am. Because when the violence touches me it makes me wanna laugh. And sometimes I think that that's because if I started crying I'd never stop. Just drown in all the salt-sweet tears and snot. Chest constricted and heaving breaths not so breathy. Sobs pounding through my skull. Eroding what's left what I hope is sanity. I guess I'm a good example of a sociopath's, dissociative tendencies. I know right from wrong I just don't really care. I'm totally apathetic to a social morality. Same with emotions. I know what they are and can go through the motions of feeling them. Motions, emotions, overwhelming. And they hurt when I touch them. Sharp, biting little fangs of hopeless, impotent fury at the world. Because I don't fit in. Can't fit in. Because everything is slightly off-kilter in my head. Thirty degree shift just to the left of reality. And that's because I'm right-brained. Patterns don't comfort me. I enjoy the order of chaos. Smooth and slippery like bare bones rucked up through broken, rotting flesh. Maybe that makes me a little crazy and rough around the edges. But I like seeing the bones of people. What makes them solid. What supports them. And maybe now I'm speaking metaphorically. But then again maybe I'm not.