so it's not that you can't breathe
because you can
it's just that the surrounding air doesn't work anymore
doesn't send you reeling from the sensation of being alive
doesn't fill you, doesn't clear your head
so you can breathe, you just don't
because it doesn't seem to make much of a difference
your lungs filling with useless stuff that almost makes you even more light-headed
the sound around you is muted, near-silent through the pounding of blood through your ears, your veins, slowing, stopping, speeding, and then slowing again.
light crawling toward you
as though streaming through water to reach your immobile body
you can see it shifting, moving, waving in front of you, and it doesn't help that your pulse is gone, searing your eyes and throat with the awful vividity of it all
it doesn't take long for it to overwhelm you
light too bright against your eyes that can't focus
sounds too loud and thick against your skull
blood pounding and not pounding in a quick succession that makes you question the veracity of what you can hear
it doesn't take long to overwhelm you
you, the stranger in unfamiliar coffee shops days in a row
the stranger switching from hospital to hospital
hotel to hotel
you, the stranger, sitting rigid in the comfortable train seats, leaving one town, and approaching another so similar
that you have lost the ability to tell the difference
it doesn't take long to overwhelm you, but when it does, everything slows to a deafening stop
dragging out the infinity and making you wait
you've always hated waiting.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC
The lights in the auditorium don't turn off
you know this because you can see them in your head
constantly
flickering slightly and keeping you awake
bright lights that blind you
make you sick and create the hopeless feeling that just doesn't go away
that settles over you and
crushes your lungs
it could be years
but you don't know
all you can see is the bright lights of the auditorium
as the blood drips down your face and onto your shirt
as the blood seeps into your clothing, plastering itself to your skin
as the heartbeat in your ears slowly turns into the only thing you can hear
as your eyes glaze over and you fall to the linoleum floor
unable to breathe
so it's not that you're dying
i mean,
you are
you are, but you're already dead
the lights in the auditorium are blinding you
and you can't move
and you can't speak
and sooner or later, the whole world turns down
turns down the sound from the outside
and the lights that seeped into your eyes
past useless eyelids
so that's it
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
so it's not that you can't think
you can
it's just that you can't think clearly about anything that matters
it's cold, all the time
you notice this
the numb hands and the
constant shivering
so it doesn't get any better
because you're just as scared
and it still hurts
but you keep hoping
'cause they said
they promised
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:07 PM UTC
it's not as neat as you'd hoped it would be
not as clinical
when you left the hospital, they'd told you that it would be difficult
you hadn't believed them
but now, as you stand under the harsh spray of the shower
under water that's been cold for an hour now
you believe them
you'd felt like you'd been choking
air thick with steam and
some form of unhappiness that just won't go away
so you were choking
but you wouldn't leave
eyes shut tight against what you hoped wasn't there
leaning against the white tiles lining the wall
barely breathing
but now
as the ice-cold water hits your face and chest
you're not breathing at all
it's too painful, you'd told them
but they hadn't listened
the crushing weight of this anxiety
that you can't get rid of
keeps you from turning off the shower and stepping out
it ends with you shivering against the floor
rigid from the cold
but at least you can't think anymore
at least you can't think
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:05 PM UTC
so you're walking down the cracked paved road
lips numb and huffs of breath escaping through your nose
your hands are in the pockets of a large yellow hoodie with bloodstains down the sides, clutching at a crumpled ten dollar bill and shaking
so you're walking down a road
but you don't know where you're going
the feeling of not here so abstract
that you can't help but laugh at yourself for thinking that this would actually work
you know how other people see you
a small boy with a baggy sweatshirt and a mouth that tastes like coffee and cigarettes
it seems, recently, that everyone knows exactly what you taste like,
mouths pressed to yours in an effort to make the minutes stop
so you let them
because you're running out of time
and you figure that you should take what you can get
but sometimes, you're noticed,
even the feeling of a body pressed to yours, blood singing in between the ***** sheets of cheap hotels
even the thrill of easy *** cannot diminish the feeling
of a crushing weight upon your tired shoulders
your world is ending
and you know this
and you're having a hard time carrying on
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 6:41 PM UTC
you don't notice the pitying looks until it's 9 in the morning and you're halfway done with your third cup of gas station coffee
you barely even notice it then
so you're dragging your feet across the pavement, eyes mostly shut, carrying a briefcase in your left hand and a scalding cup of caffeine powder + water in your right
it's not that you're tired
you manage to get a good four hours most nights
it's that you cannot focus
everything around you is more than a little blurry
red edges on your vision and shadows somehow pixelated
you're stumbling across the street when you realize that somewhere along the way
you managed to finish that third cup
and your hand is uselessly gripping empty air
it falls to your side
and it takes a few steadying breaths to deal with the headrush that always accompanies such a revelation
you have an agreement
but you don't know who with
it's someone you met years ago
in a hospital
eyes bright and idealistic
you don't remember the agreement either
but it was something important
and you remember that
that's what matters, isn't it?
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:41 PM UTC
there is someone on the other side of that camera
watching you
and if they can read your body language
(*bottom lip in mouth, hands ******* an oversized shirt*)
then they can also read everything else
(hair twisted and knotted around itself, tie hanging haphazardly off your neck as you clutch at the pack of cigarettes in your pocket)
you have a hard time hiding these things
it's not that you hadn't enjoyed it, per say
trading ******** in the men's bathroom
back pressed flush against the grimy stall
it's just that you had somehow imagined *** with the man you loved
to be a little more...
glamorous
at night, with the light off, lying next to a warm body
hands that are trying to get into your boxers
you don't push him away
because even though you want to
he's your lover
and you feel like you're supposed to let him
so you do
and when you go to work the next day,
neck and collarbones lined with bruises,
you try to tell yourself
that you enjoyed it
you fail at that
when your co-workers ask you what's wrong
you shrug them off, and tell yourself that you should be blushing
when they congratulate you on finally getting some
it's not that you don't like it, you tell yourself
as you **** him off in the shower at 7 in the morning
it's just that you're too tired to appreciate what's going on
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
the boy in the laundrymat wearing ***** pajamas has a split lip and two dark circles under his eyes
you try not to look at him as he fumbles coins into old machines and trips over his own untied shoelaces
the man ahead of you in the supermarket checkout line
pauses briefly in the unloading of his grocery cart
to leer at the cashier, a young twenty-something with green eyes and a bruised cheekbone
you pretend not to notice the quiver in his hands as he scans item after item,
wincing at each beep and trying to look smaller,
trying to shrink into his own skin
the teenager in the subway is standing weird and you notice that he is attempting not to cry
the tears come anyways, and as he makes small choking noises,
you look away and stare out the scratched windows,
tunnel walls scrolling listlessly past as the boy wipes his face with a ripped sleeve
the sounds coming from the alleyway leave nothing to the imagination
you keep walking, even as an older man emerges from the dark, zipping his pants
you ignore the hushed sobbing, and as you crawl into bed that night
you can still hear noises that make you gag
you try to tell yourself that you did nothing wrong
but you don't succeed
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 10:39 PM UTC
you cannot help but hate your body
the gangly limbs
the stomach that sticks out entirely too far
the freckles that dot your face
you ******* hate yourself
every mirror you look at is a reminder of what a total piece of **** you are
so when you start to float, it's a relief
the feeling of not being you is something entirely new
the arms that are not your arms
legs that are not your legs
eyes that you can't see through
and better
you aren't a ******* girl anymore
this is always the worst part
you can ******* deal with everything else
you can
but not that
because you are not female
and you know this
except
except you are
the binders lying on the floor are telling you that you aren't actually
they love that word
actually
shout it in the hallways and whisper in hushed conversations that they know you can hear
actually
the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin
and then
calm
then
you aren't you
so you're happy
you can't not be happy when you look like how you actually ******* feel
the sensation of being ripped out of your own skin, then
isn't bad
because it's not your skin anymore
it's that freaks' skin
you're not a freak
right?
Mar 22, 2014
Mar 22, 2014 at 12:53 AM UTC
you've been feeling weird lately
like it only works when your eyes are shut tight
like it only works when your head is in your arms and you are fending off tears
its not that you're tired
i mean
you are tired
its just that you're not only tired
its everything else
its the fact that you've got nothing
so when you close your eyes and fall onto an unmade bed
it feels just a little less ****** up
you can't not, really
because the only place you exist is where you are
here
in a room smelling of cigarette smoke and city air
the floor covered with clothes and paper
books with the spines cracked
you can't not, you've decided
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC