Mar 2012
I looked into your eyes and knew how easy it would be to **** you.
I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords.
I felt nothing.
Sometimes I feel everything.
I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart.
Most days now I am normal.
My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone.
On those days I cry.
I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you.
Surely then I would see the face of god.
He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long.
Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes.
See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become.
What I've transformed myself into.
Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap.
Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me,
I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea.
Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers.
Maybe my thoughts never did get better.
Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain.
Something inside it doesn't sit right,
scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention.
It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released.
I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine.
Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own.
How can you bear to be next to me?
Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black.
***** and bent, grime in its crevices.
The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life.
Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth.
What would you think if you read this?
Would you cry?
Would you back away?
You would probably kiss me,
take the knife out of my grasp,
bleach my hands white,
sew my frayed dress back together,
wash the dirt off my bare feet,
drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver.
It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean.
All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust.
The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.
I plotted its path and then decided how I would end myself afterwords.
I felt nothing.
Sometimes I feel everything.
I cry and scream and curse, gasping for air. Blubbering in fits. Grabbing at my chest trying to feel for a heart.
Most days now I am normal.
My brain is functioning and my numbness is almost all but gone.
On those days I cry.
I looked into your eyes and thought it would be easy to **** you.
Surely then I would see the face of god.
He would come down, flesh out my pale limbs and introduce me to the sun I haven't seen in so long.
Take one look at me in that light, see my claws and teeth, maybe glance into my eyes.
See my fear, not for him, but for what I've become.
What I've transformed myself into.
Take note of the hours it took to shape my brain into this lackluster heap.
Maybe that crimson pool collected near you would drown me,
I would be consumed and swept away, only to emerge, my skin dyed by the parting sea.
Reborn like a Phoenix, not from its own death but from that of anothers.
Maybe my thoughts never did get better.
Maybe my skull is still screaming at the thought of housing my brain.
Something inside it doesn't sit right,
scratching at the edges of my recesses it demands attention.
It knocks and growls. Clacking its teeth until in one instant, it is released.
I looked into your bare soul, naked and clean next to mine.
Its polished exterior in contrast to the soot of my own.
How can you bear to be next to me?
Your clean gaze further sullied mine's black.
***** and bent, grime in its crevices.
The kind of grit I have been picking out by hand my entire life.
Now my fingernails are split, cracked past the quick and caked by filth.
What would you think if you read this?
Would you cry?
Would you back away?
You would probably kiss me,
take the knife out of my grasp,
bleach my hands white,
sew my frayed dress back together,
wash the dirt off my bare feet,
drop me down into the caverns of fitful sleep so that I may not glare at my reflection in silver.
It doesn't matter if it's rusted, it doesn't matter if its broken, it doesn't matter if its clean.
All that matters is your reaction to me, not fear, not disgust.
The simplicity of not wiping away a smudge on a mirror.
