Oct 2013
Some days, I wake up flighty and itchy.
Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale.
Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.
Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.
These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.
Reminded of how you used to love me.
Reminded of how you used to hold me.
Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.
These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.
That you would still care about what I had to say.
I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol, because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart.
And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)
But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.
Slice them away from my veins word by word.
Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.
All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.
Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?
To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.
Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.
Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.
But that just makes them worse when they surface.
Makes the paranoia worse.
Makes the anxiety worse.
Makes the self-abuse worse.
Makes me worse.
On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
, and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.
I can spend all of my time loving you, fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.
You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.
Some days,
The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.
Crawling out of my skin and jumping at every last inhale and exhale.
Crying at every last brush of my fingers on my scars.
Whimpering at having to be surrounded by a writhing mass of people.
These are the days when I’m most reminded of you.
Reminded of how you used to love me.
Reminded of how you used to hold me.
Reminded that you don’t care about me anymore.
These are the days when I wish I could still talk to you.
That you would still care about what I had to say.
I would probably ask you to hand me a scalpel and some scissors and the rubbing alcohol, because I need to cut you and your scar tissue permanently away from my heart.
And even on these days I remember that you would have looked at me in anger and pity for saying such things (i.e. self-harm)
But these are also the days when I want to cut all of my emotions out.
Slice them away from my veins word by word.
Watch apathetically as I bleed the letters out.
All of these words and letters we have assigned to emotions, to try to describe the uncontrollable reactions we have in life.
Anger, Betrayal, Compassion, Exhaustion, Frustration, Guilt, Happiness, Indifference, Jealousy, Kindness, Love, Morbidity, Nervousness, Oppression, Peace, Remorse, Spite, Tranquility, Uncertainty, Vexation, and Yearning.
For, surely, it would be easier to be numb, than to go through all of these and many, many more?
To go through the long, unending cycles of good weeks, good months, and then bad days.
Sure, they’re less frequent than they used to be.
Sure, they’re few and far between.
Sure, it’s only 24 to 48 hours.
Sure, the medication quells the panic attacks and violent mood swings and poisonous thoughts.
But that just makes them worse when they surface.
Makes the paranoia worse.
Makes the anxiety worse.
Makes the self-abuse worse.
Makes me worse.
On these days I remember,
That you ran away from me because I’m broken
, and you aren’t a handy man capable of fixing me.
I can spend all of my time loving you, fixing you,
singing to you, worshiping you,
And in the end you cannot give these things back.
You aren’t perfect.
You aren’t chained to me.
You didn’t even want to claim me.
And after all, on these days,
Everything is my fault anyways.
Some days,
The days when I wake up,
Begging to be locked in a sanitarium,
Sobbing and biting and kicking and screaming,
I’m reminded that you,
And no one else,
Will ever love me.
