Feb 2014
I sip and wait for the drop of semi-congealed Nescafe to hit my shrunken bag of a stomach.
Cigarettes and caffeine. How typical.
How obvious - is that the right term? - that these have become my survival remedies.
I am weak, sometimes stumble absentmindedly on the pavement, the jagged teeth like slabs catching my feet out.
People glance at my paled face. An echo of before, a walking vision of someone exhausted, ill or plain oblivious to the own destruction of their body.
They think that I am drunk.
I awkwardly regain my pace, feeling that child like shyness creeping back into my demeanour.
Then I run one tired, bacteria ridden finger along my blunt jaw. Ah. It feels good.
Inhibitions forgotten, perseverance in check.
My system turns its volume to mute as I sip more of the gloopy energy.
Hush now, I whisper internally.
Drawl on that stick of cancerous paper. Now every 30 minutes or so it takes its place between my dry, starved lips.
I am often described as quite a quiet, wet person. In this case, my strength is inward. I find tears for rebuke. I inspire concern and questioning but I do not feel their love in these remarks.
I turn the beauty of their words into hatred. I am in control. This is my body.
This is my mind.
This is my soul.
Only I can speak to that spiritual beast that I keep locked away in the caged remains of my skill.
How dare you question my choices I scream!
My strength to 'outdo' them is renewed. The beast grows while I shrink. He feeds on my sense of self pity and self worth. More. More.
I shrink from my own invention. I hide from it. I can only go on so much longer before I cannot face him anymore.
Frontal. Temporal. Back. Whatever lobe you want, he now sinks his contrastingly fleshy claws into them.
This cage has four sides to it; all now useless to me. All now given over to this beast. They reflect into the whirlwind of my conscience. Conflicting. Opposing.
Nature versus man.
Natural versus the mind.
Theres is no key to the lock on my cage.
Recovery. Falter. Healing. Falter. Faith. Rejection.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
What is the point?
My main stream of thought to anyone who questions my diet of caffeine and nicotine, my withering appearance, my paranoia fuelled actions, my distinct inability to accept their concern is;
You liars.
Cigarettes and caffeine. How typical.
How obvious - is that the right term? - that these have become my survival remedies.
I am weak, sometimes stumble absentmindedly on the pavement, the jagged teeth like slabs catching my feet out.
People glance at my paled face. An echo of before, a walking vision of someone exhausted, ill or plain oblivious to the own destruction of their body.
They think that I am drunk.
I awkwardly regain my pace, feeling that child like shyness creeping back into my demeanour.
Then I run one tired, bacteria ridden finger along my blunt jaw. Ah. It feels good.
Inhibitions forgotten, perseverance in check.
My system turns its volume to mute as I sip more of the gloopy energy.
Hush now, I whisper internally.
Drawl on that stick of cancerous paper. Now every 30 minutes or so it takes its place between my dry, starved lips.
I am often described as quite a quiet, wet person. In this case, my strength is inward. I find tears for rebuke. I inspire concern and questioning but I do not feel their love in these remarks.
I turn the beauty of their words into hatred. I am in control. This is my body.
This is my mind.
This is my soul.
Only I can speak to that spiritual beast that I keep locked away in the caged remains of my skill.
How dare you question my choices I scream!
My strength to 'outdo' them is renewed. The beast grows while I shrink. He feeds on my sense of self pity and self worth. More. More.
I shrink from my own invention. I hide from it. I can only go on so much longer before I cannot face him anymore.
Frontal. Temporal. Back. Whatever lobe you want, he now sinks his contrastingly fleshy claws into them.
This cage has four sides to it; all now useless to me. All now given over to this beast. They reflect into the whirlwind of my conscience. Conflicting. Opposing.
Nature versus man.
Natural versus the mind.
Theres is no key to the lock on my cage.
Recovery. Falter. Healing. Falter. Faith. Rejection.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
What is the point?
My main stream of thought to anyone who questions my diet of caffeine and nicotine, my withering appearance, my paranoia fuelled actions, my distinct inability to accept their concern is;
You liars.
