maybe I am bedeviled by thoughts of you everytime my mind slips into the abyss, maybe that's the reason I don't tap into it the way I used to.
But If I told you how I felt, it'd get swept under the rug.

Suppose my eyes burn behind these creme- thick glasses everytime I see you, suppose I hate the silence and fight the urge to burn my surroundings with the heat behind my eyes.
But if I told anyone what I saw, it'd get swept under the rug.

Imagine I listen to music and hear your voice, so I claw my headphones out like they were ice seeping into my skull and freezing my cranium with words oh so soothing as a double-edged blade sinking both ends into me, Imagine a tear escaping my eyes, voice raising in a blatant attempt to ease the pain.
But If I said a word about what I hear, it'd get...... well, I think you know what'd happen.
Lets dig under that rug, four feet by four feet area of infinite emptiness.
Half of my life has been hidden in there: emotions, mental, thoughts, pains, lusts, curiosities, questions, intents, past, present and future, all have been hidden under that rug.
It's stitches are one with my soul because it has so many of my confessions that it absorbs part of my soul.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the hoes I claimed to trust from day one.
I trust that rug more than I trust some of the friends I've had since meeting.
That rug has an affinity for gaining people's trusts, like me.
That rug produces more positive vibes than power chords produce energy, and yet we wonder why something being swept under the rug is a bad thing.
I sweep myself under the rug because I know I'll be safe there. I know that with all the thoughts and emotions I share, that with that safe haven, I am assured.
I rest under the rug, I cry under the rug, I sleep under the rug.
As it is my home.
And I love it's sincere serenity.

I saw myself sitting on my knees, hunched over, clinging to a pile of rugs beneath me. Precisely three. Each rug was much like the other; slightly different in shape, but all of the same tone and texture. 


One by one, each was pulled away from underneath me…


My dad came and stole the first rug. I hardly expected it to have been snatched away. In my innocence, I thought I could somehow seek comfort there. Somehow I thought, I could feel it’s warmth for the remainder of my life not knowing much of the past, nor the future. With its displacement soon arose great fear. My mind started to alarmingly ring. What if all my other rugs are taken too? What if I have nothing soft left to lie on anymore? And what if all I feel is the bare emptiness of the ground below me? An emptiness, in which I am nothing? Inherently nothing…?

I clung to each rug that followed in dire fear of unanswered questions. In dire fear of all unknown. 


A few years thereafter, another rug I had grasped was snatched from underneath my base by T–. He did so in such an insidious way, I hardly expected it to have happened either. He had such invisibly cold hands that he told me were warm – a series of lies masquerading as truth. When T—’s rug went missing, I fell in much the same way as when my first rug was taken. Except this time, I fell to a position I had already felt so keenly, and so now, fell much more intensely. Doubly hunched over and in pain. A feeling of dejection and despair so intense from having already carried a previous stain; a previous memory. 


The next rug I encountered, I thought to be real. Actually, I thought it to be the most genuine I had ever encountered in the universe. It had seemingly inexhaustible warmth. I could hardly help but cling in ecstasy, though also in hidden agony, in cognizance of how transient all my other rugs had been. Finally, perhaps I had a home for me to lay my head upon? A home which would grant me stable rest? But here too, I was mistaken. Like each rug that came before, this rug was indeed transitory and full of uncertainty. Perhaps more soft, perhaps more real, perhaps more warm and embracing – but he too had to go. After all, he was another rug I had clung to; an attachment like all the rest.

–

When this particular rug was pulled, I was so terrified of soon touching the ground below me, that my body contracted in a frenzied, desperate agony. I tried so hard to make whatever warmth remain; strenuously clenching with all my might to staple it down in place. However, as hard as I did pull to hang on, an unknown force pulled away at a greater intensity. I found myself in a tug of war I could not win and sooner or later, the weight of my frustrations gave in. Mournfully, I failed to control its inevitable movement. My last remaining rug, yes, he too, went away.

And so I had nothing left beneath me… 


The cold floor exposed bare was the hard reality with which existence presented me. In the past, I had tried to search for other rugs to hide in. I thought to myself that other rugs would do, that perhaps I just needed a different few. I clung to some alternate variations; some made of others’ skin; half-hearted relations or validations, some of money, others of drugs or work or pastimes and pleasure. Despite all my attempts however, I could not evade the emptiness of the floor beneath me. I had felt it repeatedly with my own body. Its coldness had visibly scraped and scarred me. And I knew; each rug I had clung to was a cover-up so transient. Despite their initial warmth; each stood porous now – exposing the cold, and digging holes in any of my attempts not to feel what lied beneath.

Upon these realisations, the floor which held me and my previous rugs soon started collapsing. With its fall, I was taken into an empty, dark abyss; seemingly endless and all-enclosing. Seemingly perpetual.

Mid-fall I was so catastrophically uncertain, I wanted to close my eyes and no longer wake. I berated myself for continuing to be conscious and pleaded for existence to **** me in my sleep. How dare I still be alive while falling in such suffering and sadness, I lamented.


I lacked the courage to feel the thud of my final landing and its location.

From past experience, I was almost certain that what lied beneath was infinite pain; dark abandonment of course, for miles without end.


–

To be continued (as I learn how)…

i wish i was a rug
because maybe then id be used
to the feeling of others
walking all over me

i wish i was a rug
because maybe then id be soft
and give people a reason to say
"what a nice addition this adds to the room"

i wish i was a rug
because if someone soiled me
i would be able to be washed
and cleaned and brand new once again

i wish i was a rug
because even though its used
and ***** and old you just... couldn't get rid of it
because its been there all this time

and you couldn't imagine life without it
but if you do

i still would wish i was a rug
because that way, being thrown out
wouldn't seem so permanent
because my time would be up
and i wouldn't feel a thing

and i wouldn't have any idea that you replaced me
if i were a rug