Next To Nowhere "True sorrow is as rare as true love." - Stephen King, Carrie
“I like people who shake other people up and make them feel uncomfortable.”
― Jim Morrison
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
― F. Scott F 4 followers / 112 words
Blank. Pure. Untouched. Clear of any mistakes. But that's unrealistic. Too good to be true. Make me real. Make me flawed. Cover this empty canvas in a billion colors. Tear me. Scar me. Make me as mauled and mangled as the soul that occupies this seemingly perfect vessel. Put the world inside me. The good. The bad. And especially the ugly. Make me acknowledge the things I intentionally shut out. Rip me to shreds. Then take the time to stitch me back together. Pull back the curtain to a collage of my former self. Examine the masterpiece of wonderful sorrow and heart break that the world has produced. Put me on display. Step back. Be proud.
Maybe... just maybe, she wasn't harming herself for attention or as a cry for help. Maybe, just maybe, she put marks up and down her arms in a ludicrous attempt to remove the ones that have been placed on her heart.
Words sit at the back of my mind. Lurking. Forever waiting. They shape themselves into sentences I want to utter but never can. They take up little moments I have in everyday life. They swallow me up. Cover me like a blanket I can never kick off. Smothering me. Robbing me of my right to breathe. But no one sees my underlying deprivation of oxygen. They don't want to. No one wants to be responsible for the blue tint of my soul. They don't wish to resuscitate. Cause of death? **Purposeful negligence.