i'm sorry that i'm not happy.
but all the lives i have lived,
all the heartache & pain
have caused my unhappiness.
it's nothing to do with you.
all it is, is the past.
telling me that love means pain
& that if they don't hurt you constantly
it's not love.
my past tells me that love
is always perfect & happy,
that there are no issues in love,
love is perfect.
all these ideals & perfectionism
sabotaging my relationships
sabotaging my happiness.
telling me that this is wrong
because i was raised in contradiction.
contradiction is my home.
i've seen the war between my parents
i've heard the screaming of insults
i've witnessed the anger
i've been the blank screen
on which to cast the anger on.
i was taught from a very young age
that my failures were catastrophic
instead of a normal process of life.
i was taught that my temper
was a way to gain the attention
i so desperately craved.
i was taught that my pain
was insignificant & invalid
that i was a brat for feeing anything
except grateful.
i grew up thinking that nice
was boring & unsatisfying
& that danger & manipulation
would fill the empty void.
i grew up with negativity, pain
& contradiction
clouding my every thought,
clouding my every judgement,
shaping my every decision.
so i'm sorry i'm not happy.
saying "it's not you; it's me"
sounds like such a cliché.
but it couldn't be more appropriate.
forgive me.
Wash your hands before leaving.
Every afternoon the television would have a woman in tears
Spanish dialogue, pastel colored sets
Tongue in cheek, modern romance sipping iced tea by the pool
The antagonist wearing a suit and three rings on each finger
Pause.
Soap bars are made of fat, the grease found in
Breakfast diners and sweat off a teenagers face
The lipids turning gelatinous and all I can think of is
Jell-o; the strange colored dessert that doesn’t taste like anything real
My hands begin to itch and I stand up
Wash your hands before leaving.
My hands have become open desert, dry animosity
The skin around the knuckles is delicate, one clench of a fist
I am sure that it will tear, like the skirt of a girl I once knew
But there are creatures lurking everywhere
In the handle of the bathroom door, in the shake of another hand
In the touch of a frame, in the grip of a key
Wash your hands before leaving.
The scattered murmurs on the screen remind me its 5p.m
The women are arguing with their manicured hands
Their eyes all having the same spidery lashes, spiders
I feel insects crawling under my bones
Termites clipping at my heels as I sit in this couch of horrors
I didn’t know the last time it had been washed
It smelled of the 1970’s and I want to go home
The babysitter is on the other chair reclined
Snoring, letting out bacteria through her mouth
At 8 years old I should be on the floor with a coloring book
My lips are dry, the screen is too bright, I can feel the filth everywhere I turn
So I stay
I hear the door knock and it’s my mother picking me up after work
My lungs sigh of relief
Time to go
But first
let me wash my hands before I leave
They play with paints,
They play with the new skins,
The naughty children didn't listen.
Their now cutting away at the skin,
Hoping to take away something,
And replace it with something fresher and new;
Something better.
The want to be "Prettier",
More "Interesting and funny,"
They don't wish to be made fun of, they want to be loved.
They hum out dark tunes that sing out the pleas for help,
No one knows that everything is painted one.
The children are lost, scared and confused.
They don't know, "Who are we," They wonder silently,
Hoping they could ask but they know better then to speak to loud.
They can't see the damage,
So they keep putting innocent child's paint on their raw skin,
And washing it away and re-painting for something better:
A good, polite child that everyone wants.
Each time one washes away another is put on.
They children are addicted,
But this addiction is as dangerous as the drugs.
Its a crime, but their is no law against hurting your self-esteem.
Painted masks that cover the low self-esteem.
That doesn't show all the scars that won't heal,
But simply manifest into something bigger.
The young children that learn to put on masks,
Have now forgotten themselves.
The number on the scale
Becomes very real.
When food becomes kilojoules
And
Cravings become nil.
The number on the scale
Shouldn't be like a rusty nail.
Causing a wound
that never seems to heal,
that spreads till you're ill.
The number on the scale
is now fear.
For somehow worth is
Equals to
The number on the scale.
The number on the scale
Haunts till
The number on the scale
Decreases to
The (smaller) Number on the scale.
Having anxiety can make yourself selfish and confusing,
You want people to understand without you telling them.
But in other way,
You keep asking yourself
'how am i supposed to tell them when i don't even know it self?'
Low and behold I see, beneath the surface of things.
Inner mechanics that twist and tie us together. The reflections of humanity, the decay and rott placed at our feet.
The way we sew our seeds, ripping through avast particular selection of prey we feed.
Overall becoming that vicious cycle, we take up to hand down, we repeat.
Im plagued with constant torture of painful memories. Traumatizing moments render me to my ultimate defeat.
Im left too the wolves to eat. Only my fowl stinch Drives them away.
Too abstain distance from myself the enemy, who cares to caress my ego and pleasure me with they're company?
Who can I take down or who is out their
Who is worse off than me? Rinse, wash, repeat...
-RSC
I just want it to end
the sorrow and pain I endure
the inner chaos of my own mind
the battle of right and wrong
the deepest memories of the saddest times
a constant replay of the trauma & agony
there is no escape, I have gone too deep
I am alone
No one could comprehend what has happened
nowhere to turn, I am stuck
Self remorse & regrets
pure negativity is all that has survived
The battle of my mind
Your fragile fears are endearing
As they determine you are human.
Your shivering skin is in
Because it shows you are chilled to the bone.
Your voice’s timbre does not have a noise
For it is the sound of your subconscious.
Your hand’s shakes are their own brand
Of starlight, cells, and sweat.
I fix my tea before I dream
The herbs swirl in my subconscious
A ritual warm and full of steam
I wake knowing, “I want this.”
I read someone else’s words before I sleep
Losing myself to a story
A healthy escape that I’ll keep up
To bide off darkness and worry.
I wash my face before I slumber
Washing away the day
Tomorrow any anxiety I may encumber
Must in the future stay.
I pen my thoughts to the night’s sound
Striking the ink to the rhythm of my thoughts
Meanwhile fear and curiosity abound
I must momentarily quell my haves and have nots.
DEPRESSION HITS
SADNESS SPITS
EYES LEAK
STAINING CHEEKS