I miss them a lot. And the only thing I seem to remember is the shape of their hair and all the rainbow it contained, from blue, to pink, to red, to green, to blonde, to finally going back to the normal root colour.
You could say the hair had personality of its own.
She was a stranger and a musician, and I had to know her. She was a strong soul, and even holding her hand felt like a superpower I couldn't control.
Short cut hair. Clean. Swept over her eyes, over her ears. Framing her smile.
She is the most complicated thing to come from all of this. The semester didn't treat either of us well.
Slight curl to dark short hair. Shaven around the back, kept remarkably short.
Leaving her face untouched.
I've shaved my head twice. No shame in it. My dignity not what it used to be.
My hair hangs down past my shoulders. 4:40pm comes around and I've lost inches upon inches of my hair. 6:30pm.
Slightly bobbed at the ends, framing my chin and shoulders. Changing my hair part again. Moving from side to center.
Straight hair, dark colour, lighter.
I like the aesthetic.
And I like these people.
I miss them most days.
But even though I'm now a short haired person myself.
I like to believe that I'm stronger than I am. That I'm braver than I am.
And yet, I fall into cowardice like any other reflex built into my skin. It's a program the world wanted to overwrite onto my story. Like I didn't have a choice about whether or not I wanted to be miserable.
And I want to be better. Who doesn't?
I just... fall away. Like it's so easy to give in to what you've been exposed to. No matter how dangerous or vulnerable it makes you.
You just fall.
I drop into a broken conversation, it just ended with an "I'm sorry".
It feels so final.
Like the unsatisfying ending of a story you wish you could rewrite. Like you're in so much control, you'll do anything to keep that control within your grasp.
I didn't want this.
I didn't want the final result I got. Nothing.
An open road, and being told to just go anywhere. Anywhere but were you came from. Leaving home, and not returning to the comfort of the arms that held up your body when it couldn't fight gravity, falling to the ground.
They pick you up like it's the only thing they were ever taught to do.
I wish I told them everything. I wish I told them how much I could cry. How it could make an ocean all on its own.
I wish I hugged them more. Told them they were the best thing that ever happened to me. Told them that I would drop everything to be there for them.
That I would write songs about them. That I would write and write and write until we had no more jokes to laugh about.
So, I guess the writing and laughing would never stop.
I wish I said more.
I mean. I wish I said something.
I wasn't so afraid of being here.
I was told to go back to them.
I wonder if they'd ever want me back. After everything.
So how do I go about this sort of deja vu?
Being told that:
"Maybe one "Hello" will flip everything."
Maybe. But I haven't gotten there.
Not yet anyway.
I'm just scared of being honest even though that is one of the only things I have left.
It feels like a trial. Like everyone knows you're guilty And yet they still want to hear you defend yourself Because they still want to know For whatever reason
"Do you like your pain?", They ask.
"Yeah, I guess I do."
"So all of this... is what you want. Like you don't even want to get better."
"Why do you keep feeling sorry for yourself? You know it's not getting you anywhere."
"Yeah. I do know that. But I don't know how to get out of it."
"It's so easy."
"You can't possibly know how difficult this has been for me. For 4 months --"
"Stop making excuses, whether or not you spent the last 4 months feeling like **** doesn't mean a **** thing. You did that all on your own. And yet you are refusing help."
"Because I still believe I can do this myself."
"And how well has that worked?"
"Should we call a witness?"
"NO. Please no. I'm begging you."
The whole court stares at me The witnesses are in sight, waiting to place the blame on somebody...anybody
I can hear thunder outside the courthouse. It's about time we had a storm.
"Please don't call a witness. I can tell you everything And you'll know that it's true because nobody will object saying that I'm wrong. This isn't that kind of case. But they do not need to answer for my crimes, nobody here does except for me. The person who committed those crimes. Justice... right?"
I have told this story so many times
I might as well start crying again
I feel like the witnesses won't even defend me. I don't give them a reason to I don't even say their names Even if I keep someone anonymous The truth will come out And everyone will know
But it won't solve anything And I will continue to feel like I'll never be happy Because this trial... has changed my life I guess it still is Because it doesn't feel like I've even left the stand.
I'll say it once and once only, because if I've said it once, I've said it too many times:
Karma is a *****.
And no, I guess I haven't suffered enough according to the rest of the universe. And I'm free game for people to line up and just hit me over and over. It would hurt less than this.
And the timing of my karma has to be the most rigged thing in my life. It's like the world has it out for me. Everybody is staring and whispering about it. They all know.
I mean, I know they don't, but I can't help but get lost in this way of thinking. It's not worth it.
I stayed up until 2 or 3 in the morning just crying. Listening to the same songs and staring up at the ceiling. My physical body trying to reject itself. Like I'm imploding. My vision blurry, wanting to scream but nothing happens.
I don't want this.
There's nothing that can even be done to even attempt to save this. So I'm done.
The emotions run on highs and lows. But lately I feel like I'm burning below ground with the flames of hellfire scorching my backside. And with all the smoke damage, there is no room to breathe.
Karma. That's really all that needs to be said here.
Any day now, I'm either gonna **** somebody, or end up dead myself.
Dramatic, I know.
And hey, maybe nobody will take me seriously when I say that.
So far, the only people who give a **** are the people who believe I'm still a good person. And I'm not saying they're wrong, I'm just saying it doesn't matter to me if they're right.
Because I don't feel I deserve anything.
I can never focus on anything. I'm writing this because I should be doing other work right now. But when I'm not thinking about this, I'm overworking, or sleeping, or crying again, or shouting again.
I feel physically sick just being in this much pain. It's never gonna be driven out of my body until I get a **** miracle.
But those aren't really coming my way.
If karma is responsible for all of this than haven't I endured enough? Something needs to break the cycle. Or I just have to break. Act out, get expelled or suspended, consider the empty possibility of my thanatophobia finally leaving me.
I stopped caring about myself when an old enemy decided to step in and come after me. But the remarkable thing is that I handled it without attracting more trouble. That doesn't mean it didn't pain me to set myself aside to do so.
I'm not a complete pacifist. And my dangerous nature only gets stronger when left unquestioned by all. So yeah, I'm scared as hell of myself. But then again, so are other people.