At The Cafe I heard her say to the teary-eyed lady as they sliced their custard creams, " Move on and go find someone else" As if suggesting to take that knife and slice that face out of her brain and replace it with another. As if perhaps she should cut out her heart and separate it from the rest of her. I suppose the thoughtless lady was only trying to help. I suppose that's normal procedure in such circumstances. Like quickly go find a lollipop for god's sake. I felt like saying to the broken woman; wait a bit. No need to be in such a rush. This terrible ache, this fierce wrenching this oozing sore is love disguised. You'll come to it. You will. No substitute necessary. That someone else is waiting in the dim horizon, fresh faced and true with eyes that pierce through the mish mash of dough and syrup of wounds and ruins of love and war and sharp metal objects. That someone else is you, whole and undisguised. You can't rush that. You'll come to it You will.
The sorrow of loss, breakup, the slow journey through the shadow into acceptance. Finding oneself in the midst of despair without trying to find a new fix.
Here I've grown to accept the riddles of each day, to culminate into a coalesced mesh of disarray. Never would the seeds down under sprout to see the sun at the mere sound of thunder. X marks the spot somewhere dissolving in my gut, wrenching at the chance to give both some and none of which we call *****. I've lost my faith in humanity, I've lost humanity in my faith. Yet I'd face my fate if only just to sate the state. This flip book of stop. Animation. Assimilates fremescent assibilation, And similarly tastes terrible, Savoring like dry sponge, and tied tongues, It's incredibly trivial, just a trivia of syllables stripped up to simple tools. Simple tools. Simple...
With every word is a silent fight. The fight to **** the demons whom come to play at the break of night. Dawn covers my screams. A cut for every crushed dream. Every meaningless cry. Nobody sees the pain hidden within my eyes. Nobody can see my wrists bleeding. Nobody hears my thoughts screaming. They see the person I pretend to be. The perfect girl whom fits in socioty. Not the one with crippling depression and anxiety. They are all lies you see. Absolutely everything. I tell you I'm okay. Acually I'm just waiting to say... Waiting I breath... One last breath... Whisper goodbye... Finally close my eyes.... Finally **** the voices. Finally free.
I was freshly turned 17, you were freshly turned 21. I didn't know you ***** me at the time, but I now know for sure. I was madly in love with another woman, frustrated I wasn't getting her. So you saw an opportunity to teach me the birds and the bees. Yet you were still a stranger to me. How could I say no with my raging hormones? Didn't think that desire would burn into my bones Never expected an addiction to make its home in me. In between these years I'm still within that sphere Another one night stand, another *** buddy, another thrill that kills a part of me. I bet you didn't think that your in-between-boyfriends-plaything would start doing what you did to me. Except now I despise myself when I realized I take advantage of my playthings... maybe ***** someone like you ***** me. I don't blame you, though. I only blame myself. I'm trying to forgive you, like I'm learning to forgive myself.
This is a true story, a confession of what happened to me. It also was the flashpoint for promiscuity and womanizing.
When I'm outside at four in the morning standing in the bitter cold smoking my cigarette, I always look towards the stars and wish that I could fly so ******* far away. I wish I could sit upon some celestial body with a searing atmosphere and powerful storms so I could rage and scream and my flesh would boil and my bones would melt; my mind would break and my soul would toil on the depression and torment of love and loss until I am nothing more than wisps of carbon on blistering winds.