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#dangerouscycles
A time, sometime before the last time, or even a little more lost in a dusty box the time even before, I wanted to tell you something, sweet. When you press against my skin, or hold me at length, you are wearing, shredding, tearing and smoothing my very surface. I wear myself upon my skin; internals are external, I don’t hide behind mirrors or imagery; magic tricks, pops of champagne, dazzling details or embellished, encrusted, coated and processed goods. Those who are privileged; ungrateful and cursed with ignorance, little awareness for the multiplied demons nesting in blackened hearts, sipping sour emotions and rancid feasts, those are the people who hide what doesn’t need to be hidden. Those who are privileged; independent and cursed with anxiety, pressure behind their eyelids at night and a very heavy head to move and keep the walls up, guarding against the terrors and the screams and the glistening shadows, slick with grief and self-pity, self-loathing and what people judge as an infernal mental contagion, but really is just an unfortunate, battle of imbalance and chemicals. Awry and lost and deep trodden in a mind that never rests, always misses a beat chasing other beats and fearing the biggest monster in the fields called mistake. Those are the people who wear it all like skin, coloured by bruises and patterned with cuts, carvings, soothing over the outside and deciding its already faulty, can wear it on the outside because its already broken, not really worth protecting and don’t hide would could and would mostly be hidden. Sweet, this is me. I’m rough, I know. I rest in your bed when I’m scared of being alone with myself. Depressed again and as I lose control, realising I never really have an end keep pounding and chipping at every word I’ve ever though and every feeling I’ve ever had to succumb to, I’ve ever always had to feel, sending for help and working on strength to rebuild, shoots flares in a black blanket of sky; lending your little demons the opportunity to find you. Jealousy is the most dangerous form of punishment for us. Me. These people that we are. We crave respite, sweet. Out of earth and mind and here and now, out of beats and taps, clicks and repeats. Out of straddled cycles and digging into ourselves with our own fingernails. But really, I can’t call you sweet. You’re just the person I imagine so I’m never caught alone with myself. You’re just the person I want for myself, and can’t reach towards, afraid and corrupt and broken to you. Blacking out with my eyes open. A blank space, a blank knot and a blank guess, rolling over inside. Short-term memory shot. Feeling the weight and the hatred of my omnipresent self, mind disheveled, unraveled, fighting a battle you can’t even see; takes one to know one. I deal with my pain, no one else digging enough to find a spring, land-locked and bone dry, questioning the mirage I stumble through a desert for. Questioning what real is, something everyone can pick and grasp, smoky cloud and bitter wind to me. I try and see some reasons, stumbling in the finding of plain ground, nothing else. Perpetually uninvited yet constant host, parasite, addicted to everyone else’s company. Asymptomatic to symptomatic, mind the bickering beast, same person, same bodysuit, but I, I’m locked inside with you, yet watching you wreak your havoc, vicious, bitter monologue ringing wall to wall, grating and wailing and driving me broken and twisted and pinned like your own art. This is what I wanted to tell you, eventually. When I noticed a break in the internal racket, a clear view from my cell into yours I realised nobody wants to hear about this abuse, not even you; avoid, ignore, pretend it isn’t real so you can sleep alone in your cell just one more night, again. I just want people to better understand what this is like. Why I simply can’t explain it. Why I can’t tell you. Why you will run. Now here’s your cue. Stand up and Walk out on me.
0
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 7:27 AM UTC
tamara-fraser
A Time Before The Last Time
A time, sometime before the last time, or even a little more lost in a dusty box the time even before, I wanted to tell you something, sweet. When you press against my skin, or hold me at length, you are wearing, shredding, tearing and smoothing my very surface. I wear myself upon my skin; internals are external, I don’t hide behind mirrors or imagery; magic tricks, pops of champagne, dazzling details or embellished, encrusted, coated and processed goods. Those who are privileged; ungrateful and cursed with ignorance, little awareness for the multiplied demons nesting in blackened hearts, sipping sour emotions and rancid feasts, those are the people who hide what doesn’t need to be hidden. Those who are privileged; independent and cursed with anxiety, pressure behind their eyelids at night and a very heavy head to move and keep the walls up, guarding against the terrors and the screams and the glistening shadows, slick with grief and self-pity, self-loathing and what people judge as an infernal mental contagion, but really is just an unfortunate, battle of imbalance and chemicals. Awry and lost and deep trodden in a mind that never rests, always misses a beat chasing other beats and fearing the biggest monster in the fields called mistake. Those are the people who wear it all like skin, coloured by bruises and patterned with cuts, carvings, soothing over the outside and deciding its already faulty, can wear it on the outside because its already broken, not really worth protecting and don’t hide would could and would mostly be hidden. Sweet, this is me. I’m rough, I know. I rest in your bed when I’m scared of being alone with myself. Depressed again and as I lose control, realising I never really have an end keep pounding and chipping at every word I’ve ever though and every feeling I’ve ever had to succumb to, I’ve ever always had to feel, sending for help and working on strength to rebuild, shoots flares in a black blanket of sky; lending your little demons the opportunity to find you. Jealousy is the most dangerous form of punishment for us. Me. These people that we are. We crave respite, sweet. Out of earth and mind and here and now, out of beats and taps, clicks and repeats. Out of straddled cycles and digging into ourselves with our own fingernails. But really, I can’t call you sweet. You’re just the person I imagine so I’m never caught alone with myself. You’re just the person I want for myself, and can’t reach towards, afraid and corrupt and broken to you. Blacking out with my eyes open. A blank space, a blank knot and a blank guess, rolling over inside. Short-term memory shot. Feeling the weight and the hatred of my omnipresent self, mind disheveled, unraveled, fighting a battle you can’t even see; takes one to know one. I deal with my pain, no one else digging enough to find a spring, land-locked and bone dry, questioning the mirage I stumble through a desert for. Questioning what real is, something everyone can pick and grasp, smoky cloud and bitter wind to me. I try and see some reasons, stumbling in the finding of plain ground, nothing else. Perpetually uninvited yet constant host, parasite, addicted to everyone else’s company. Asymptomatic to symptomatic, mind the bickering beast, same person, same bodysuit, but I, I’m locked inside with you, yet watching you wreak your havoc, vicious, bitter monologue ringing wall to wall, grating and wailing and driving me broken and twisted and pinned like your own art. This is what I wanted to tell you, eventually. When I noticed a break in the internal racket, a clear view from my cell into yours I realised nobody wants to hear about this abuse, not even you; avoid, ignore, pretend it isn’t real so you can sleep alone in your cell just one more night, again. I just want people to better understand what this is like. Why I simply can’t explain it. Why I can’t tell you. Why you will run. Now here’s your cue. Stand up and Walk out on me.
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