It sickens me I have to hold hands with him. It sickens me I have to kiss him. It sickens me I eventually will have to sleep with him. It sickens me this is making her so happy. It sickens me to the bones. I come back home and I think I maybe can get used to it. I come back home and hide myself to cry. I come back and I want to kill my self. I look at her and she’s happy, she laughs like everything finally is going the right way and I just want to die.
In writing we find ourselves.
They try so hard to laugh and be happy, to seem happy. She tells him something funny and he replies something wicked. She smiles and bears his glance. This exchange of unrelevant sounds fills in the spaces and the time between them. Does it consolidate their union? Does it bring these two souls together? At the end of the night she goes back to her empty house. In the lobby of the building, she opens the front door of her apartment only to find a solid darkness. Is it the void she has within? She reaches her bedroom and throws her keys and bag to a nearby armchair, she takes her clothes off leaving them on the floor as she walks to the bed. It’s dark. The light has yet to be turned on. Laying on the bed, she stares at the ceiling and lets the silence surround her. Not one sound comes from her, not one sound could reach her now. What are the images she lives in her head? What are the thoughts, the demons that consume her being? She feels exhausted but it’s not her body that needs rest.
Do you ever happen to feel like shit every time you’re done sexually pleasuring yourself? Is it just me? I would not call it guilt as I’ve read other people say. It’s pure uncomfortableness in your own skin.
Hormones. This animal instinct, a beastly need. Voices telling your essence to relief yourself, it’s going to be pleasant. A lie. Once the moment has passed, there’s nothing left but your uneasy blank corpse.
I hate this feeling, it revoltes me.
I’ve been trying to decide my future and was ready to embrace it and now I don’t feel ready anymore. I’m scared. I want to run, escape.
I feel vulnerable, fragile.
What at the time seemed luck and mostly divine grace, now is only damnation.
“Mom, I need to see a psychologist. I think I need therapy.”
“Because.. Because I don’t feel well. I want to kill myself.”
“What? What are you saying? Are you crazy?”
“Mom! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you!”
That’s how the conversation ended. I was left there trying not to cry at work and drop my tears inside the ice cream I was scooping for the customers.
I feel bad. There’s no escape.
I’ve recently bought a dress. Nude colored with balloon 3/4 length sleeves. Flowy chiffon that ends at the middle of tights. My mom says it looks like a nightgown and it does in a way. I’ve put it in my wardrobe all the same. I like it. Even if I know it will look better once it’s stained in red. Bright red blood spreading from my spike pierced stomach after I land on the house railing.