I'm wasting away in this here place I'm supposed to call home. I've left the doors wide open, but the windows are weilded shut. Too sick of being an active participant in the waking world to get my pathetic form out of bed in the morning. It's all closing in, and every word you say is just adding to the heaving when I breathe. I've exhausted myself and I'm sick of not living to stay alive. I'm tired of being afraid. I can't shake the feeling that I'm sipping away at gasoline instead of water. I'm scared to step out onto the curb, because all it'll take at this point is one sudden gust of wind to send me plummeting down into the depths of the asphalt. What scares me more is that I lay there,so tired, so afraid, curled into the fetal position with the night's cool air sending chills through my already shaking body, with my eyes closed pretending I was dead. Pretending that I'm just a blade of grass, or a pebble in the way. Inanimate, unmoving, unfeeling. Emotionless. And then, I realized I was wishing that I wasn't pretending.
Already scarred skin revealed to the cutting edge of the two blade wonder. My body's contours memorized and every vulnerable vein spelled out for easy access. I'm laying on the mattress, tears dripping down my face, blood seeping into the cloth of my pants. My body is trembling and I can hear everything. Every rustle of my brother having a nightmare, every hushed cry from my Mother's quivering lips. Every angry shout from my Father's uncontrolable rage and violence crazed eyes. Shaking my head no as my words and my voice fail me time and time again. Pressing my cheek against the cool wall for a distraction, uneffective. Pour some kerosene on the flame, ignite and watch me burn. I'm staring at my ceiling, as the popcorn patterns swirl into never fading memories, fragments, bits and peices of my life. Breathe in, Breathe out. Fingernails digging into my skin, unable to scream. Eyes watching me, hovering over me, burning holes in me and begging me to just say the words. Begging me to ask her for help. I can't, I can't. My voice is frozen somewhere and I've forgotten how to enable it. Cracking mangled knuckles, and a stare so cold and empty. Stop, stop. I'm staring at the ceiling again, fingers trailing over scarred blue veins, covered by a thin layer of penetratable, cream-colored skin.
Fear grows wild within me. Seeping excessively from the pores of my skin.I can't remember where I am. I can't remember. I don't know. I can't find the phone. I can't reach for help. Searching helplessly. I can hear screams and sobs and more screams. I can hear as someone's body goes tumbling down the flight of stairs and I can hear the disgusting sounds of the skull hitting tile. Search ceased, phone recovered. Ringing, ringing. Silence. Repeat, repeat. Alone. Ringing, ringing. Silence. Repeat, repeat. Alone. I'm not dead, but I feel so cold. The sun refuses to shine, and I know, I know in the time I sit here with the night, that the suicidal feelings are creeping around my islandic bedframe, and I'm the stranded victim. I can't waste another minute here. I cannot bear another. Such a waste of another hearbeat.
Endless nights, morning is dead.
Oh my this was beautiful. Kind of funny that I would use that word to describe such a simply sad (in the best way possible) piece. But myself, being a writer, I have a love for words. And the use of them. You have a gift with words and an understanding of a horrid situation that most people wouldn't be able to describe.
Well I quite like it. Lovely.
Well I quite like it. Lovely.