Less than an atom of what I am feeling right now:
Less than an atom of what I am feeling right now:
What do you do when the ground gives out and your legs are trembling and everything stops speaking to you? The machines stop whirring, the blood in your body crystallizes, and even the air falls flat, static. When you can’t even suppress your frequent, seizing panic attacks because they come so often and these demons gripe at you like you’re some frittering coward.
I began to prefer the stars over the moon. The knife feels better in the dark anyways.
What if I said that I didn’t want this anymore?
I miss scooping up and hugging my knees on the black, metal chairs that have been in my backyard since I was two years old. Lighting up and smoking through my pack of Newport cigarettes that would sweetly send out its tantalizing toxins to the cumulus clouds above; the same ones that I have always made casual conversations with. And it would be somewhere between the transition from spring to summer that the golden beams from the radiating sun would weave their way into the seaweed strips of my hair, revitalizing them and stirring up the lost life in me.
When I envision the scent of summer, the grass grabbing at my scrawny ankles, and the bugs crawling out of their shelters — I think of you, always. When I first met you, where I ran into you, and how badly I wish you could be here to converse with me. But I know, deep down, that you are venturing off as well, somewhere deep within the bowels of nature, probably amongst the Massachusetts trees, with a backpack strapped behind you and your complex thoughts to keep you company.
You always knew how to fill the holes in my heart. What to say to make me feel better without coating your words without impatience, ill will or devilish intent; instead, with wise words strung together like rare pearls on a necklace.
Well, aside from you and this lovely house that I have lived in for almost all of my twenty years, I am beginning to think that I need to take some time off from here because I never quite fit right in the first place. (Like I never had a choice to be here, but I did alright regardless.) I mean — with the people, with this gut-wrenching feeling, and the way that these uneven, shifting floorboards in my house nastily creak and croak…
I should have known better, a couple years back when my sadness and loneliness hit me hard.
Hasn’t it always been the better option to keep yourself busy and going instead of thinking and waiting to see what is out there?
Try to fill in these gaping holes because you’re too lonely. Keep yourself busy because your thoughts that you have been running away from are catching up to you. Stare hard at the demons around you and distinguish whether or not you are one yourself. Keep breathing, keep thinking, and keep acting; you have a long way to go, my friend.
Tell me what your soul yearns for, what your passions are, why your eyes are so hazy and clear both at the same time, why you pull at the ends of your hair when the moon is covered by the clouds at night, how the stars make you feel so nostalgic, like you’re looking back into the exploding past, hundreds of years back, what makes you feel so alive, what your heart burns for, why you wish you could have been born in the heat of a Californian desert instead of the cold, early winter hours of Colorado, how your dad pushed you onto the cold bathroom tiles when you were five because he hated seeing you cry, why you prefer to not eat leftovers because they remind you of your tired mother packing you lunch every single day at seven in the morning during middle school, and how that makes your heart hurt and your stomach turn, and how the strokes of my soft fingers against your skin feels like the blankets that you hold so dearly on those lonely, unstable nights that I can’t be there for you —
Tell me everything and more and I promise to love you forever.
I still remember your vibrant almond eyes as they were, a little more than a year ago. They were always so crucially different from any other pair of eyes that I had seen, all throughout my heaving, little life; they had tremendous movement inside of them. And if I stared for too long, which I would have no knowledge of because I would often lose track of the time whenever our gazes struck, then it was almost as if I could see the beginning and the end to everything and nothing all at once.
Running your calloused, left hand through your slicked black hair, you asked me excitedly, even though there was no hint of it in your voice and your actions,
“How are you? How have you been?”
I carefully mulled over the question while glancing around. You were always surrounded by an annoying, raving sea of people who very much envied our undying affection for each other and my relationship with you. You never really talked to anybody else with the kind of vulnerability and patience that you had with me. Slightly flustered and not knowing how to respond, especially because I hadn’t seen you for so long, I casually threw back with some sass,
“Well -.. I don’t know.”
And I paused before continuing, watching your face turn and your lovely eyes roll in disgust at my overuse of always not knowing,
“Good? I guess? How can one answer that when we have so much to catch each other up on.”
At that, the question that I said as a statement, you smirked with that beautiful smirk of yours, as if you had practiced and perfected it during your adolescent days, and nodded your head slowly in agreement.
I should really call you, maybe sometime this week, to meet with you.
But it would be very bad for my health.
I just want to die, is that so much to ask for? Maybe that’s why I painted my nails with black, for hopelessness and oblivion, but left specks of gold on my fourth finger in hopes of being saved by somebody. I hate this, I hate this, I hate everything to all of its boisterous bits, pitiful pieces, and aggravating atoms. I feel this twisting and turning sensation in the depths of my stomach that makes me revile at how the world turns ever so slowly, but this ticking clock that sits beside me beats so inexplicably quickly. How can things be so cruel — I want to leave and never come back. Send me off into space as an immoral experiment — I just don’t care and I don’t see how I could —
My bones feel funny. They try to talk to me, but I refuse to listen.
Trying to walk in these big, clunky feet that don’t quite fit me and attempting to fill these wide shoes that aren’t even mine.
How did I end up here — treading too far to retrace my bold steps and crossing these boundaries that I can’t seem to find anymore — lost and surrounded by everything and nothing, all at once.
I hate it to hell how the cold sticks to my body like a bloodsucking, leeching, giggling goblin and stores ice inside of my chipped shoulders like a pair of glaciers refusing to thaw.
Lately, I have been keeping myself tucked away inside of the corners of my disturbed heart where it has been struck the least (because people and all sorts of things tend to go towards the center of my heart, for the juiciest pain to give). And in doing this, I have found that it does not benefit me, nor does it hurt me. It has come to my conclusion that standing alone in the center of a what-was-once, very stress inducing, dark room, has now given me a bit of solace; my own slice of a h[e]aven, if you will. Why? I suppose that the dark doesn’t frighten me as nearly as it used to, and sometimes it still brings me the hysteria to run and panic, because I remember how, as a child, I associated the darkness so closely with death… But considering how numb and emotionless I have been for these past few weeks, in addition to the ridiculous onslaught of traumatic events that this new year has gifted me, I haven’t been all that scared of death either.
To lose or to gain — I’ve been at a very neutral position. Or maybe I’ve just been in severe denial of the things that have been going on, to look at myself objectively and reflectively.
Notes to self: there are icicles clinging onto the ends of my toes, debilitating me from walking. Stop losing yourself underneath the sheets of your bed, pretending to drown just to feel what it’s like to be away from reality for at least two seconds. Do you really like the way your hair frames your face like that? What have you got to lose in putting yourself out there? Allow yourself - to - please -
Where does one go to find answers, if answers even exist? It seems as though the stars are only solemnly there for solace, and how little that solace is.
I’m still learning how to deal with things.
And I’m still trying to learn how to be better.
It’s just so hard — breaking out of these feelings of isolation, depression, and pure hatred towards myself, in the midst of lashing out towards the world and everybody around me, while everything else around me in my life is crashing and burning. I don’t want to be this way, but at the same, sick way, I do.
I feel very hesitant about my future, not only because I’ve lost something very dear to me, but also because of how unsure I am of myself. How can I be confident in myself, when I can’t even have the simple abilities to accomplish the easiest things in life?
My heart has been so broken for so long that I don’t know how to pick myself up.