I want to tear the flesh from my bones.
See what a pretty colour
Mottled red and purple and brown
My body’s love song.
I die inside.
When I hurt I feel alive.
I know pain sharp as a dagger caressing my neck.
What patterns the knife makes.
A true work of art
So unlike groping for meaning through these silly words.
I bleed, the desert refreshed
The desert of my mind
The sand of thoughts
Bones crumble to dust.
No blood flows.
I drop the knife and know insanity
My eyes do not see, my images are blurred
The tears gather in my eyes but are never shed.
The bright red blood surges, longing to stain snow white skin.
I sway, lost in the joy of hurting myself.
I want my bed.
I want my home.
I want some peace.
Nobody sees my tears.
I am alone.
I feel that there should be something significant here because I have now blogged 100 posts of the minutia of my life. How incredible boring it most be to read. I whine about my life, my depression and hopelessness. None of those have left me. In fact I felt close to taking drastic measures to relieve my situation. Wasn’t thinking of killing myself but I was thinking of hurting myself – traffic accident, drug overdose, crazy acting but I didn’t. I stayed sensible and relatively sane. I thought about cutting my skin open too but there is always the risk of infection and it is so much more likely in Hell than in the civilised parts of the globe.
I suffer from self-awareness. I know and recognise the likely consequences of suicide, cutting, reckless behaviour or drugs. I know that this state cannot last forever. My loneliness will not be eternal. At some point I’ll be able to sleep and to wake up. Weird to have insomnia and hypersomnia at the same time. As the old chestnut goes “this too shall pass”.
I want it fucking past already. I hate feeling like shit. My mind is either sluggish and I mix up my words or it is racing and I’m composing letters, books and retorts – unable to sleep.
Nothing has changed. I am still the actress who is fake happy in the real world. No one wants to hang around with a person with severe clinical depression after the initial “can I get you anything” and “you poor thing”. I spent the weekend alone. I called my family and friends back home and told them everything was fine. I lied because I can’t tell them the truth. Lying is so much easier. Truth is painful, not just to me but to all. I’ve learned to stfu about my pain.
Except in this space. This is my screaming into the void space. Ironic really because I live in a void – no changes, eternal pain of heat and sweat and mocking voices on every breeze. I have nightmares about tsunami. I am a mess.
I dream of drowning
I dream of drowning.
I dream of water.
The waves wash over me, soothing me, tempting me
And then I panic
I struggle against the current, against the tide,
But inexorably the water nudges and cajoles me out
The sea takes me out, out beyond the land, the sand, the earth
Violently back to land
Drowning the shiny happy people basking in the sunlight.
I am complicit. I am guilt
Because I dreamt of drowning
There. Some random crappy poetry for my 100th post. Maybe if I write it down the nightmares will stop. Maybe that is the solution. Who the fuck knows? Who the fuck cares?