It’s back

The little voice is back.

Yesterday it targetted my mouth. 

Keeping it closed. 

Regretting every object that had the chance to exist within it. 

It used my mouth to lie. 

About my hunger. 

It made my stomach grumble and cry for something, anything. 

Today it targetted my throat. 

Two fingers down the oesaphagus. 

Circles, drawing tiny circles at the base of it. 

And then the stomach spasms. Screams. 

And the insides are scraped out. 

With a polished spatula. 

And suddenly whirls of strawberries and vegan chocolate spread

Swirl within the lavender water of the toilet bowl. 

And tears, tears they are warm but not falling. 

The voice told me stand, to flush. 

She told me to wash my hands and carry on. 

Like nothing happened. 

No one asked me about anything. 

It seems as though they don’t notice me. 

She’s the only one that does. 

But she’s warning me about eating so much.

If I do it again, everything comes out. 

My gut will be squeezed until it’s empty. 

And yearning for more  

Last time, it was not as easy as this time

And next time it will be easier. 

Beware, food’s going to kill you, love.

That voice is going to kill you. 

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Afraid

It’s fucking terrifying. 

How do people do it so easily? How do people tell others how they’re feeling, their inner emotions, their hearts desires, their entire soul? Allow their bare, naked truth to strut about the mind of a stranger? Allow it tobbe exposed, vulnerable to rejection and hurt? How do you give up something like that? How do you trust someone to look after it?

I’m so afraid and I can finally admit it. I am scared, horrified, petrified, fucking frantic. 

I am so afraid to scrape out the inner makings of my being, the drive for my actions, the inner thoughts and naughty whispers, the dreadful ideas and absurd  actions. The intensity of my feelings is not something that I can express willfully. 

There is just so much inside of me that, if I ever were to express it, I would need hours to express one moment of fleeting emotion. My emotions are cathartic, intense and volumous. Heavy, kilometre deep emotions are held, contained by mere seconds in time. And yet, I’m called emotionless, robotic, neutral an unfeeling by many people.

But that’s because each emotion is so brutal that it’s immense nature is suppressed by my fear of unfavourable reaction or dismissal.  
I’m afraid of rejection. Of people not caring. Of being seen as dramatic. 

I’m so fucking afraid. I shiver at night and cry myself to sleep because everything inside of me wants to break free. 

But it’s impossible. It’s impossible to allow my feelings to run free in the world, so devoid of empathy. 

Since about the age of 10, I thought that my deepest fear was being alone. But my deepest fear is also being misunderstood leading to the ultimatum of being alone forever. Being alone because I can’t share myself with anyone. Because I contain my heavy emotions. I’m afraid of carrying that burden alone forever.

I’m so afraid of isolation. 

Miscommunication. 

Lack of empathy. 

I’m afraid of a world where I say that I actually feel… and nobody cares. 

Lonely

It’s a sham, it really is.

A lie made up to infiltrate and destroy my life.

The little cavity in the dark mass of churning fire encapsulated in a bony chest. The little cavity that would seem insignificant to any sane human glancing upon it. The cavity that is as meaningless as it is minuscule.

The little cavity that insists that it must be filled. But the question is… with what?

The movies will tell you that love, and only love, can fill the gaping hole inside. But this idea, this abstract concept of ‘love’, is so fickle. I don’t know if I like it. 

By strict definition, my parents must love me. My family must love me. My friends must love me. My friends, because they keep me around and we laugh together. That’s a special kind of love, laughter. My family and my parents, because they are kind of obligated to. But also because I can tell that, somehow, they care. They don’t want me to be hurt. They want a good life for me. That’s a deep kind of love.

But, for some reason, this persistent, gaping hole insists on sucking out a lot of potential happiness. It’s deepened by flitting comments about weight, hair, beauty and almost anything to do with me. Any insecurity that’s even mentioned tugs at the depths of this tiny little hole. 

I don’t think people understand just how much it hurts. And the scary thing is, I’m probably making heart-wrenching, confidence-crushing little jests towards others every single day.

And clearly, love is not enough to fix this hole.  In fact, I think it makes it worse. When the person who you suppose loves you passes such comments, it hurts a lot more than when someone you care nothing for passes them. 

No, it’s not about love.  It’s about being understood. It’s about someone noticing that forlorn look and genuinely caring about how their words affect you. It’s about someone who listens with true empathy and loves you for all your broken, damaged parts inside. True, whole love. 

As much as my mother might insist that this is the kind of love she gives, it is not the kind I receive. She hates parts of me, things I say, things I do and I cannot explain in words how much the rejection stings. It’s like she rejects parts of my soul. It’s as though I’m not good enough. And so I hide a lot of me. From her, from the rest of my family, from the rest of the world. 

I don’t want to keep it hidden. I’m just afraid of everyone’s reactions. If there were someone I could speak to who could understand and who would not allow me to be afraid of them… 

I don’t know. Does such a person exist? Am I asking too much? Are my expectations of humanity too much?

This hole persists and so it must be filled. With addiction, distraction, escape. Binge watching, binge eating, not eating, knife to skin… anything. Absolutely anything that will distract me from the vortex threatening to suck me inside. 
It’s a lie. It’s a sham. This gaping hole can’t be filled. 

It can only close when I die.

Skinny, Thin, Absent

It’s all just skimpy looks, flitting smiles, gentle brushes and soft giggles. It’s flying, inside jokes that cause rapid heartbeats and dull aches. It’s staring at the blackness of night and still seeing that glowing smile and those sparkling eyes.

It’s hope, and yet it’s fear.

It’s fear of lonely heartache and rebounding affection. It’s fear of love wasted, washing down the drain of a teenage eternity. It’s fear of feelings that bloom and burst and threaten to consume you every day. It’s unwillingness to conquer that fear.

It’s love. But it’s skinny.

So thin that the sight of food sickens it and turns it stone cold. So skimpy that the clothes on it’s body barely grapple its bones. So little that a spin makes it seem as though it disappears for a second.

There’s no point to skinny love when the lover’s love is that of skin. Tight skin. Tiny waist. Skinny legs. No, skinny love.

He’s in skinny love with me because we fear.

I don’t know what he fears but his fear must hang on some kind of inherent insecurity that drives him insane during the day. I drive him insane during the dark night? I guess so because both ring true for me. And skinny lovers are often mirrors of one another.

Skinny love drives me insane. Love for skinny. Not me, no. My bones are hidden beneath layers of oil, skin and fat. Like a blanket of shame coating my mind. Like a wall of defense between me and true love, skinny love. Skinny love, love for skinny, causes my skinny love.

It may as well not exist, this skinny love. It’s not real. It’s all a blur between the slimy layers and pudgy body parts. I can’t see this skinny love. I can’t feel this skinny love. Only love for skinny.

And what is skinny love? Because I don’t want to be the one to say it aloud.

My love for skinny is skinny itself and my skinny love for him is sadly overruled.

 

Absence of love. Skinny is absence.

Poem 7-Unfinished Conversa

There is a space in time
That is as empty as
Abandoned land

Dejected and barren
Space that is not replete
With pretty, glamorous sounds

No voice to decorate
No notes to colour
The empty canvas

And yet the empty space
In time, dirty and barren,
Is not powerless.

When words become the prelude
To a song of silence that tears away
At the mind within that space

Empty space in time that is
Filled with unspoken melodies
Where hidden colloquy stirs

The silence, if a canvas,
Would hide the punched-in
Wall it hangs over.

The silence exists uncomfortably
Because words are not enough
To address the contention.

And slowly the contention
Becomes tension and builds
Until it bursts.

And the incomplete conversations
Become never-ending,
Raging wars between souls.

Space in time becomes the winner
Because, no longer barren,
It drowns in erratic slur.

And unfinished conversations
Are never finished

They hang in the space of time
Like artifacts in a museum.

I thought that-

Poem 6-Balloons

Bubbles beneath my skin
Inflate like balloons

My body beneath, covered
In helium, rising

A soft bed floating
Above the stars

Beneath my rib cage
Rising up into my throat

Acid swirls beneath my flaming eyes
Leafy spirals in lavender water

My head, a million miles
From its body below

And the helium leaves my mouth
And rises above the mirror

And in the bathroom the gas floats
Transparent, inodorous, silent

It exists above me unseen
And hovers with me wherever I go.

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Deprivation

SCHEDULED PUBLICATION FOR MY BIRTHDAY: SWEET 16 GIFT TO MYSELF…

my cells would regenerate,                                                                                                                                           my mind would recuperate,                                                                                                                                                    my tears might evaporate

I’m lying on a cloud.

Nope, that’s just my bed.

Are my eyes open or closed? It’s so dark I can’t even tell. They must be open, I can feel a gentle breeze stinging them. I blink. The cold, dry breeze goes away for a split second and then it’s back, battling the warm sheets of tears.

Why can’t my eyelids stay shut? The breeze is causing the back of my eyes to prick and my head to pain.

To gather some warmth, I roll my eyeballs east and west, north and south. I am looking at a sheet of black as though my eyes were shut and yet that gentle breeze insists that they aren’t.

My mind could just stop functioning if that breeze were not there. I could drift into meaningful sleep and my cells would regenerate, my mind would recuperate and my tears might evaporate.

If only sleep were as simple as counting the bleats and hops of sheep. If only sleep were as simple as finding a good bed and immersing yourself in darkness. It seems that sleep must be earned.

To sleep, you cannot stress. You cannot think too much. To sleep, you must meditate. You must find time to relax. You cannot be working through the night. Sleep must be continuous and consistent. Sleep must be earned.

Why do people fear death? Sleep is just like death. The shutting down of all bodily functions. Your body simply breathes and dreams. Sleep is just death with a heartbeat.

And yet everyone is so afraid of death. Death is what I yearn for. Just to die peacefully one night and to awaken as though I did not just experience total paralysis.

It’s to not stare into blackness at 4:00am wondering whether or not your years of life are slowly depleting. It’s being able to get through the day without feeling as though there is a piece of lead in your head trying to fling you to the ground and force your eyes to shut. It’s having a mind that can focus so deeply that it remembers even the smallest details, like the color of the car that just passed around the corner. It’s being able to smile in the morning when you feel the sunlight on your face. It’s being able to be awake when you’re supposed to be and to be asleep when you’re supposed to be.

But I guess it’s not all dark and doom. There’s a peace that comes with insomnia. Maybe it’s the peace that holds my eyelids open every night. To be afloat and alive when all the world is dead. Your mind becomes a luminous candle in an endless cave.

All of your raging thoughts run out by the time it’s morning and your mind just dwells in numbness. There are no consequences for having an inactive, unimaginative, broken mind. You can stare into the darkness for hours, liquid time sloshing around in your mind and the world stays dark. You stay alone but you also stay at peace.

It’s the night that brings out emotion and then grabs hold and rocks my body until my tears are dry. My sheets are damp but my mind is like a desert. I prefer it that way because the sheets dry before I can fall asleep but my mind manages to retain it’s moisture for weeks or even months. It’s better when the water is released. It’s better to let it all go.

Maybe I don’t need sleep. The night gives me comfort.

I’ll give it my concentration. I’ll give the night my years.                                                                                             I’ll give the night my everything if it is there to hear my tears.