By The Voices In My Head @c-poetjoycciwi - Tumblr Blog

Love is something I am full of, not something I am waiting for.

I should be grateful my life is mediocre, closer to spoiled. I’m fat, I’m not fending for my life and I have too much free time. Too much stuff in piles all around me, too much time to waste.

Sometimes I crave the structure of a hospital. Being with people, getting up and going to sleep, having something more interesting to write about other than ‘had an orange today.’

But hospitals, like everything, are expensive. I’ve wanted to be a sand-out type of person for a long time. But lack of money and anxiety killed that dream I guess.

I couldn’t even accept a free haircut out of a paralyzing fear of being touched and seen for who I am- a greasy, wet-haired girl whose new haircut will never suit her face.

Infinite possibilities and I choose to slumber the hours away again. I’m tired again. My mind isn’t working how I want it to again. I’m filling my days with sleep and nights with thoughts.

Again. I don’t know. I don’t know much at all. Every new tidbit of knowledge is drowned out by the many other people who have already discovered years ago what I find to be new.

What else can I add to this world that it doesn’t already have? Besides more tears and sensitivities- pointless art and badly arranged words. The kind of freedom others crave.

Maybe I’ll end up in a hospital anyways. Forcing pills down my throat and telling me when to go where. For now, I’d like to go to sleep again until the rest of my life begins.

I’m jealous of the high school girls reading magazines and breaking rules. Gossiping about the girls who want to be noticed (but who doesn’t… in one way or another) and whispering about what dying could feel like.

Is what I’m doing any better? Alone and watching them, thinking of how we’re not so different. Me and those high school girls, or those cavewomen at the beginning of time. The poets whose words were never read or the art that disintegrated long before meeting current eyes.

I think of how alike we all are. How much of the same all of life is. Loving and living and not living and surviving. And looking up at the same stars, feeling the weight of how small we all are and forever will be. My mother and her mother and her mother and her mother- aren’t we all the same in different fonts?

No one has revealed to me yet, what the purpose of this all is. But I guess I’m content eating cold Mac and cheese and watching movies of girls just like me. Not a grand life I guess, but one of poetry and art and grand slow thinking. I’m content being alone, and I think life is ok with that.

I’d like to keep thinking I’m above the basic human necessities. I am worthless when I don’t eat. I am incapable when I don’t take the pills. I have no friends when I don’t go outside. I am no longer an artist when the pen feels too heavy to lift. I’m a horrible person when I forget to reply.

I’m sure a walk would do me good. I’m sure some food would too. I wish I could function completely on my own. No sustenance, no meds, no friends, no sleep. But unfortunately and uncomfortably I am still very human. My bed reminds me of that.

I simply don’t fight the urges anymore- at my deepest core, deserving of death is all I am. Is all any of us are, as the preacher said, repetitively, every Sunday as I sat and listened and nodded along. I hate the only thing I can reasonably hurt so I grip the blade until my knuckles turn white and thank the lord for my life as I dig into the flesh he gave me, praying to receive more than what I deserve. I hope to be visible in my pain, to be taken seriously by someone who will see me beyond the mere human I am. To be scar covered and triumphant and happy or dead, either one will suffice at this point in time. I am not worth the energy it takes to eat, to cry, to stand. I’m not worth having my hair out of my eyes. I am worth new wounds and endless sleep and apologies. Until these cuts heal and the urges dissipate before returning the next time life proves too much for someone who was never meant to be human at all.

Wherever I go, whether I’m waking or a sitting or sleeping or running- a trail of blood tends to follow behind in my footsteps.

(Or is it paint? Or blueberry juice? No- I’m pretty sure it’s only blood. Pure and red and brown and all the colors blood should be.)

From my arms or my legs or what’s in between them. Like the slug I am, it oozes and drips from places it shouldn’t.

(And should, as I’ve been told. As they say, the normalcy of this phenomenon is fairly common. I’m simply following a trend.)

Leaving scars on my thighs, inside them, inside me. A hole meant for unpleasant things to come inside of, and further unpleasantries to exit.

(Including something as disgusting as a baby. I’m fertile enough if I keep missing my pills by hours at a time. Not even my own hand is welcome in a place as disgusting as me.)

The dog ripped up my menstrual pads and sucked the blood out from the inside. Tearing into it with her teeth so the blood was no longer confined to a plasticky sponge, but to the tiles of the bathroom floor.

(An act of feminist violence only a woman could commit. A man wouldn’t let himself be in the presence of a blood filled pad. Especially the blood of a sometimes boy mixed with dog saliva)

My petals close tighter than a rosebud, still, it is not enough to contain my entrails. My guts pour out as I attempt to carry them with me. Stuff them back in. Make them stay where they belong.

(From the corner of my unfaithful eye I see the woman I could have become. Complete with labor pains and nightly unsatisfying sex. A white fence. A dog. But not the kind who tears apart the bathroom trash.)

She tells me to name my organs. A human name. Something to keep me attached to my large and small intestines so for once I’d want to keep them around.

(I’m already dragging them around on a leash. What is the purpose in naming such a burden? Something so unwanted and terribly gross. All my motherly instincts have vanished and whatever instinctive emotions I was supposed to have- have left me with the blood I lost.)

My own mother named me something beautiful in hopes I would be something beautiful as well. After the ugliness of childbirth, how could she not? I think I’ve failed by my mother’s standard. But she’s failed at having a life she’s proud of.

(Including children she is proud of. Her life ended when mine began- in a metaphorical sense of course. She was alive to raise me but not present long enough to see the odd person I’d become. Maybe not beautiful, but bloody.)

I always thought of red as her favorite color. Maybe because of her hair or the lipstick she used to wear. I know she said the kids used to make fun of her for having orange, frizzy straight hair. But I always thought it made her unique. Nothing else really did.

(I don’t hide the redness. It is apart of me. I have named my organs instead of ripping them off of my skin. That is what separates me and her. The umbilical cord is cut and I am my own complete person. Covered in the color red. Angry and independent. Everything she was too scared to embrace.)

Whatever allows me to emotionally process the situations in my environment cannot tell the difference between plans unexpectedly changing, and being shot in the head.

And when you’re bleeding out from your inner ears, the world is spinning and you just pray this is the end- you get shot again, left alive but feeling like every organ and tear duct is shrieking for someone to do something-

But what can they do? This is life I guess. Abandonment isn’t the same as your friend leaving for errands and meaning it when they say they’ll be back later. So why does death sound infinitely more appealing than being left to face the consequences of the day?

Making myself bleed to show how desperate my mind is for an impossible level of consistency is the only way I’ll maybe be taken a bit more seriously… but even then what is the solution? Nothing any human can do. I wasn’t meant to be a human anyways.

thepowerofnow7

I think the world is ending.

I don’t know how I’m so sure-

Like how cats can sense storms-

I can feel it- or maybe it’s just a hope.

A foolish and not entirely unrealistic hope.

Penetrate me

with two fingers and a rusty knife

until I bleed a brown-ish death

from petals once pure and pink.

An unspoken pressure to wish

for pleasure, as if pleasure is always good.

Stick a needle in my arm

rather than anything less holy,

it will fulfill the same sensation.

Perhaps one even better

than forcing faux pleasure.

When I wake up, my first thought is- I just can’t wait for today to be over.

And tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the next hour.

And the next minute.

All I want is for the ending to arrive already.

Even the best parts of me are filled with aging spots. Imperfections galore and a smell of rot from every pore. Me at my most whole is still leaking with holes, crevices, caverns of what is missing and clearly wrong. I try and I fail and I try and I fail and I grow and I shrivel and I fill the holes just for them to dribble and drip like a sponge of muddy water.

The best of me is the worst of everyone else.

I feel like the universe wants me to stay. I don’t know why, and I don’t necessarily agree. But for now I’m skill here.

Making bad art, forgetting to text people back, not knowing what to say. Fumbling and trying and failing and crying almost every day over something stupid. Missing people I distanced myself from because I didn’t feel worth it. Not being able to sleep. Not being able to wake up early enough. Skipping school and work and missing out on life.

Cherishing the small things. Walking away feeling a small glimmer of a purpose. Finding joy in getting to wake up and eat warm food. Learning something tiny but new every day, being open to knowledge. Liking what I like and not liking what I don’t like. Figuring out who the fuck I am. Getting closer to the person I want to be.

Knowing this isn’t the end, that all paths aren’t broken, that I have more time than I think I do. Shit. I have more time than I think I do.

my therapist, unwanted memories and me.

TW: SA

I don’t mean to ask this in a way that sounds invasive- and keep in mind you don’t have to answer anything you’re uncomfortable with. But have you ever been sexually assaulted?

C’mon… please let me keep going? No one can see us.

No. I mean I don’t think so.

Can you elaborate on that? What do you mean you don’t think so?

It won’t take long, I promise. I just need you.

I mean I don’t think it really counts.

Why?

Can you show your face a little more? You can take off your bra- yeah there we go. Oh.

Because I said yes.

But did you want it? Or were you pressured?

Please? It’s not fair- you said we could. You got me all worked up like this- all that flirting and jokes- come on. We can do it in the back of my car. Just let me feel you, just for a little bit.

I didn’t- really want it, but I don’t know. I shouldn’t have said yes then.

Just because you said yes doesn’t mean your body felt safe.

God- you look so sexy, I can’t help it. Please touch yourself for me- can you film it? I want to see.

But that doesn’t count as sexual assault.

Yes, it absolutely can. Your body and your memories don’t know the difference between safe and unsafe, especially being in that vulnerable of a position. You weren’t feeling comfortable or safe, even if you said otherwise. There was pressure and coercion- that’s not ok.

You can go to sleep after I cum, ok? Then we can do whatever you want. Just give this to me.

Oh. Shit.

Do you want to talk about- what happened?

Fuck, I need more than this. You said yes before- god, you sound just like my ex. Shut up, I’m not doing this. Lie down.

No.

“It’s just a phase”

When has my life been anything but a series of phases? When has the moon been nothing but her entirety even when she is not full?

I roll over and look for you but you’re lost in the maze of your mind. I wish I could save you from yourself. I wish I was more than just flesh. I hope you have enough love in your life to make you want to love life.

I hope my guardian angel is an Orca.

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By The Voices In My Head