A Place for Creativity

I don't really expect anyone to see this, but just some musings and writings I do. Honestly, I just need an outlet.

[darklysuspicious]

The Girl I Want to Be

She doesn't have to excuse stretch marks

As tiger stripes or strokes from a brush

She has unmarred skin, untouched

By stress, strain, gain.

She doesn't need an exercise guide

To tell her how to achieve an ideal.

She is already there, toned and strong

And she has legs that don't creak.

She doesn't want the second piece,

Or the third, or the eighth, or the twelfth

She doesn't want food beyond her need

And she feels rather than binges.

She isn't me.

She never will be.

I must accept that the girl I want to be

Is not the woman I've settled as.

[darklysuspicious]

[darklysuspicious]

House of Marshmallows and Toothpicks

           “I’m headed out for some fresh air,” he said, though you knew the truth. He was headed to get another pack of cigarettes from the station down the road. You hated when he smoked, but at least he still cared enough to try and hide the bad habit. Even if he knew you weren’t that stupid.

           “Okay,” you reply, and you wonder how much time you have before he gets back. He’ll either go straight to the station and back, or he’ll stop by the bar, and you’ll smell him come in at 2 in the morning, Smirnoff emanating from his shrunken and unstable form. If that’s the case, you can call your other him to join you for some time. While he knows about other him, he doesn’t like sharing your time when he’s present, so you only see other him when he’s at the bar. Once the door closes and locks, you stand up and grab a honey bun from the cabinet, deciding this will make an adequate dinner.

People always ask why you’re still with him when you literally feel apathy towards him. You believe it started on the day you met. He was enamored, and you were creeped out. He kept asking you out, and once you realized he wasn’t a stalker, you agreed to a pity date, which led to pity sex, and now a full-blown pity relationship. He felt it now too. Neither of you resented the other or loved the other; you mainly were together because that had been decided years ago. Three years, or maybe it was four? You don’t fully remember.

At least you weren’t miserable, you thought to yourself. Apathy is better than anger and sadness, right? You looked at the clock. 9:34. He should have been back by now if he was just getting cigarettes, so you call other him and see if he’s busy. He’ll be over in ten minutes, he says, and you know that means thirty minutes. He drinks when you don’t invite him over, so you know he’ll finish his Budweiser before he gets here. He’ll have to brush his teeth before you do anything, though. You’ll tolerate the vodka on your boyfriend’s mouth, but you will not kiss the piss breath of a Budweiser drinker.

It happens, and you eventually kick other him out so that he won’t have to see other him. You look at the clock. 1:56. You grab a stale bag of Cheetos and head to bed, where you’ll stare at your phone until the overwhelming exhaustion takes you into its clutches. You hear the door open, and you hear him trip into your living room. You used to help him up and carry him to the bathroom. Now it’s easier to listen to him struggle.

“Hey,” he says the next morning, sitting at the table with a cup of coffee.

“Hey,” you reply, the same dead tone that he spoke in.

“You wanna get married?” he asks, emotionless and without a ring. This was not how you envisioned your dream proposal growing up. It suffices though. You nod, and he nods in return. You’re engaged now, which changes nothing.

After you fulfill the obligation to have sex, you stare at the ceiling, wondering if you’ll ever feel like Friday around him. Bubbling excitement, relaxation, happiness, love. You decide to push that thought aside and live in your perpetual Saturday, too lazy to care about the future, and too far gone to remember the past.

You think pastel blues would make decent wedding colors.

[darklysuspicious]

Stability Lacking

Nobody seems to care anymore I live in this shell that used to be me Nobody seems to notice I’m torn Blood dripping from where my heart used to be

Medication and Manic Depression are my emotions Both slide down my throat and anger my stomach I don’t feel passion, happiness,  or devotion I either feel numb or the darkness comes back

Self-Sabotage has become my mission Learning to destroy the good parts of me Like my humor,  my smarts,  my ambition I know this isn’t the way humans should be

Walking and talking,  my facade of normal When I’m not,  dead and full of turmoil.

[darklysuspicious]

Saturday

You lay, stomach first, on the rough carpet that makes up your apartment bedroom. You stare at the staple that stands out of the ground, a shining silver beam with prongs keeping it stable. You wish sometimes that you had prongs too, that you could be kept stable. Even gravity cannot keep you from floating into the abyss. Some days, you think about how random your mind can be on these days of Spring. The sky is an off-blue, and white stains it as the little water your community has evaporates and turns into clouds. It’s the water cycle after all. It feels like your life right now. A habitual cycle that leaves you wanting for excitement. Alas, you weren’t meant for excitement. So you’ll continue to look at the floor, a wave of black, grey, and the ugliest shades of green in existence. It reminds you of vomit. How you wish you could still vomit. Vomiting makes you cry, and you have needed a good cry for far too long. However, the vomit won’t come, even when you eat only junk foods, a diet of Hi-Chews and Symphony bars. Occasionally you’ll let a Cheez-it by, but you’ll only swallow if it’s jalapeno. That irritates your stomach, and irritation is feeling. It means emoting, and you miss being able to clearly emote. Feeling is lacking these days. A sharp pang hits your big toe as you run it over the stiff, stubbly carpet, and you realize you’ve found the silver sword in the ground. Despite multiple attempts to remove the little pin, you’re no King Arthur, and it remains attached. You run your foot over it again. You wonder how much force it would take to stab your foot through what seems to be the backing of a dangling heart earring you used to wear. Now the heart is lost and the back is useless, as there is no object to dangle from it. Now its purpose is to remind you of its presence at three in the morning when you need to go to the bathroom. You close your eyes, and then you open them quickly. Close, open, close, open. It’s no use; you’ve already slept for hours. It feels good to pretend, though. Act like you’ll fall asleep, staring at the eaten bags of chips, crumbs from trail mix you had for dinner at midnight on Tuesday, and shoes you haven’t worn in weeks. You just sigh, and feel no tears hit your face, even though you want to cry. Exhaustion is to blame. You feel your chest ache from your diet, bubbling bright and potent through you, yet it will not release itself. Maybe you could fall asleep here. Close, open, close, open, grunt in frustration. Why did you even look under here? Flip flops, of course. You reach to grab them, but your arm doesn’t feel the command. It seems to tell you, “Not now” and hit the snooze button for another five minutes. Motivation is slow coming these days, and you are surprised you had the motivation to think up the words for your arm. You don’t even have the motivation to sleep. The human experience is monotony and lies. Motivation exists outside of your existence. You get bored, and you grab the flip flops and sit up. Your back hurts from laying on your stomach for that long. You sit on your bed, and you slowly sink into the softness. A nap sounds nice. Close.

[darklysuspicious]

Cordelia

No cause, I say to you,

The man who hurt me so many times.

I woke up and felt fear

That I may not be good enough.

You are the example of perfection,

And I am dirt under your shoe.

 I beg and plead at the end of your shoe

For me to be spared by you.

You tell me that I am not perfection.

You have told me this many times.

I think this time is enough,

Yet I know, tomorrow there’ll be fear.

 No cause, no injury, no fear.

I shouldn’t have to worry of your shoe,

That it’ll dig into my ribs, just far enough

That I’ll become numb to you.

I’ve been wounded too many times,

I could never to you be perfection.

 I spend my whole life, fighting for perfection.

All I get for my efforts is fear

That I’ll never be perfect. Too many times

Have I had to endure your belt and shoe

Caressing my sin in dark agony. You

Are my nightmare. Seeing you is enough.

 I always wonder when I’ll say Enough!

When will I stop trying for perfection?

When will I finally tell you

That I no longer feel fear?

That the last thing on my mind is your shoe?

That I have been battered all these times?

 I have never stood up for myself these times.

I will never be down far enough

For myself not to forgive you and your shoe.

I will continue to strive for perfection.

My mad King, I will not fear

You. My love is given to you.

 I think of all the times, of my desire for perfection.

I am more than enough, even if you I fear.

Despite this, I will polish your shoe, and I will always love you.

[darklysuspicious]

I Hear America Singing-2015 Redux

Credit due to Walt Whitman for writing the original. My brother needed a rewrite of the poem, so I wrote it for him. Never actually turned it in, though. Enjoy!

I hear America singing, the varied “carols” I hear,

The teenage trill of dreams desired and inevitably deferred due to collapse,

The adult chanting for more than is possible from those unfortunate souls,

The child whistling home, the melody cut short by a bullet,

The woman, crooning a tune that could equal a man’s but is looked at as inferior,

The caged bird chirping a song of things longed for,

The immigrant’s groan, the workers’ exhausted ensemble, the battle hymn of the hurt

The harmonizations of those who are “free” and fight those who are “brave”

A machine mouthing the mumblings of actual man,

The people persistently purring at the sight of complacency, comfort, and lack of ambition.

Each singing for what troubles and belongs to humanity,

Just as death longs for life, knowing that it is an impossible want.

The beats of their individual ballads becoming a beaten, weakened banner,

Whimpering quietly with their weathered wails desperate for consideration.

[darklysuspicious]

Life is Bad When...

You read “Richard Cory” and you get what Richard Cory was going through.

[darklysuspicious]

Lineage

I am the last in a line of fire. I am a burning pile of kindling, waiting for ignition. Dainty, delicate, and dutiful do not describe me. I fight daily for the peace I receive. I am the last in a line of ice. Frigid heart makes for a competitive edge. I pounce when I find the opportunity, leaving nothing but bones. I use the blood to brush my teeth. I am the last in a line of intellects. Theorizing, analyzing, and fidgeting. I search endlessly for the cure to my afflictions. I never really find the solution. I am the last in a line of mice. Quiet enough to sneak past anyone. Silent enough to seem complacent. Quick enough to steal your cheese and live. I am the last in a line of manipulators. I tell you a lie and you think it's the truth. I scream out a truth and you know it's a lie. Never a historian, always a storyteller. I am the last in a line of ill. I struggle to keep my head above the line that keeps me on this roller-coaster, that keeps me afloat. I have my liver removed daily, only to grow it back for tomorrow. I am the last in a line of women. The acid that runs through my veins scorches humans. However, I have the power to choose who I burn. To hurt someone I do not like takes their knife drawing into my skin. To hurt someone I love requires myself to take the blade. 

[darklysuspicious]

Unfinished Business

I am the cloud that surrounds you I am the black that you wear The black that you feel The black that you are I am the pain that hits you I am the red shame on your face I am the bringer of sadness I am the bringer of hope Even when I take it back. I am the face you see in the mirror The darkness under your eyes The dullness in your eyes. I am a parasite Rotting your insides Eating you alive. I am the sociopath who lives within And the psychopath who kills you. I will isolate you I will get you I will destroy you. There is nothing you can do. The pills won't work. The doctors don't care. You are mine, kind one Caring one, sweet one, Gentle one, smart one. I have taken you as my prisoner You will not escape. There is only one escape. And that, my friend, is your death. But you haven't destroyed me. Like the plague, I will hop from you. I will infect whoever I can get Because one isn't enough Because you aren't enough Because you are worthless to me Worthless to everyone. People may try to help But I'll always lurk there Stuck behind you Wrecking you. It's not my fault You are weak You are flimsy You are nothing You are mine.