Lilith @sstrwtch - Tumblr Blog

THE X FILES : Paper Hearts (4.10)

Perhaps it victimizes me to admit that I am expertly betrayed. Easily taken advantage of. I am not a martyr. I am The Devil’s Professional Advocate. I will put myself in your shoes till my flesh melts with the soles. And in these trappings not made for me, my clumsy and stumbling gait walks me into gaping pits of disillusion. Bear traps set in a forest by those who know I will stop to admire the leaves and search for beetles on their backs who need rescuing. I suppose that I owe my survival to a magic trick I learned (earned?) when I was young:

“Leave your body, and go somewhere else.”

I became such a skilled dis-associator that I split in two. Peel myself straight down the middle like the plastic backing of a bandaid. Astral project into a timeline where I haven’t made whatever grave error in character judgement has landed me in my terrible predicament. I have been asked 100 times what the difference is between Halsey and Ashley and I have never answered honestly. The truth is that I built her, as a child, to protect the tender core that lies beneath. In a confusing chain of events, my maladaptive daydream became my full time reality. My armor can walk and talk and they look just like me. But you can’t hurt us anymore,

Because one of us is not real.

mockingjaysongbird

THE X FILES : The Post-Modern Prometheus (5.05)

tiredandlonelymuse

My therapist once told me, “You are the guiltiest feeling person I’ve ever met” and just to prove her right, I took it to heart. An astrologer said, “You have so much water in your chart. What is it like to feel the emotions of every single person alive, everyday?” and I wept because I sensed he was displeased. A teacher told my parents “She’s very sensitive. Far more than the other kids in her class.” I took my SATs at 9 years old, but they encouraged my mother to hold me back because of how my eyes glistened when I heard the word no. She told them to go to hell. So I cried my way through my education until high school when they said “You take everything so personally, you’ll never survive in a company environment. You wouldn’t make a good employee.” So I employed myself (out of spite or…necessity) and then later, I hired 200 people. A boyfriend told me “Don’t be so dramatic, everything isn’t a movie.” Fine, so it’ll be an album then. The doctor said “This shouldn’t hurt a bit.” I tread daily on a minefield that leaves me classifying the variations in footsteps, the tonality in voice, a change in breath. “Is everything okay? You seem mad” is my pledge of allegiance to this tightly wound bundle of flesh. I am cut open, butterflied and flayed, with every single nerve exposed like live wires and, yes, they all hurt to touch. Each interaction is a litmus test of how well liked I am, and therefore how worthy to live. I wake up every morning and the moral barometer resets, T-minus 12 hours to prove to myself that I am not the bad person I believe I must be. Sleep, repeat. An amnesiac nightmare. Prometheus on a rock and the gull in my guts is myself. I once envied those with greater armor, but not anymore. “Why do you care so much?” Guard yourself from the little grievances, but the shield does not differentiate. The space where I am vulnerable to the pain that passes through is an entry point for the microscopic good that others may miss. I live in technicolor torment. If I could do it over again and choose the comfortable grey, I would seize a knife and cut the little keyholes back into my every limb. So the light can get in.