#journal ;

[wydwest-blog]

Journal 001; Mercury

He looks at me with disdain- blood dripping from his knuckles like wine. We can never tell if it’s his or mine. When he speaks, I hear the words of affirmation clinging to me like a lost child.

“There’s nothing left in you to love,” he whispers, words crashing like freight trains. The pain is real as he kisses my cheek. It’s not the way normal way kids get kissed- it’s all fist and no lips. “There wasn’t anything to love to begin with.”

My hands will shake against the wooden floor boards, begging to find something to hold. I know he’s right, I know how worthless I am. He repeats the words like a mantra as he strikes me again, whiskey burning my nostrils and dancing under my skin. I won’t beg him to stop, won’t argue because I know it’s what I deserve. I hear the fabric of my shirt rip, the way his fingers lace in my hair to replace his grip.

“Look at me,” he demands, fingers burning against my jaw as he forces our eyes to clash. The room feels suffocating- goosebumps rising like shields. Love was never a word I found swimming in his eyes, not when he looked at me. Laughter bubbles in my throat, the hysteria setting in as his palm writes a five line poem on my cheek. There’s nothing beautiful about this, just harsh words and blatant truth.

Hands wrap around my throat, stealing away the laughter and my breath. The last picture of mom falls as my back collides with the wall- glass shattering like her own neck. I know what he did and know that he’d do it all again; I just wonder when. An impending doom and a fate that’s sealed as my vision spots.

“She clawed at my hands,” he starts, my own gripping my shirt. I don’t fight back because I know I deserve this. What am I holding on for? What do I have to fight back for? Nothing. “You’re so pathetic you can’t even do that. You know how worthless you are, don’t you?”

My lips begin to tingle, heat building under my eyelids as I’m denied the life he gave me. Our eyes lock for a moment, his fingers tighten like a vice until I can’t even gasp. I can feel the blood leaking from my nose, the pressure building in my head.

Then it stops.

I’m on my knees gasping for air, arms too weak to hold myself up, wood biting into my cheek. There’s a pain in my ribs as he pushes me over, malice in his grin as he watches me struggle. He leaves without a word, doesn’t spare a glance as I lay in the dark when he shuts the light off. There’s glass digging into my feet, licking my calves and calling me home. Moonlight trickles in from stained glass, painting me in hues I only wish I could be. Purple was never a color for me- one reserved for royalty. Red dances in my vision, hands covering oceans until I know only darkness once again. Pathetic is all I’ll ever be, right dad?

The anxiety sets in, my mind repeating all the homework I have to do. A coping mechanism, if you will. Distracting until there’s nothing but elements filling my brain. The floor wobbles beneath me, blood rushing like rivers.

“Figure out the titration quantity,” I whisper, fingers dragging along the walls until my feet are climbing stairs. Autopilot has taken over, mind elsewhere as I open my door without really being there. “Write the procedure. Figure out the quantity.”

I sound like a broken record, repeating the words like they’re the only ones I know. The notebook stays blank, begging to have everything spilled like mercury. This rage begins to build as I can’t seem to focus, can’t bring my hands to write the equations.

Then, it comes out like fire, eating the page with such rage. I’ll write about how pathetic I am, how I deserve everything that he’s done until the letters spell, ‘worthless’. 

[wydprince-blog]

Journal 001- Cataclysms from Space to the Ocean

“Say it,” I whisper into the night, the words stretching like fingers in her hair. I beg her one last time, to tell me she doesn’t love me- that everything we ever had was a lie. The words, ‘make it easier,’ are tucked away like our love in thorned vines. These pinks and golds have never looked so breathtaking before, dancing on her skin the same way my lips used to. I’ll regret this, but I’ll regret letting her fall in love with me more.

“Please,” I plead, my finger tips delicate as they hold her wrist- a fading life line. There’s something in her eyes, a cataclysm of everything we could have been. I can feel the world shake as violently as my body will once the chemo starts. It’d be harder to have her by my side, whispering words of love into my rotting skin. My own brain is stealing away the man I am- clawing through my laughter and gripping my tongue. This is always for the best, leaving before the sun engulfs all that it can. I want the casualties to be at the bare minimum.

“Kat, I want you happy,” the words feel like acid climbing up my throat, spitting the truth, but not in the way I want. My lips will always form her name in my sleep, my hands wandering empty sheets. It’ll be better than her seeing me on sleepless at night, hugging the cold porcelain and begging God to take me home. This feels like I’m a black hole, ripping and warping everything around me until they no longer know who they are. “I can’t make you happy.”

The sun has set, the golden hues no longer kissing her lips. It feels too dark, too cold to be who we truly are. We’ve sunk to the bottom of Mariana’s Trench, no longer finding light. We used to be able to find that light in one another, but the pressure down here is so suffocating. I can’t hold my breath much longer- can’t hide the shift in tectonic plates as this pain swallows me whole. I feel like an anchor down here, holding her hostage until she’s as dead as I am. I have to let her go. The last great cataclysm was 7,000 years ago, but I feel like that has changed as I watch her leave.

[wydeli-blog]

Broken Astronomer; Journal 002

There’s this scream lodged in my throat and I’m afraid it will go as unheard as my pleas. Tell me again how worthless I am, dad. Preach to me like you do the choir until I am on my knees begging for God to save me once again. He used to be a beacon of hope for me until I grew up and realized I was the only one who could help myself. I’m not eight anymore and I stopped being eight the moment I realized I was only good enough for bruised skin and broken dishes. Withdrawn from the world like you withdrew from me when my Mother died, dad tell me again why I’m not worthy. Scream in my face until I am soaked in your spit because I deserve it. Hammer into my head once again that it wasn’t the cancer that took her, but the stress I put on her. If I scrub my hands raw enough, I can trick myself into believing this blood is mine and not my Mother’s. Antiseptics and chemical burned skin haunt me at midnight like the shuffle of her feet against the hardwood floors. 

When I find myself on the bathroom floor, covered in tears and blossoming bruises, all I can think about is the time I tried drowning myself in that very tub. Tucked away behind my back like a support beam whispering ‘I can make it all go away, Elliot’. I relished in the bellow my lungs gave before the water filled my airways, trying to fill in all the empty parts of my soul. Rip me from the water right as the world fades and remind me again who has control of my life, dad. Tear apart my skin with words like the razor blade I used at sixteen trying to find some sort of control. 

Scars litter my back like constellations and most nights, I find comfort in the fact that I made them. A broken astronomer trying to find home when he doesn’t even know what ‘home’ means. My father's knuckles wrap against my body trying to find a place that isn’t hollow. He crushed me from the inside out until I was nothing but a faint heartbeat. I’m waiting for the moment where he finally decides that I am a worthless punching bag that’s flatter than my mother’s will and I don’t provide him with what he needs. His hand feels like the weight of disappointment; the blows rattling around in my hollow ribs until I am ready to crumble.

I remember the day he smashed my fingers in the mahogany dust cover on the piano over and over and over- waiting for the white to be tainted crimson. I haven’t played since then and I don’t think the tendons in my fingers would allow that. My father told the doctor that Emerson Galloway had a bout of envy because of how I poured my soul into what I played. I understand now that those keys belonged to the lock on my fathers heart and I was not worthy of such a thing. I want to scream until my vocal cords are raw and I sound like the flat line of my mother’s heart monitor. There’s this heat that courses through my veins and threatens to singe off my skin without a second thought. When it’s three a.m. and I’m left alone with my thoughts, I’ve come to recognize this burn as rage. There’s this voice in my head that tells me it’s not only for every wrong that I’ve done, but for letting my father take away my innocence. 

I never got to experience the life of a kid, no scraped knees from playground fights, only bloody lips from my father's knuckles. He tells me I’m lucky he hasn’t killed me yet, lucky that he didn’t do to me what I did to my mother. If I shut my eyes tight enough, I can feel the love behind the sting of his knuckles, the bitter kiss placed upon them. I’m only a canvas of violets and royal blue, streaks of black on an empty background. I won’t be missed when my dad pulls the plug and lets my blood pool on the linoleum. I’ll be an erased mistake, a broken astronomer, an unheard scream. Tell me again, dad, how I deserve the kiss of your knuckles on my skin.

[dimora-del-immorale]

[ I think I'd get along well with Bill Cipher. We both enjoy games and love manipulating people. I'd like to meet him for some small talk.]

[impurs-blog]

       I only just remembered how, not too long ago, a young girl told me she was my biggest fan. I hear that all the time so I never really thought anything of it in the moment but it's kind of... I don't know.

       That means she looks up to me, right? That's usually what happens when you're a fan of someone. I know that most of my fans are guys, and I really think that was the first time a girl came up to me and said she admired me. Does that mean there's other girls out there like that, too? 

       Maybe I'll be able to make a difference in the future for people like her.

[impurs-blog]

     I think this is why I love him.

[impurs-blog]

     Well. I was right.