#wasting game

[wordsofahoneybee]

THIS SADNESS + blackout variations K. Cináed Cahill

text id below

First Image ID: Someday, this sadness is going to kill me. No matter how I seal it and smother it, eventually it comes slipping back through the cracks, floating by like dust motes in the room you never use. Innocuous. Easily brushed away, hardly notable. Until the light catches and you realize the air is so full you could choke. I steal fragments of joy like it's some contraband item I've snuck between my ribs. I keep painting the walls with love, hoping some piece of it might stick. My sadness, this sadness is going to swallow me whole and I’ll never crawl back out again. I’m terrified of it. It follows me like a ghost of something that’s still waiting to die. It’s turned me into a hoarder, desperate and clinging and hungry. I’ve forced myself into the shape of a poet, into the body of an optimist, and crafted myself a world that’s kind. I must find brightness and joy in even the barest places. I must clip little scraps of it and keep them close to my heart. I need to force room for it in every insignificant moment, every breath, every blink, every heartbeat. I’m rationing out love to myself, like it's something that’s going to run out. I’m waiting for it to run out. I must believe the universe is full of love, that love is the core, the point, the foundation. Maybe then, there will be some extra for me. Enough that no one will notice if I skim just the smallest amount off the top. I think I will always be hungry for love and I think, someday, I am going to starve. END ID

Second Image ID: this sadness is going to kill me. it comes slipping  through the cracks, floating by like dust motes. the air is so full you could choke. joy is contraband I’ve snuck between my ribs. My sadness, this sadness is going to swallow me whole. I’m terrified of it. It follows me, desperate clinging and hungry. I must clip little scraps of me. I need to force room for every insignificant moment, every breath, every blink, every heartbeat. I’m rationing out myself. I’m going to run out.  I’m waiting to run out. I must believe the universe is full of love, that love is the core, the point, the foundation. Maybe then, there will be enough of me. END ID

Third Image ID: Someday, this sadness is going to be innocuous. Easily brushed away, hardly notable. The light catches and you realize the air is clear. Joy is painting the walls with love. My sadness, this sadness is going to die.  I’ve forced myself into the shape of a poet, into the body of an optimist, and crafted myself a world that’s kind. I find brightness and joy in even the barest places. Love isn’t going to run out. The universe is full of love. Love is the core, the point, the foundation. There is enough for me. END ID

[wordsofahoneybee]

i was broken before all of it. that's the real kicker, i never stood a fucking chance. it's so easy to forget that, get caught up in all the trauma that came after. the fucked-up-ed-ness of my family and my grief and my abuse. because i'm still flinching. but i was like this before any of that. that's how it started, remember? a chemical imbalance that fucked up a perfectly good ten year old. and that's something to be angry about now, a neon sign flashing validation. here's something to be angry about. cry for the child who didn't get a choice, cry for her, she didn't know what was wrong. she didn't have a reason to be broken, it just happened one day. and there wasn't a why so maybe she made one. maybe that's why it happened. maybe it all got mixed up and there was always going to be all this hurt and i just started feeling it early. i don't believe in destiny, but maybe that's why it's fucking me over. there's no “before” to go back to and that's something to be angry about, too. it's not fair, none of it is fucking fair, it should have been kind. i deserved for it to be kind.

[wordsofahoneybee]

i am tired of writing about tragedy i’m tired of unmaking it into art my arms are sore, i don’t want to hold it any longer i’m not being petulant, i promise i just thought when you handed me this thing, you’d come and take it back i’m not so arrogant as to compare myself to Atlas; my burden is not so heavy, and i am not so strong but even holding out an empty hand aches, eventually and i’d like to rest

K. Cináed Cahill

[wordsofahoneybee]

8.18.21

[Text ID: Sometimes i think this body was never meant to be mine, that it resents all the ways i can't fit quite right.Like this skin is something i've stolen, a house that i'm haunting. Like pain is a punishment for not giving it back. A landlord shutting off the power when i can't pay rent. Get out get out get out none of this is meant for you.]