I want to tear at my skin.
I want to take blade and just RIP it through each tiny thread of fabric of my substance that my body calls a Barrier and pull it apart.
every piece of life has a slip of skin.
I feel each string just tear the fuck apart when I cut.
there is a disconnect, an abandonment, a fucking Freedom.
yet, a forever Loss.
I want to bleed.
I want to open my Hide, and from there I see a red stream trickling down my thigh — or breast or arm or leg or stomach or wherever, depending on my affliction at the time.
I want to Hurt; I want to fucking Feel.
because it makes me real, it makes me actual — not just a goddamn statistic anymore.
I spend so much of this life feeling like I’m pretending, I’m faking, I’m applauding while appalling and generally alluding to Living,
yet never actually Leaving.
I am getting near Done.
I hear Him cry.
my Cat. my Child. my true Love.
I hear how He bellows when He feels alone because the doors are closed and He can hear and see no one and feels so alone.
but we all make that noise.
and so few hear.
and those of us who do, we are expected to Ignore it.
would I say these things “sober” (I’ve had two drinks)?
would I say these things in company of others (my boyfriend and couch-surfer friend are at Taco Bell)?
would I say these things if I knew someone was looking over my shoulder (when are we Alone versus just alone?)?
because we never say what we need to when someone is actually Listening….
we are nasty naturally self-destructive creatures. and we should be forsaken.
yet instead, we talk. we converse.
to ourselves, of course.
and sometimes, to one another.
to people of the same goddamn circle.
the same fucking circle
who can’t fucking do shit.
all these fancy pretty blogs that have gifs and images to break up the seriousness of their topics. you want a picture? well, fucking choke on this — it’s called the goddamn truth: