E X A M P L E S; SELF MONOLOGUE EXCERPTS
examples of an experiment i once tried: mixing green apple vodka into my coffee; tangy, harsh. it slid down my throat like acid to a face - B U R N I N G. i fell into a sleep, a sleep that gave me heavy dreams. dreams of loving myself, dreams of loving someone else ( honestly, not like i loved ollie - the entire premise was pushing the boundaries of honesty - i ruined him, i ruined myself ). dreams of building a throne from the bones i’ve crushed & left behind with the remnants of my past; bones of the relationship i once held dear with amarion, bones i once grasped between the skin on my grazed fingers. dreams & invisionaries of dipping myself in saltwater, watching my skin PRUNE into that of an elderly ( my natural form - my age may be young but my body has had more than enough; it’s ready to recoil into it’s final resting place & reside there for the eternity ). as i dreamt i listened: listened to the sounds of silence, ME being silent. ha, that’s a strange concept. silence became something of the past many moons ago, when my story was seemingly promised of a happy ending. silence became a distant memory, a could-have-been ( much like my happy ending, of COURSE ). i once read a book i seldom to recall the title of. i don’t remember much of it actually, but there was a line. a line: leave room in your bed for nobody. leave room in your bed for nobody but yourself - love YOU first, & allow others to earn your love in future. books do that a lot, don’t they? romanticize. they always talk about the broken girl & the boy who goes out of his way to save her. they always talk about happy endings & ways out - how does that go again? it’s always okay in the end; if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. ha! what a joke ( i don’t know the punchline but if i had to assume, it would be something that speaks of further broken souls & suicides - because no, nothing is okay in the end, & false expectations only prolong the suffering ).
examples of the longest nights of my life: i’m not very good at love, some people just aren’t. isn’t that how it works? some people are born to love, care & caress deeply. some people allow it to run through their veins & become inhabitated within them: love, that is. the rostom name doesn’t carry that gene. one night i recall my father coming home; the sound of the door SLAMMING the door so hard behind him i swear to god ( religion, disbeliefs are more logical: the only time i’ve ever been on my knees is for the purpose of something least holy ) that it shook the entire house. one night i recall my mother breaking her teeth on the broken shards of vodka bottles to ease her pain ( numbing lotions don’t work, she’d say. a mugs game; just drink up & shut up ). i think she stopped breathing when he died. no, really. it’s possible to become a ghost whilst you’re still alive ( i know, i’m experiencing it ). she experienced it - she IS experiencing it. if you carry the rostom name you’re immediately prone to experiencing it, we aren’t meant for loving & caring & caressing. we all have parts of us that over time have become mangled, torn & ripped at the edges. our father was alive & he took pieces of our souls each day. our father is dead, & he took pieces of our souls to that G R A V E with him ( he was selfish like that; it’s reassuring to know that we carry his most recessive trait ). one night i recall scrubbing dried blood from the bathroom sink for hours on end, awaiting the moment amarion walked through the door with aria from the emergency room with bandages on her wrist & mascara around her hollow eyes. a boy she loved had told her he didn’t love her anymore: she became a flurry of rushed sentences & broken words for a few days, & then we found her in a dishevelled mess on the floor. the doctors bandaged her SCARRED wrists & told her that she’d be okay. she wasn’t - she hasn’t been since. everything isn’t okay in the end, & each time somebody ripped a part of the rostom family away, we all became significantly ghostly.
examples of a conclusion i have come to: this is all i’ll ever be - i have become an inhabited shell of BROKEN MEMORIES & shocking memories. this is where i am, this is where i’ll always be. i am achilles, the broken greek god who seemingly doesn’t know how to rule. my heart is where my home is: cracked hinges & a collection of the souls I have destroyed in an attempt to retrieve my own. this is me chasing castles, chasing my brain with ideas of happiness & self-love. i am not worthy of loving, because i destroy anything that comes close - kill it with fire, as the saying goes. i am not a fire escape, & cannot be loved as such. i am the match, i am the burning flames that melt your skin beyond the realms of no return in attempt to get to what’s inside. everybody catches fire sometimes before we get warm, but i prefer to light others with my ignite: for their burning makes me feel A L I V E.
