im a writer

i wanna be there when you’re sleeping. i wanna be there when you’re lost in a daydream. i wanna be there when you’ve forgotten who you are.

Because his tall self has his perfect beautiful arms wrapped around her in her pretty dress. And her isn’t me.

I take that back.

I can feel things.

I can feel that aching, the physical aching, with each beat of my heart. Like a longing so fucking strong that I want to scream and break the speakers releasing this slow, love song that, at this moment, sounds more like a bragging girl, spilling her amazing life all over my pathetic one. Drenching me with false promises and fake smiles and secret forevers that were never really mine but I pretended were.

Because each, slow, nearly slurred, syllable is like a thousand bullets to my stomach. My stomach being that black hole, sucking in, consuming, morphing into a monster that only wants to eat me alive.

His gaze can only be described as enchanted, amazed by the first girl he’s ever laid eyes on and wanted to continue to stare at.

He’s brushing hair out of her eyes.

He’s ducking his head down, kissing her bare shoulder.

His bangs are falling into her face.

He’s making her laugh.

But her isn’t me.

And her will never be me.

And that is like a motherfucking knife to the heart, blood spattering, staining the floor if I’ve every fucking seen it.

I want to be her more than I want to take my next breath.

I inhale.

And hold.

I’m waiting.

I’m waiting.

I’m fucking waiting.

My face is burning, my lungs dying for air.

But I keep waiting because God, I’m not gonna breathe until he’s breathing with me.

I don’t want to allow any oxygen into my lungs until I’ve felt his breath hot on my neck.

I’m waiting.

And I can no longer wait.

I give in.

I breathe.

And I’m still not her.

So, I take my wobbly legs, and drag myself to the bathroom, tearing my eyes away from the scene ready to kill me.

I’m so close to moving my eyesight.

So close to leaving with my heart still intact, if only barely.

That’s when I see their lips collide.

And it hurts so bad.

So fucking bad.

This kind of pain doesn’t even deserve words but I’m going to give it words anyways because the luxury of not thinking is too hard because that would mean I have to turn off my brain therefore my body therefore my feelings and oh god I wish I could.

My body is caving in and flipping inside out, so that my sticky internal organs are exposed, bugs flying into the open wound which isn’t even a wound because it is the entirety of my being meaning that I am a wound meaning that I am a scar meaning that I HURT.

And when they smile against their pink lips, I feel my mouth begin to tremble and shake and break and I know that I am no longer flesh and bone but glass, with a painted face that is being scrubbed off by their abrasive happiness.

I

Am

A

Broken

Glass

Girl

But I am

Not

Drop.

It.

Let it fall into the all consuming black hole of society. Let it be taken, absorbed, molded into the creation of another's mind. For, if you allow it to travel from the palm of your hand, to the tip of your shoulder blade, seep into your bloodstream, and along with it your temples and brain, your thoughts can never truly be the same. They will forever be tainted with the ideology of what you can have, and what you don’t have. You will want to tear the world apart between your teeth, allow the satisfaction of destroying, leading to the obeying of humanity, become your intention, the purpose of your being.

I cannot forbid such actions, I have not been offered the humming of power beneath

the nails of my fingers, so I haven’t the right to grant this permission, nor deny you of it. Had I been given the choice-the wicked chance-I still would have refused. Or, I would make the conscious decision to decline the burden of such a proposition, however, I cannot speak for my deeper self, the one that whispers the foulest of secrets, the most intense of lies. The amount of burning hope in my chest that I wouldn’t think twice, is a flame flickering from the brightest of wildfires. Though, rationale is commonly lost in the haziest of fogs when upon a cross road. Especially if that particular cross road is brightly colored on one side, shouting your name, telling you the left is the right, correct choice, whereas the other sits quietly, praying shyly you’ll choose it. The overstimulation from the left-proclaimed right- side should steer any sane person away, but that humming of electrifying power is more dominant, leading you to unconsidered, thoughtless decisions, to the point where it couldn’t even be considered a decision, more of an action.

These actions are what terrify me to the very bone. It’s a chill that runs through my spine at the mere mention of such a curse. If this power is a spell, it is not in the wand of the beholder, but in the spectator, the one standing by watching as the blackness itches into the person’s skin, their blood, their heart, their mind.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

And my head is throbbing, in this cage I call my skull, and it pounds nails into my temples while whispering words that amplify to yells.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

Where tight smiles spill false promises and false promises create tight smiles.

My cheeks are burning from all of these tight smiles. As if, when I bare my teeth like a dog, all of the problems doing construction in my head will fade away.

As if my head is not following suit with my heartbeat as my heartbeat follows suit with my head. As the thoughts race my heart ricochets. As my thoughts ricochet my heart races.

Like they’re trying to outdo each other in a game of ping pong or tennis or basketball. Where foots stomp and the ball slams against the, once polished, now scuffed flooring.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I’m tapping my fork against my untouched plate because I fear if I eat a bite it will come up in mere seconds. My stomach is woozy, like a boat on the ocean, fighting against this epic hurricane of thoughts. But this boat is the kind in a bottle.

My bottle of emotions I continue to bottle up because no one wants to open my bottle.

But right now I’m sitting at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I need to not be sitting at my family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

But I can’t speak.

I need to speak.

My mouth is molded shut into this statue of a person I’ve become. People see the angelic carving while I’m stuck with the demonic insides. The parts people neglect.

The parts people don’t see.

“May I be excused?” I ask, in the kindest of ways, as my voice struggles against the whimper ready to escape my caged throat.

Every head turns toward me, for no one leaves the family dinner table where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

No one will own up to the fact that their emotions are a firework, the kind that sprinkles hot ashes across every part of your naked limbs as you lay there, unable to move. No one will talk about the fire, burning around us, as we all inhale the smoke from our minds into our lungs blackening them in a way that leaves us breathless.

No one will talk about the bleeding of our wounds we choose not to acknowledge, as they seep into our food, our lives, our writing, our talking. No- not our talking. Never our talking.

We never speak of such things.

For they would burn our tongues, scorch our social interactions, like a darkened match.

“You may be excused,” they answer in unison, each nodding the same way at the same time.

We are perfected soldiers preparing for war, readying to battle in a bloody war inside of our minds.

I nod, as well, slightly off beat to their own and they eye me suspiciously. Like I’m the ticking time bomb that would turn this gun powder, we call family, into oblivion.

I stand as my blood soaks the floor and my head throbs to the point it may detach itself from my neck.

What sweet release that would be.

And I walk in steps that twist my ankle, but I ignore the sting. As my legs snap in half and my arms twist and crack, I continue to walk.

For I just left my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

And every head it turned toward me.

So I must keep walking.

I trudge along with my broken cracked damaged limbs until I reach the bathroom.

The room where unspoken breakdowns happen. Where we stitch our wounds and hide the scars with a bit of concealer and mascara.

Where we flush our tears and sorrows down the drain. And we sink back into our tight smiles, tightening them each turn of the faucet.

I close the door, lightly behind me, careful not to let my desperation float into the hallway, where my family dinner table sits.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

Where, if they knew of my actions, they would drag me from this room, nails scratching against this polished wood, and set me up back at my family dinner table.

Where they wouldn’t mend me, but tighten my loose seams and cut them off with the blade of their tight smiles. Their sharp tight smiles.

I am a ragdoll, unravelling and unravelling until eventually I'll be nothing but a knotted pile of yarn.

With the door closed, the avalanche comes.

Hot, sticky tears stream down my red cheeks and a singular sob chokes my burning throat. Like the strings of my ragdoll self are tightening around my neck, suffocating me and I can’t breathe. I’m holding the strings, clutching them in my fist, yet I can’t let go.

Thoughts are still smashing against the cage that is my skull, cracking it as the sound echoes through my body, pumping my veins along. I feel like a smoggy factory, my lungs filled with smoke, my mind coated in tar.

I kneel to the floor, giving in to the all mighty power that is my mind and my thoughts and the intrusive words and phrases that are chanted.

I’m bangind on my skull, as if I’m knocking on the door of my brain, begging it to let me in. Let me know the damage, point out the leaky faucet and the creaky doors and the splintery floors. I will bring my construction team that seem to have no problem tearing apart my skull and we and they together will fix the damage.

We’ll shine the windows that are my eyes, clear them of their blurry, foggy mess.

We’ll mend the key, that is my mouth, paste back all of the skin that’s been shredded.

We’ll tape back all of the limbs that are falling off, maybe superglue if that’ll be more powerful.

We’ll sling caution tape over the darkest and dirtiest parts of my mind, the parts that make me scream inside of my body. The screams that no one seems to hear.

I smush my knuckles into my eyes, the sludgy tears smearing their inky stain against my skin, reminding me of my sin that is my emotions.

I swallow back the aches and cries that are threatening to escape my mouth, for right outside the door is my family at my family dinner table.

Where nothing is wrong but everything is not right.

I fight against my lungs for breath, until they are filled to the brim, then release it once more, like the sinking of a balloon.

I tell myself to quiet down and not be such a child. For only children cry when they know, their mommy doesn’t want them.

When their daddy doesn’t care.

And their siblings are full of despair.

Then I stand back up, my knees wobbly, and wipe away the ink filled tears.

Smear on some concealer and touch up my mascara.

And then the work is done, my sobs are all worn out.

Leaving me with nothing but a dull aching consumed by doubt.

I wash the ink, the evidence, from my hands, and wipe them across the bright white towel, leaving not a trace of blood behind.

I tighten my seams, and along with it my smile.

I walk back out the door, my limbs attached, only barely.

And then I sit back down.

I am back at my family dinner table.