mourir mille fois

I've become obsessed with the slick wet of the pavement underneath my sneakers. The feeling of cold seeping down my back during the late walks home when I'm looking but I don't know what for.

"As you get older sadness settles, becoming more constant and weary.

I’m haunted by memories from the past. No. Hunted. My past mistakes, they want my head. And right now I just might give it to them.

I have primal urges that rise from the churning in my stomach. Things that fuel me in my actions. And inately I hate myself, destruction is what that pit in my stomach wants. I am trying to ruin myself. Because I am angry so angry at myself for everything I have ever done, And what I will do.

I kept trying to sleep.  I watched the darkness and I felt waves curl around my toes, and the sea was in my head. Soft voices fell away to the roar of the waves. I feel, in a way nothing could happen to me. I am here and I am a part of this place, the waves and sand and wind, the raindrops are all a part of me. Nothing this lasting can be destroyed. At once I had a bad idea; it drifted in my head, and cast an immovable shadow. How long can it last. A storm, reoccurring as it is, is not permanent. Suddenly I wanted to pull myself to a dream where rain was perpetual. When I blinked I was back. I closed my eyes and still I felt the desert dry air in my room, the sheets I haven’t changed in centuries and I buried my head. Burrowing until I felt the rain again.

I write this now out of necessity. And when you remember this letter later, months, days, years later, I want you to laugh at these cramped words, at the thought that you ever felt as if you would be alone forever. But part of me fears you won't laugh. That you will still have this achy hollow in your heart, the absence of love.

There’s no danger anymore So I greet him with a kiss. He’ll need to study my body again, to know it as he did before. Still we’ll create a mystery in the way we touch each other. But now his fingers are like ice. And I’m trying to be interesting, to make him look at me. But I could tell he knew. "It smells too sweet." He whispered into my hair, and I pressed my smile, folded it gently into his shoulder, like a flower in a book. I knew what he wanted to say, "its too good to be true." And he was right. He was right and it’s difficult to smile now.

So I’ve been gone, for a while, but I’m back. And I’m sure no one noticed, this is more for me than anything else. I have avoided coming back on here because I let terror consume me. I became a quiet mess. And I still am but I’ve decided to actually post my writing again. There is no reason to fear so much. And yet I do. I fear so much. I fear existence and life and decisions, oh decisions decisions, you bring me woe. And ultimately I fear that I’m not enough, that no matter what I do I won’t be enough. It hasn’t stopped but I’ve reasoned that those things will be here whether I decide to write or not. So I choose to write.

A long time ago I thought the moon followed me. I thought I was important, that I was worth something. When the moon followed me I made sure to stare right back and wave hello. I had a wide-eyed joy over the fact that the moon loved me. Because why else would it follow me? When I grew up I knew the moon didn’t follow me- I know I’m not important or worth anything. I know that it never loved me and I know so much more, like happiness being for fools. And the more I know about the real world the harder I find it to even glance at the moon. I feel guilt and shame and I feel stupid. And I know stupid is the worst thing someone can be. When I can brave a glance at the moon, it looks so pure and bright-so I turn away. Because I know better.

After me comes the flood, and the dams break, the rivers rush, birds soar above fleeing the terror of this destruction. Cawing their distress- Empty nests and stray feathers- dampness swallows everything up whole. There isnt a moment I’ve felt more.

I don’t pretend to hide my desire for pain, suffering. No. I crack jokes about it. The truth does come out in the strangest ways. While everyone laughs at my lightly self-deprecating barb sometimes I can’t help but laugh myself, because I realize how true it is, how I am so utterly alone, and deservingly so, how if no one really believed it they would say so. Sometimes I even hurt myself. I just need to physically punish myself for my sins, for my lack of goodness. Because I know I am not good. {I am not good, I am not good, I am not good.} I know this

I hurt myself again but this time I felt nothing.

I want to write until my chest is pounding. {I WANT TO FEEL SOMETHING} I want words to spill, like blood does from tender arms {WHY CAN'T I FEEL} I need to see my destruction at my own hand {BECAUSE THEN MAYBE I'LL FEEL SOMETHING}

Come alive Breathe air into my shriveled lungs Revive my soul The waves are coming in, pulling us further out to sea, Should we fight or float? Light as a feather, light as a feather, light as a feather I float away and you are submerged. The end has come Breathe life into my shriveled lungs

Salty lips, and soft tongues, A cut graces the corner of your mouth, No matter how hard I try, I will watch as you part your lips Your teeth, Yellowing from the cigarettes you won’t give up Stand proudly in a defiant grin that won’t reach your eyes A mock of happiness, never serious, always mocking A taunt teases the roof of your mouth, before spilling out, Overflow levels, teeming And I have to look away Lookawaylookawaylookaway I can’t help it, I am weak I am helpless I can’t look away

I am no bird in a gilded cage, who sings a pretty tune in its misery. I make my misery known. The only way I know how, I destroy everything. Hurricanes are envious; in fact they asked me my secret. Fear I said. And they shrugged their shoulders, not quite understanding. I never expected them to. My lack of faith should stem from something tragic; it should have roots. But it doesn’t. I destroyed them too. I live in the ruins of my past, great pillars stand, crumbling. Black scorches decorate the ground and they still feel warm. I haunt this place, I run my fingers o v e r and o v e r the edges of my memories, cradling them until I have worn them out. I can’t let go.

I plan my demise with calculated coldness. Studying the architecture of my body, the best place to cut, snipping away at myself, a surgeon with purpose and precision. No lingering hesitance, no fear, nothing but numbness. And cold. The chill reaches my snowy white bones, chilling them into ice sculptures.