#ryverthoughts

Sometimes it feels like hands are grabbing my arms, pulling me forward, or pushing me back.

It’s always something new everyday.

Always a new push, my head snapping forward, legs feeling too cold and airy.

A pill bottle full of antidepressants nudging my leg, feels like freedom won’t be tasted by me even though I need them, they aren’t mine.

A push into the wall, legs failing me, it kinda feels like Deja Vu.

The same pull of my wrist jerking the blade on my thigh, short bursts of anger.

Head in red sparks.

I tumble into the shower, now my leg is red and in dribbles.

My eyes are blue, the same color as the feeling of tears coming down in the worst of my depression.

As soon as I walked through the door of the place I stay I said I’d get away from..

Same damn drama, green, like my stomach when I threw up, clear orange and beige bile that comes up.

The food here feels like purple, like the pen I use to draw faces that have elaborate features.

They said they found me on the floor of the cabin built by firefighters, panicked, eyes wide.

Blue eyes. Like the color of the bracelet I got for an administration to help my brain.

I do not need a lifeboat.

Sometimes I take my motion pills, white, like my teeth are supposed to be.

I got sad. I drank too much coffee.

I had bad genetics. Red and blue, like lights for a car crash.

I’m pulled to the sound, my legs light and airy. The red first aid kit on my hip burns.

Red like blood, then again. A pounding in my head and a breeze pushing me away from the firefighters.

Then my head jerks and I’m pulled into another motion, yellow. Yellow like the blanket of the safehouse.

Yellow like skin when too many caffeine pills are taken, when not enough water is drunk. Like bible pages. Beige like bile.

—wait. But words are either black or white.

I always go over the railroads.

I like to think they can take me away.

Meet them at the crossroads. I don’t need glasses, I don’t need any aid or a car.

Where my feet take me is where I go.

I follow the cracked sidewalk that trips me, and go around curves of grass where trees used to be and watch the houses pass me by like I could ever have history in any one of them.

After the railroad there is a church, and I always wondered what God would think if the railroad was active and I drifted away. If I just went one day to the next city or state.

If I could ever keep time in a jar like a bug, and just see the world. I never would go that far. I always take the same route, everyday. The bus number never changes, the people I meet are the same. I freak out when I go down a different street, and I always just drift around. And for a limp, I get far away from home. Like I can limp my way far enough where problems and issues don’t follow.

I can’t ever get far enough.

Sometimes I ride the bus just to walk back.

I wish the age was younger.

I wish I was in the age of drifters and no names.

And the bullet holes in the windows fly when I leave and leave marks I see later.

I feel so different. The color green, the feeling of pink and orange.

I feel like the lungs of smoke are enough to swing chains, and the angels would cry over my soul if I ever dropped dead.

Sometimes I wish I could sleep on a bench or in the station.

The American dream of lower lower class, Motion.

Big dreams for broken bodies and older souls.

Sometimes the only time I feel pretty is when blood is being shed.

And when the blood drops to the tiles, I often imagine mushrooms growing up.

I imagine maggots churning my blood and small flesh and blades and glass becoming malleable. Beauty in blood being shed is like saying inhaling chemicals is good for you, in a way it is like social self harm.

Fifty cents to soothe a temporary problem and irreversible issues near home.

Like cigarettes in the cold, being held in a military way to be enjoyed even in the wickedest of thunderstorms.

And the woman in the hall getting breathalyzed doesn't fear any repercussions.

Nobody holds her hair back when she throws up alone, nobody holds my bloody towel when I go too deep, nobody relights a cigarette in the downpour when you’re too busy paying attention to lightning like veins in clouds mimicking fat, akin to a lonely girl's thigh. And streets you said you’d never play chicken in traffic you don’t fear because you chase a high where something as precious as your life is at play. You admit maybe three plates isn’t as bad as social self harm, yeah those wounds are deep but how deep do they get when everything is speckled when no one is watching.

A charging cable, a weak tourniquet for something you said you’d stop, the one pill recommendation becomes one, to two to five.

You turned bad, reveling in God's light. You’ve stopped caring about the devils in your sheet at night, and blood you lay in all week.

You walk for hours believing you deserved the pain, and starve yourself until you got your hands on food that made it hard to fit in pants.

Social self harm is like a card being placed in a game of BS. You lie you have one thing to cover the blood that only makes black pants sticky and hard.

And the inhale of smoke was so good, that you ignored the rain until you came back to earth, soaked.

And the smoke clinged to your hands and mouth, like mothers kisses in the dark after you got sick. —Mom played in Social Self Harm.

And you realize the girl you adored in the hall you only liked due to intoxication, and the validation of the smell she shared with your father during the only time he said he was proud of you.

And you only walked so far because the playlist went to playing songs when you were little.

And now you hide the scars, and sleep off the withdrawals, and give all the pills away.

Claiming you found God, when really you’re afraid of what comes after you get hit by the car.

You're afraid of mom finding out you're playing BS with life, and glowing due to sliding the cards face down.

You're afraid of the pants being wet and hard from the blood.

And tricking your brain into thinking God is real due to Hallucinations from too many of those pills.

Maybe when I gouge my eyes out, I can become blindly devoted to my savior and my flesh can be something maggots adore.

And when the boiling water of holiness and purity comes down on me and my crown bleeds, I can be beautiful too.

And maybe he will see my efforts and struggles and wish them away, the all father can be kind and glorious.

And when my voice cracks with my misery I hope He hears, and I know his trials aren't worth my soul.. when my faith wavers he judges.

May he judge the scars I wrote so selfishly in a way to claim my body, may his hand hurt like any other man, and may my cries be heard in an effort. May my wings wriggle in my back before bursting bloody in pain in an effort to be glorious. May my feathers coat his feet in red, and blood I was so scared to lose in life.

May he know, For a long while. I resented the man who made me, and cursed his name after every trial. May he know I spoke about him in envy and understood the devil, Lucifer. And judged my all father, like he cast on us.

In my heart that pumps with pride, in power of humanity, arrhythmia at the thought of gutting myself before him and fear at what I lack to show.

A father in mortal form I could never count on, and make proud invisioned in my all Father, forgive me because I eat, breathe and sleep in sin.

I am a control freak.

I yell at you like my mother would me.

I am the worst of them put together.

I am made of two people, both with rage.

Different triggers I would hit all the time like buttons being pressed.

I yell at you for the same thing I would be yelled at for, and then some.

I’m afraid all at once, of my mom and dad yelling.

What we do right now, as I stare into your eyes.

You have no idea what my issue is.

Why a pen in the wrong place can set me off, because when I was little that would get me in trouble.

I get loud because I don’t want to get hurt.

You’re a man, and men have always put hands on me.

Don’t blame me for being afraid, you’re bigger than me.

What if I say something I can’t take back?

Why can’t I just shut up and say you're right?

I’m sorry. I’m scared.

I was born and raised to be incredibly afraid and I don’t want to sound innocent but in a world full of wolves I’m a sheep, in a world full of coyotes I’m a doe.

I’m just trying to survive, as a minnow in shark infested waters.

I have nothing good to show, and my yellowing teeth are bared.

I would never hurt you, and if I knew how to love you, and accept what you have to offer I would.

I don’t want to carry on the hurt and pain from my mom and dad to our relationship.

I’m not an evil person, I don’t want to say vile things.

And I tend to throw other people’s things away because that’s how my things were treated.

It didn’t matter the value.

Like that one time—that time my mom threw one of my cat stuffies in the trash because I was playing with it during naptime and I ran and dug in the trash to go get my cat stuffie.

I will never forget it. The pain I felt.

I don’t play with anything during bedtime, during work. Not anymore. Sometimes you have to be vile and disgusting to get what you need.

Sometimes letting out those words help you heal inside.

And I'm sorry I made you a victim to my wounds.