The sadness came and it didn’t look like you or the words that erupted like volcanoes from your vocal cords. It looked like me with my eyes wide watching every mistake I’ve ever made in the mirror on my bathroom wall. It looked like every last drop of alcohol that comforts my throat at 10 in the morning. My knees bleed and I make sure I don’t remember falling.
My only escape are these words but I always want to pull my eyelids over my body like my bed sheets every time I write them. I’ve always blamed myself for my parent’s silence. If my father couldn’t love my mother, how could anyone ever love me? I’m ashamed of comparing that closet door to my body. And how it still comes mind every time I try to slam it shut into the depths of my mental crawl space.
I feel like the blood rushing through my veins is turning to rust and no matter how hard I try my mind refuses to rest. It runs like the second hand on a wall clock and stress crawls up my spine weaving spider webs in and out of my vertebrae. No matter how hard I try to sweep them under the beds of my fingernails like an old couch and forget, they always seem to find their way back.
I’d crack my ribs to pull you out from where you reside inside me but I’ve never been strong enough. I’d fuck up all my organs but that wouldn’t make me any thinner.
My body is nothing but a hive made of bones harbouring swarms of pointless thoughts and I’d do anything to exterminate them. But that’s not my line of work.
The loneliness pours in waves and I can never breathe while dryly drowning. The cigarettes don’t help either but when you’re scratching your skin to stop thinking, they give your hands something to do. I’m losing the small grip on reality that I’m still holding onto by a pinky and thumb.
And if my walls could speak, they’d say “I’m sorry”. So I’ll continue to break my fingers praying I’d die in my sleep and lose myself in these sheets, feeling like these are my last words.