I’ve asked myself, prostrated on this throne of all the memories of the times I’ve cursed my own name, to what it means to even exist. The courses of hatred run so deep within myself, and yet it is this final rejection that makes me fear none; the stone that casts the largest shadow avoids the light. For that stone that creates such a masterpiece can only prove as such with the sun opposite it. But I tremble in the day for I am slowly becoming night, a blanket of shadow much bigger than the biggest stone or mountain staining the earth.
To possess the strength I need in order to affirm to myself that all that I am in the little ways is beyond the exceptional, requires me to gather myself up in villainous mindsets, and shameless abashment.
I find the closest ways I am myself is when I charge ahead, unafraid of the consequences. When those fears niggle at the back of my head, I cannot but shout in outrage towards the laps of rope tying me down. But I am shameless in the ways that I call the rope and berate it for existing. I am shameless in all the ways I shout my faults to the world when others hide theirs. For I will no longer be afraid of the burden of my failures, but allow them to harden me to my own demise.
My world spirals away from me, in promises of death, and in whispered secrets of wasted time. I mourn for all the things I cannot have, and all the things taken; yet, I fervently hold to the pieces of myself I am too shameless to let slip into the light, too obstinate to allow them to go. Those pieces of myself, hidden, I band to harden them until they can surface, no longer soft to touch.
And in some twisted way, opportunity is juxtaposed to death. The shadow that lies in my heart asks the question: Is this a distraction from all the ways your mind is unsuited for the ecosystem?
I cannot be happy in the simple, but the psychotic breaks that mark the lulls in my time. I have always found that what others find rewarding, I find myself too passionate to liken to. I assume that the fault in my soul has always been the dissatisfaction of living, my own heart rejecting its sour piece of irony. For every time my mind has broken, shattering glittering pieces of glass on the path, it has mended in different ways.
I feel my mind shattering and I demand it rights itself immediately; every day is like holding onto a fragile piece of hope, the silken road draining to a pool of red poppies. It is tied around my neck, the fabric of it, not the rope, rubs burns and then blisters and bruises on the untouchable. As night turns to early morning dawn, my neck is tight and I cannot breath. At the precipice of sleep, I am reminded of that silken thread around my throat and it awakens me in the deepest fits, throws me from the deepest nightmare.
I become all the breaths I cannot breathe; all the breaths I’ve held. There’s no room in my lungs from all the things I’ve held in there. I struggle for all the shadows casting light on the sleep that alludes me, that steals the breath from my lungs, that hangs the glory of that sweet relief to the wayward direction of mental disparity.
This time I ask for the healing to be swift, to leave all the parts too weak for this ecosystem to meet their time in the fields of poppies, drunk on the fate of belladonna. I cannot waste time with securing those fragile things; every time my mind breaks, the silk tightens and I may not wake up from the precipice of sleep.