Hurting (black-eyed angels)...
12:17 AM
They're there. I can feel them stretch like long-held notes. I can hear them unfurl...and now I feel them creeping, wriggling, sneaking beneath my skin.
The vine-feelings have blossomed again this night.
I haven't found my defoliant quick enough.
Too little eating, too much growth, too few comforts, too many fears. I see Bernini's 'The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa' and desperately wish that such pious, pure rapture would enfold me.
Just once. Just this once, while I struggle against the urge to bleed. Just this once, please.
I want very much to be completely blanketed in sound. I wish I could wrap a melody, a song, a few lyrics around me and over me...I want so very much to be completely immersed in a sea of sound. Maybe then I could silence the guilt and the sorrow. Everything I do is wrong, everything I say is hollow. Every action I take is suspended in time like an insect in amber, and those actions are hurled back at me with all the dexterity and swiftness of a lead bullet (when the sniper sees fit, mind you). I do my best to comfort those who act as their own wardens in grey mind-prisons, but I think I come up short. I think I dive into the static waters, but like a weight I help them to sink.
"I'm drowning in nothing;
Nothing's real...
Nothing's left...
Nothing."
I can't give you what you want, you know. I have nothing left to give.
I am all bitterness. All lost faith. All lost love.
12:33 AM
My head hurts. Too much thinking. Not enough sleeping. Like I do a lot of that, anyway. This last night I got about three hours. There. The 'Pyramid Song' again. I needed that.
"I jumped into a river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me..."
I'm so tired. So very, very tired. Lulled into complacency by keeping house and cleaning up after four children, a mother, and a stepfather. They have the nerve to ask me, then, why I think I need to go out every night. I'm sorry...but I won't be kept home for the sheer sake of providing them with some small measure of comfort. I don't have comfort now. Why do they think they deserve it? I'm home all day, worrying about whether my sick mom will be able to make it through work without having a panic attack, worrying about whether anyone will get angry because I hung the clothes out on the line and they got a little stiff, worrying about whether I'll be able to do the dishes and not relish the feeling of a chipped glass against my palm.
Isn't that pathetic? I'm disgusting.
Still waging a war against what's hiding in the bottom pocket of my backpack. The house is cold again. Last night it wasn't nearly as dead. The little orange light still shines, my back still aches, and my room is in complete disarray. I jumped into the river. Black-eyed angels swam with me. I moved along the crumbling sand...and clawed my way further down. Good night. The victor has been decided. I've lost the battle.
They're there. I can feel them stretch like long-held notes. I can hear them unfurl...and now I feel them creeping, wriggling, sneaking beneath my skin.
The vine-feelings have blossomed again this night.
I haven't found my defoliant quick enough.
Too little eating, too much growth, too few comforts, too many fears. I see Bernini's 'The Ecstasy of Saint Theresa' and desperately wish that such pious, pure rapture would enfold me.
Just once. Just this once, while I struggle against the urge to bleed. Just this once, please.
I want very much to be completely blanketed in sound. I wish I could wrap a melody, a song, a few lyrics around me and over me...I want so very much to be completely immersed in a sea of sound. Maybe then I could silence the guilt and the sorrow. Everything I do is wrong, everything I say is hollow. Every action I take is suspended in time like an insect in amber, and those actions are hurled back at me with all the dexterity and swiftness of a lead bullet (when the sniper sees fit, mind you). I do my best to comfort those who act as their own wardens in grey mind-prisons, but I think I come up short. I think I dive into the static waters, but like a weight I help them to sink.
"I'm drowning in nothing;
Nothing's real...
Nothing's left...
Nothing."
I can't give you what you want, you know. I have nothing left to give.
I am all bitterness. All lost faith. All lost love.
12:33 AM
My head hurts. Too much thinking. Not enough sleeping. Like I do a lot of that, anyway. This last night I got about three hours. There. The 'Pyramid Song' again. I needed that.
"I jumped into a river and what did I see?
Black-eyed angels swam with me..."
I'm so tired. So very, very tired. Lulled into complacency by keeping house and cleaning up after four children, a mother, and a stepfather. They have the nerve to ask me, then, why I think I need to go out every night. I'm sorry...but I won't be kept home for the sheer sake of providing them with some small measure of comfort. I don't have comfort now. Why do they think they deserve it? I'm home all day, worrying about whether my sick mom will be able to make it through work without having a panic attack, worrying about whether anyone will get angry because I hung the clothes out on the line and they got a little stiff, worrying about whether I'll be able to do the dishes and not relish the feeling of a chipped glass against my palm.
Isn't that pathetic? I'm disgusting.
Still waging a war against what's hiding in the bottom pocket of my backpack. The house is cold again. Last night it wasn't nearly as dead. The little orange light still shines, my back still aches, and my room is in complete disarray. I jumped into the river. Black-eyed angels swam with me. I moved along the crumbling sand...and clawed my way further down. Good night. The victor has been decided. I've lost the battle.
posted by Ophelia at 12:49 AM
1 Comments:
I read your work, and my shoulders feel so weak.. I don't think I could even support you if I was near.. And the way you write blows my mind, I feel like I just shattered..
"I can't help but think,
Someone's forsaken you and me"
- My Mistake
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