"Nie mehr das alte Leid"

1:13 AM

It's crawling underneath my skin again. Feelings like vines, creeping beneath my fingernails and into the spaces behind my eyes...hollowing me out like a virulent affliction, a malicious cancer, a sneaking disease. This is the fifth night in a row that I've been kept awake by the wriggling. There's too much noise in the silence of this sleeping house. All that's left to me in the early morning hours is the empty, orange light of the little shell lamp near the bathroom door. Into that sad luminance a realization lumbers.

I'll always go back for more.

I'm sorry to be so human, so sensitive, so given to emotion. I'm sorry for feeling guilty. According to what I believe, guilt is clearly a tool of the weak. This modem glow is too much for eyes who have seen too little. I am blind, obviously; I have given up those things that would comfort me for other objects that reek of degeneracy. And were it that I could reek of degeneracy, too. All too easily these creeping vine feelings would wither. Shamelessness could be my weed-killer. If only I didn't care so much. I'm sorry for caring. I'm sorry for not taking such things in stride, and I'm sorry for folding up under your gaze.

I'm not like that, really.

I am strong. I am eloquent. I am acidic and I am addictive. I am raw. I am forward. I am sensual and I am suffering. I am beastly. I am savage. I am frightened and I am fake.

1:31 AM

Fear keeps me quiet when the line opens. Fear of saying something stupid, saying something that doesn't fit into the shape of my silhouette. The vines flower afresh, and thorns uncurl between my teeth. I blink, and those same song lyrics cling to my eyelashes. If only you would have let me linger without you. I wouldn't have seen the colored lights, and still I'd be speaking to you unabashed. I'm sorry for being so depressed when nothing calls for it. I'm sorry for raining when you'd rather me shine. I'm sorry for wanting to see you bleed.

I'll be a blue-eyed suicide for all the world to eat.

We'll never make another memory.

And what am I doing that is so bad, anyway? Curdling my truth-stock with the vile breath of lies, lies, too many lies? I've only ever told the stories that would make them love me. I am afraid right now that all I've constructed will come crashing down around my head. I am afraid that the whistle will be blown, that I will end up alone. I'm alone anyway, I suppose.

You're going to tear it out, aren't you? You're going to laugh as the
Pulsations
Pulsations
Pulsations
Stop.

1:46 AM

And at the end of the fairy-tale, I will be plastic-wrapped and drowned. The feeling-vines will creep as always, my heart will shatter, and I will be better of because of it.

I write too much and think too little. If only the creeping, wriggling, crawling would end.