It’s three hours after roll call and I can’t get out of bed.
My psych meds have been changed and I can't stay awake.
I can't focus,
And I'm more nauseous than before.
My sentences aren't coherent
And I'm trying to write for school
But all I get is this confusing,
Low quality mush of syllables that my mouth can't formulate correctly.
My veins have teeth lining their walls,
Chewing at each other's roots that make up themselves,
Cannibalistic self destruction starting inside of me.
I don't know what it's like to have smooth hands.
The only reason anyone noticed my lips is because they are bruised out of proportion,
Consequently swollen in the same way.
I don't associate myself with my image anymore
From my knotted and matting hair,
The purplish bags and lines on my face,
Swelling the sockets of my eyes,
My unexplainable need to shrink,
And the faltering of my tired voice.
I want to have my will power back.
I need to have the drive to write for days on end,
Capturing the innocence of the quiet men.
I cannot live without the ambition to teach myself,
To wake up every day without a passion
For my tangible imagines
Overfilling my creative expressions with
Pictures and paintings and poetry alike,
Nourishing this colossal world that my mind has built,
This silent sanctuary that no one can be invited to
Because it is MINE.
It is something for ME.
I can’t share it with you even if I tried
Because it was made in isolation
And founded on the theory of irrelevance
That so many find crippling
Except for me.
I need to go back to this world,
Where I create out of sheer joy,
Where I smash the teeth out of my viens
Without the judgement of anyone else,
Knowing that they wouldn’t care if I showed them anyway. I wish I was still fat.
I wish I was still considered ugly.
I wish I was still this disgusting,
Unwanted creature that created for no reason
Other than to exist.
I want to be the person who I associate myself with,
I want to be a frizzy haired,
Red faced,
Pitchy voiced child
Who no one gave a damn about.
I want to be the person which whom I associate,
I want to be someone who fixed themselves just
To know that I was right.
I need to be that person again.
I need to be a struggle story
I need to know the harsh side to every possibility
Because that is what I know.
Because that is who I know.
Because I have to remember that I was a mean,
Heartless person,
Seconds away from loosing their soul,
Who realized that they were only continuing
What they hated.
I hate that I’ve become beautiful.
I hate that I’m no longer an oddity.
I hate that some people look at me and want to know me,
I hate that I draw people without even speaking.
How are you supposed to base your attraction to me
Only superficially?
This is not a story about me.
A story about me is resurrecting a child inside,
Screaming out when I was wronged.
You can’t tell this by looking at me ­
Don’t try to say that you could see into my eyes
When I can’t tell if you want to get to know me
Or if you want to use me?
The drawings on my skin should scream out my identity
Not conform it to something that you want to see.
I’m sorry to lash out.
I’m sorry to hate something that should be considered blessed. I just want to tell you stories of grocery store clerks
Who go out of their way to make children smile
And I want you to know about blessing hiccups
And sneezes from my dogs and
I want you to know about the ferocity of my love for snails And the tears I spill over chewing gum commercials.
I want you
To get to know me.
I want to tell you the stories from my worlds
That I can never tell you.
But I can't.
I want you to know who I am,
But I am not allowing me.
For all of this,
I am sorry.