I know it's difficult loving me
This big broken heart of mine
Please excuse my personality
'Cause it's on the borderline
The first night and the last night I was admitted to a mental institution were 8 years apart. The first night was a crumbled piece of lined paper, streaked with pencil smudges and the edges still ripped from the notebook. I still see my sister sitting in the waiting room for me, as she always did, attached to my side and my partner in crime. The last night was an officer dragging me from my front door, without a bra and waving with a kitchen knife swollen wrist.
Shades of Green
She was the first one to make me feel that unsettling and bone chilling way I did when she held me. When she wrapped me in her twisted arms and kissed me with her lying lips on my forehead. This strange feeling of longing for acceptance, even when I was right there intertwined with her broken body. Always wondering where we stood, always wondering what she thought in that demon infested mind of hers. And she was the first person I have ever been in love with who didn't love me back.
It’s been about a year since I’ve had to chew and swallow your bits and pieces. Every now and then I feel the after effects of the narcissistic abuse you've given to me, and sometimes it's as simple as me noticing someone with a full head of curly brown hair. The post trauma picks at my scabs and leaves them wide open and bloody, never fully healed. I’ve developed a refined acquired taste for buttered over-burnt edges and bitterness. The hostility turned into familiarity turned into clarity. I took the smell of salt water home with me after all the days I spent emptying my obsession into repression into depression. Anything you’ve ever touched has been burned because you won’t be here to touch any tangible material again. I still smell your breath the night you pushed me into traffic and dared me to move a muscle. Precariously, I tuck myself tightly into bed, just incase you pull the sheets out from under me. I've told you before; it's not a magic trick if I don't disappear.
I overindulge and shovel globs of fluffy, velvety ice cream into my small, round mouth, glossed with delusions of oil and vinegar. My tongue paralyzes after the mortifying aftertaste of highly saturated fat and sugar. Every bone in my body stretches and cracks before joining together to play the failure's violin. Beads of sweat contour my forehead and burst into rivers, running down my face. The elastic skin around my eyes reaches around and pinches every corner when I can't bare to look into the bowl. These two polished fingers could be anywhere else buried under pillows but they were gouging my heart out through the tube of my sore throat, digging for bones and dead things like a rabid dog. My stomach tenses and the waves twist and melt at the sides like the mutilated top of a cone.
I can't stop hurting myself. worrying about when the clock strikes 12, when the sun will catch our blankets on fire, when the rug will be ripped from under my feet. losing myself and seeing my inner child through your round chestnut brown eyes, feeling like someone is playing a sick joke on me. giving me you. to think that I am being held by you without a cost. not knowing when our time is up, or when you'll decide to go, or when I might get tired of waiting for this eventual fate, and run away as far as your doe eyes can't reach.