Been in Bruxism punishment, rasped my whole life. When shit get too much for me (like often overwhelmingly) it’s teeth ground or nail bite reactionary puppet. Autonomous sabotage, deprecation programming reportage. I’m corrupted.
Terrible Toad hands horrid and hidden. Sadly I cut the sleeve off, but still beating. So in vanities gaze, I adopted to crushing, pressure on canines. Rounding each other.
Insights in why, incisors have flats on, molars, like plateaus, no topography to shred with. Fantasy phenomena, filling my mind, simultaneously unconsciously, I indeterminately grind.
Now, pointed out to me, I notice, it instantly, anticipate causality. Reaction empathy. Fight outdoor fear to flight traumatically. I’ll find a stone. Stay out of sight, instinctively.
Kindly, manor, sedative savour. Sour taste of Diazepam gazer. Lisping and listless, but joy filled, amazing.
Experientially, memories blurred, no sensation, (none) just discombobulated sounds and words.
The road drill-dread, that consumed my head, evaporated, off-passed on quietly instead. Lush lullaby replacing panics domain. Plausible, peaceful listening to wave.
Plucked out as teardrops, nerve-ending strays. Snapped off the sensors, no more dismay.
Dammed up the doorway, topped off the eave, sparkling amalgam, silver belief.
No, no now, I’m in wonder, I’m left in a calm, as so reassured, the sedatest of psalms. The tense monster fled, good riddance you fuck! Replaced reassurance with fortitudes pluck.
The forma misnomer, invisible prodder, exorcised demon, a seed to recovery.
About the Creator
Paul Beckett
I’m a writer, horologist & joy filled fantasist. Reality to me is plastic. I’m fascinated with time, quantum physics, analogue and fashion.
My writings at least 69% autobiographical, often 99%
Fav:Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams- S.Plath
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskara day ago in Feast
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