Her thoughts break her

Her thoughts break her
Her thoughts make her
The never ending stream of worry
The pain she tries to bury
Obsessing over events that may occur
Memories insanely obscure
The makings of her story
Showing herself no mercy
Regrettable choices; depression may incur
Searching to make happiness recur
Trying to survive makes her weary
A happy soul becomes dreary
Her thoughts break her
Her thoughts make her

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Hadn’t said a word to her.

(Part 2)

The needle pricked her skin. She hardly noticed. It is oddly extraordinary how mental pain can completely mask physical pain. She was deep in thought. She replayed the beautifully haunting events that had incurred a few weeks ago. The nurse yanked the needle from her skin along with the tube of blood she had drawn. “I’ll take this to the lab and we will give you a call letting you know your results,” the nurse said as she rushed out the door. She sat confused. Was she supposed to leave or wait for some other strange form of examination? She decided to wait a few minutes then leave if no one returned. Just as she came to this decision the doctor came in. “Oh good, I see you put the robe on, let’s go ahead and take a look then.” She began to shake again. How had something like love lead her to this? How could so-called passion lead to emotionless examination of her “forbidden parts.” Her mind wandered back to the cause of these events. She was laughing as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders pulling her close. He whispered to her, only her, “I love the sound of your laugh.” “Does this hurt,” the doctor’s quick and sharp words brought her back to reality. “No,” she answered. The doctor gathered his things, told her everything seems fine, and that she could go. As she rushed out the words of a nurse rang behind her, “we’ll call you with your results.” She glanced at her phone hoping he had text her. As she expected, no reply. He hadn’t said a word to her since that night. She walked towards the bus stop, tears filling her eyes. She thought it was love. She craved him. She thought he felt the same. They had met only two months ago, but she thought soulmates, or something like that, love each other quickly. The princess met the prince, immediately fell in love, and married a few days following, right? So where is he? Why has he not called or text? She stood at the bus stop. Noticed the man undressing her with his eyes, even though tears were falling down her face.

This is the second part of an ongoing short story serious I will be doing. The first story is called “Ever Since He Had Touched Her.”

The painful shit we must embrace

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Each day it’s a frustration
or possibly a form of complication
Glimmering tear on your face
Another loss in this race
We seem to withhold at every limitation
say it’s simply a misrepresentation
Yet we must keep pace
Or they will leave us without a trace
I feel your hand with it’s hesitation
Waiting to provide my damnation
Watching, feeding off my disgrace
Try to tell me I’m a mental case
It’s considered a crime this generation
They say even without the premeditation
Only trying to maintain my space
But they’ve found my hiding place
Snap, and it’s internal deprivation
Not to mention the hunger or privation
Your seemingly happy life they replace
The painful shit we must embrace

Ever since he had touched her.

She leaned forward on the edge of her seat. She felt the sweat drip down the back of her legs. She was nervous the seat would be wet when she stood. Then everyone would be able to see how the heat and hidden nerves were affecting her. Pretty, skinny girls aren’t suppose to sweat, at least that’s what society had told her. She tore her skin from the leather bench in the waiting room. She regretted wearing the shorts that had exposed the skin that stuck to the seat. Every moment only intensified the nerves and fear. The doctor stared at her with a disapproving smile as she slowly inched towards him. She knew the way the world looked at a girl who should look innocent, but covered it up with piercings, tattoos, and revealing clothes. The skin exposed that she’s supposed to be ashamed of. The doctor greeted her with a “this shouldn’t take long.” She hadn’t even considered it taking long. She didn’t know how long it took to see if you had an STD or as they say it, an unplanned pregnancy. She wasn’t sure what was wrong with her. Or.. What wasn’t wrong with her. She felt sick. All the time. Ever since he had touched her. Maybe it was all in her mind or maybe his “love” had infected her. The doctor lead her to an entirely white room or supposed-to-be white room. He quickly told her, “the nurse will be with you in a moment, get undressed.” She found herself shaking after hearing his words. Why is getting undressed so scary? She hardly had any clothes on anyways, but it frightened her. She felt exposed and vulnerable. She didn’t feel like her body was her own, but rather an object awaiting manipulation and examination. The nurse yanked the door open, making her jump. “I’m going to take some blood,” she said blandly.

Interested? I’ll add more to the story every couple of days!(:

The Mirror Crack’d

The Mirror Crack’d.

A world without mirrors? A world without self external sight. Would this really change a thing?  It is said that if we saw an exact clone of ourselves we wouldn’t even realize because our idea of our physical selves is so different from what the outside world sees. We see what we feel. We can’t disconnect our emotions and insecurities from what our eyes see in a mirror. So what if we take this mirror away? Will we be less insecure? Will people be less judgmental? It is quite possible; if we cannot see ourselves who are we to judge others, right? I can blame mirrors for the ugly truth or I can see what we are irregardless. Mirrors are closely related to self reflection, obviously. Although we focus entirely too much on the physical image, some more than others, we also see into ourselves; the insecurities and the emotions we hide within. Have you ever looked at a mirror and tried to smile while you were completely melancholic? You become so aware of how fake it seems. Have you seen yourself then became completely aware of how truly sad you are and just burst out in tears? Without this self reflection, this mirror, could we be so fully aware of ourselves at a deep level? Nothing is certain. Maybe the mirror is the source of our insecurities. Maybe we would all be more confident, care-free individuals without the mirror. The way I see it though, without the mirror, we will only be in denial. We won’t have to face the reality of reflection.

I will be okay. Whatever that means.

Here I am. I am 20 years and a recovering alcoholic. I am my father. I’ve heard it from my mother’s mouth. I’m cruel just the way he is. Ironic, he said I am my mother. They hate each other. They hate me. Everywhere I go things fall apart. Things go bad. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. Literally, if something is supposed to be really sad and painful or if I am supposed to heal it and recover, it doesn’t happen. I don’t know how. You say I’m playing victim, that I have tunnel vision and don’t see who I am. You say I think I’m perfect. You’re so wrong. I am so deeply broken that I can’t even piece together the words I want to say to you. The moment I feel hurt, my voice fades away. My thoughts fade away. I don’t know how to fix anything. We are a product of our environment, right? Well, my family never acknowledged the disgusting truth of our lives. I don’t know how to feel. That’s what an alcoholic is. Numb. Not in touch with reality. I don’t even know what reality is, how can I share one with you. You think you understand. I don’t even understand, so how could you. You hate me for something I couldn’t control. The control my past has over me. How could I see I’m hurting you when I don’t know what hurts you. We just aren’t the same. I don’t know how to explain myself. I can say the words, write the words, but as soon as I’m put down, as soon as I’m dismissed, the way I’ve felt, the words I wanted to say, they all disappear. In my past, it was easier to not try to explain how I feel. It was easier to just not feel at all. My family is sick. I’m sick. Sick in the way that all we know how to do is hurt. We don’t know how to be ok. We are all the victims. We are all the destructive. I thought I was better. I was just in denial. You can’t be better. You can’t pretend to be someone else and pretend your ugly past, which formed the person you are just doesn’t exist. Right? Is that why my dad always left? He thought if we just moved to a new place that he could just be someone else. Someone else who wasn’t horrible. Who didn’t drink until he couldn’t see. Who didn’t beat his wife and kids. Who didn’t hate every bit of himself. Who didn’t know no one could ever love him because he would never let them. I’m him. I run away. I’m a coward. I love to travel because no one knows the fuck up I am. I love to move because if they don’t know my name they can’t talk badly about me. I try to cling to everyone then push them away. Why? I want to be loved, but I don’t know how to let someone love me. I don’t even know how to love correctly myself. Love for me was hate. They were the same thing in my life. Self-hatred and hatred toward the person that you want to understand, but never could. How could anyone. Poor me, right? My life is so sad, right? I disgust myself when I feel bad for myself. Don’t get me wrong. I am the most grateful person I can be for my life right now because I know exactly what it can be. I lost a friend. I almost cut again. I lost hold of everything I had gained. Self-control, happiness, feeling. I held it to my skin, pressed it on my skin. I almost relapsed, just the way I do with drinking all the time, but here I am. I’m not dead. I’m alone. The only way I know how to be. And it’s okay. In denial or not, insane or not, all I can do is keep living. There’s no way out. I won’t let myself find a way out. If it’s insanity to be happy when everything is wrong, to pretend your past doesn’t exist, to pretend you don’t ruin everything you care about, to pretend your travels are simply to become more educated than so be it. I choose insanity over numbness, over sadness. Maybe this is numbness. I’m really not sure. All I know is I will be okay. Whatever that means.

I can only write my perspective of reality. If I post it, I mean it with all of my soul, at least for that moment that I write.