Sunday, August 16, 2009
The entanglements of scars make it so hard to run away, slapping a vulgar label across my skin. They won't fall into a hush like I would love so much; no, they scream and scream,
alleging me for being to grotesquely obese, for being much much too greedy and egotistic, for being foolish, for never learning, for being a slut, a whore, a tramp, for having no self-respect, for actually thinking I deserve even the slightest bit of sympathy when I deserve nothing, for making
innumerable mistakes, for causing others pain, for everything I've ever done wrong. The voices ebb and
floe. Sometimes they're bearable. Sometimes, they almost disappear. But often, they rip through my veins like a stampede, trampling my heart and brain and stomach and
lunges, my tongue, my eyes, my ears, my hands. But mostly my wrists. They pool in my wrists and pulse, having a private rave to drown out my logic. Their songs have one chorus, one beat, one
rhythm:
worthlessworthlessworthless,
worthlessworthlessworthless, worthless fucking piece of shit!The only way to shut them up is bleed them out. But I'm not allowed to do that anymore. The almighty
braless bitch says it's wrong to open myself up. But my mother's rare tears let me know that I don't deserve it. That's what enables me to stay sane with their mutterings caged inside of me. Because while the voices
excruciate, my mommy's crying eradicates.
Posted by Alex at 4:58 PM