april 20

I live on the brink of something. Which road to follow? Which pill to take? Oh no, it’s morning. Another so many hours until sleep takes over. Panic is in my blood, literally travelling through me at all times. It is restless, my invisible predator. Every morning I am plagued with the thoughts of two people who have stolen what was left of my confidence, my heart, passion to even write, pieces of my sanity, my smile. My identity is in a crisis. I know this will only make me stronger, but for the time being I’d only like to rest my weary head and think of nothing. Somehow that is impossible to achieve, something you would think you had absolute control over. The thing is, I have no control over my thoughts, I have no control over the patterns of my thinking, my perception, the way I view the world. This is my problem. And still I think of these two thieves, with pieces of my identity in their pockets, shooting up all the clean water in the world, trying to rid themselves of demons that everybody has, trying to summon something good into their lives, but failing miserably. Truth is, I did care about him, I was not in love with him, I am not i love with him, I hardly knew him, but at the time I fooled myself into thinking this person was my saviour, they know me, they will drop everything to make me happy. This is too high a pedestal to place someone you’ve known intimately for only three weeks. But I was blinded by my desires to be wanted by someone, anyone. Even someone who is clearly fucked up in his own way, he made me sicker, robbed me of every morsel of goodness I had, an emotional vampire, though this isn’t entirely his fault. My own fucked up perceptions of reality crossed wires and allowed me to believe it was never me; I was never the one with the problem. Of course, that isn’t to say he didn’t ruin me in a hundred different ways, perfectly, because the truth stares me in the face, it travels with the rays of the sun down onto my tangled being. I’d like to congratulate him; I’d like to kill her. I have fantasised cutting her throat and draining the blood, smashing her nose so it becomes inverted, the bones piercing her brain. Funny thing is I’m not a violent person. It is the rage. It is blind, and pure, sometimes rising from great depths to show its face, sometimes brewing down in the pit of my stomach, but it never leaves. Death is the same. He stands over my bed while I sleep, sits on my shoulder when I’m awake, whispering demented lullabies into my weary ear. How to convince myself I’m not crazy? Thinking is involuntary. Last night while I lay awake in my bed, I thought of myself as a shellfish, only my exterior was woven from spiders webs, and my interior consisted of only wet sand; mud, clay. Accuracy. It has taken me weeks to be able to write about this, and even now I sit and stare at the screen with a numb brain. Images of them together poison my conscious, and memories of being with him is mostly forbidden territory for me. I don’t want to acknowledge that he is now holding her, kissing her gently, loving her, the devil in a little girls body, something evil. This is not jealousy, of course I still have a hold on him, I couldn’t call it attraction though. Some unconnected feeling. I let myself be dragged under, to be used for sex (or so I think), for him to fuck me and roll over and while I was sick he wasn’t there. I still feel dirty.

@1 year ago