Stop

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic


Short piece about all my mental issues

Submitted: May 30, 2018

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Submitted: May 30, 2018

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I've been in houses like this. The ones that stand rickety and cold. Drafts coming from each corner, with men who make you feel uncomfortably welcome. With men who hand you things you shouldn't have, men who make you feel like its all fun & so innocent, with demons behind their eyes. I've sat in fields like that, with laughter and light in my soul. Wonder and intention. Drugs and confusion.
Warm wind on our skin, sitting on ripped couches outside, covered in rain and dust. Spiders in the cracks. A bonfire in front of us. Rough hands around me. Summers that never seemed to end. Looking back, you can see how all the seams weave together, where the missing pieces were. How some laces were not as tightly woven as you thought. How maybe you slipped through the cracks and where you could have, should have, saved yourself. Sometimes, it’s exactly what you thought. Sometimes, it’s even worse.
Expecting a thing doesn’t make it hurt less when it happens. It just confirms to you what you already knew. You try to ignore it, hide from it but it stays lurking behind you in the dark corners of you brain, eating away at your heart like an abscess until it’s made it’s way into your veins and begins to circulate. Coursing through you, with each pump of the heart, tearing into your consciousness. Until you are the shell of a girl who no longer recognizes her reflection in the mirror.
You sit staring. Gripping at the ground, hoping she will fade away into a reflection of who you were and not who you are now. The weakness, the pity. Letting them in seems to help sometimes, until you want to shut them out. Until all you need is darkness and quiet. Until you are deaf from your own screaming. If you could see inside of me, I’d beg you for a doctor. I’d plead for some pill to take this away.
If I could tell myself something, I’d tell her to fix it now. To be a better mother, daughter, friend. I’d tell her to pick up and carry on. I’d tell her everything will be okay, but she is inconsolable. She can not hear over her own complaints. She can not see past today and when I can, I am paralyzed with fear at the mess we have made of our lives, with our own hands, mouths and minds. And when I can, I am nothing but a foreshadow, a precursor to tragedy that will inevitably befall us.
An accident waiting to happen, a glass so close to the edge of the table, you know it will spill and as you reach out your hand to catch it, it’s already fallen. She is the broken glass on the floor and I am the fingers it slipped through. I’ll apologize to you and I sweep up this mess, as I put on my shoes, so I don’t get cut. I’ll apologize to you.
 


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