Come get me she screams
Pacing to her speed , inhaling the earth to diffuse my flushed cheeks as our high pitched voices rule the garden. Water fills my surroundings as a pattern of chills run through my body reassuring to soothe my heart beat that I'm still here, still alive.
I do this a lot, it's as if I'm struggling to find clarity in this reality we call life. I can't seem to clasp the idea of no purpose, to live and to die. I'm in my own head more than I can count and I'm so used to analysing everything, it hurts. I can feel a burn throughout the temple of my head that rhymes throughout my skin, down my neck and along my spine.
School wasn't as fucked up as it usually is, I loved it: the high energised screams, the anxiety, the mounds of people that bled into each other, the picking, the sexual assault, the purposeful bullying, the monitoring as if I was a prisoner being punished for youthful behaviour. They teach us to do, Not to be.
her first day
camouflaged easily
her pink stationary pierced in her pink pencil case
her skirt washing below her knees
her smile as messy as her hair
her future bright
there she is
a little bruised a little battered
known so permanently
recognised so easily
her hair tied perfectly
her skirt tight
tying her organs in so they don't fall out
there she is
her last day
her smile extinguished to a vague glance
her future watery
yet she misses so defeatedly
the little girl
who's pencil case shone pink
I'm writing this with no intention, no purpose. I have no purpose. I want an escape, I cannot talk to anyone about the way I feel. Which is why it feels just right to scribble my ongoing voices onto paper, my poetry, my words spawn like blood cells.
My window's open and i'm now cold from the draft being too intense, but with her lying by me, I don't move. She's a good reason to live. Breathing slowly but surely, in fabrics I have given her: my little sister. Her eyelashes curled upon themselves and her lips grew pure overlapping her chin. Her freckles defined her nose and her under eyes caressed at her facial expressions. Every little moment she would twitch out of her sleep and resume like nothing. She had the most perfect nose, I think she was the prettiest sleeper I'd ever seen. And she wasn't just a sibling, Emily was my drip.
A survival ticket.
Poems were an unjustified pleasure of mine, like sex but maybe a little more dramatic and with no risk. I love writing, it gives me satisfaction. I'm unaware whether this will be a short time pleasure, like my drawing or my ice skating or the many things I now have no interest for. Writing somehow has become something I come back to. It's like a therapist without a voice and a beating heart. A therapist with no medicine chained to it's concern. It's as if I can explode with thoughts, with sin and have no consequence. For instance, my wishes; I don't think it's normal to wish for someone's death.
I don't quite remember the person she was, which now numbs the pain of losing what she used to be, I haven't seen that woman in months. I'd love to tell you about her beauty, what she used to be, the mother I fell in love with, infatuated with from birth.
Yet I can't, she is too dead.
I read about dinosaurs the other day, how extinct they were that we question whether they even existed? Whether it was just a performance of the intelligence, the performance of hallucination or a cover up of the absence. It isn't sad to resemble her to extinction when you've been through years of being strained to be quiet, about the witnesses of what went on behind closed doors. I use this not for sympathy. I hate the thought of sympathising. It's just an excuse to lure another unbothered person in for your own pathetic attention. I do this not for sympathy, but to obtain the guilt I feel when praying upon her death.
The veins that have been threaded so carefully through my body, quiver. As I knew I was too weak to feel anything but sadness, loss, for someone who still roamed this world alive. I can thank her for my education of early adulthood; I've matured when I didn't want to. The collapse of my family was a very slow and painful process that it sort of became insignificant. I've learnt from a young age with severed hands and burnt eyes that the monsters were never under the bed or in the closet. I made sure of that, as I was the one to check.
No wonder I couldn't find them, I was little to know..
they were hidden within her.
She stood by the railway today. Same time as last year. Watching for a train as the liquor melt her brain and numbed her feeling, yet drunkenness is nothing but voluntary madness.
I question why I wished for her death, I question why I still wish her dead.
I think my conclusion is that she's already dead to me. As humans we want what we can't have, and at this very point I believe I cannot consist in happiness with her alive. She is no Christian, no mother, no happiness of mine. As I grow, my brain develops more awareness to what goes on in my surroundings; the relationships that string off of me become fractured because of what I'm prone to. I'm a certified professional of pushing people away.
So they say it's forbidden to kill
the law
but killing someone mentally is more deadly than killing physically.
so what's one less villain?
