Midnight Musings

4/17/16

I'm gonna start writing again. I've just been tired. Not in a "let's take a nap after school to procrastinate all this bullshit" or a "slip into the darkness because sleep currently weighs heavier on my mind than oblivion" kind of way.

Tired in the "I wish I could swallow a bottle of pills and feel my organs dissipate under the gentle touch as I scream out an opened airplane window that crushes my lungs like the invisible fist of a 'God gone wrong'" kind of way.

I've been living in two modes: The "lets curl under the covers and submit to this darkness as I question what these rose petals are, or have I finally spilled enough blood?" and the
"sleepwalking through my day, are you sure my feet have touched the ground and that these barbed wire arms are mine?-illuminated under harsh flourescent lights that make the room spin like you just napped in the back seat of a car for too long".

The kind of out of body experience when you feel like you disappeared and you very well could just be a pair of floating eyes that cannot register your invisible legs on the drunk linoleum tiles.

Harsh and cold, I've found myself biting down on these tiles to stifle the screams and manufacture porcelain empires from the hollow cavity between my ribs to house all my little demons itching away like a mouse on a block of cheese. But I've already stained them all red and tarnished those man-made cynics with an abundance of my self hatred.

I'm gonna start writing again. But I seem to have slipped down the shower drain, my own little rabbit hole because even Alice found faults in me and could not believe in my impossibility. Still, I've fallen and my, how many time zones I find myself choking on through which I've still been losing sleep.
Yet still I swallow the minute hand, and it's callous down my throat as it ticks away and whispers
I AM LATE.

I'm gonna start writing again. I promise. And though I've promised more times than I can count in the sky, I will. It's just that my thoughts slipped down the drain with me,  and we've been separated. Every time I put the pen to paper my mind ran out like the convenience stores of plastic forks and plastic spoons brittle as anorexic fingernails.

My life used to pour from my fingers, but I told you, I've been tired. Tired in an "all of my bones ache and I think I saw teeth marks embedded in them from all my demons so we better bury me now to give the maggots a head  start on my mutilated flesh" kind of way.

I used to write so forcefully my pen bled into the paper, slanting right so hard my words threatened to jump out the window and dig my grave for me because I
ALWAYS
wrote near a window. Now I have less than nothing to say. A mistyped memoir where I forgot to dot my I's and cross my T's; so now I am without grammar and doodling poorly drawn flowers with disproportionate petals to substitute for the notes I should have been taking. But I don't know how to explain that or to sing the tune and find my song bird (I lost her in my fall down my manufactured rabbit hole)~so I'll figure something out.

I'm gonna start writing again.
I promise. I promise. I promise.
I pro

•2:27am