Short Stories & Poems

betrayal

I am sad again. Well, to be honest, I don't know what this new feeling is.

I want to cry and scream, and laugh and die.

It is the most intense feeling.

It is nothing more than a feeling of desperation. And, I have totally succumbed to it.

I want to say everything on my mind since the day I could think.

I want to be mad at everyone and nobody.

I want to be happy about everything and nothing.

I want to cry about everything and nothing.

I want to be sad about everything and nothing. Oh, wait. I already am.

In earnest, I do not know how to write a journal entry. Nor be honest.

I do not know how to do the most basic things in life.

And it's driving me mad.

Today, on December 11, 2020, I am thinking the vilest, bitter thoughts.

How is it that I am myself and a stranger at the same time?

What becomes of me when I am no longer the person I know myself to be?

I'm whispering into the white void. Because no one listens when I shout.

Honestly, I'm wishing that I'd hear someone call out from the other end.

Today, on December 11, 2020, I have realized that I can never escape these thoughts that come and go.

They're my own little secrets. They're my own ghosts grasping for anything to hold on to.

So, no, this is not a journal entry. Or maybe, this (whatever this is) is a goodbye note. A note to my old self. A note to my new self. A documentation of my present self.

This is my past, present, and future.

I find it funny. I try so hard to be poetic, but it is when I am in the worst place that I am the most honest. Which I find poetic.

In the end, I live so that I can die, and that is an inescapable fact. But, it's something, anything, that keeps me grounded.

Don't ask me why, because I don't know.

Don't ask me how I feel, because I am not being truthful.

Don't think.

Don't.

There is a saying. "I am alive but dead."

Words are my weakness.

If I could, I'd keep writing into forever. It is my cry for help.

But, alas, everything comes to an end.

No.

Everything beautiful must come to an end.

And I find the most beauty--in its rawest form--in only one thing...

I want someone, anyone to read this and understand me, and not understand me.

It would bring the worst pain to my lungs, my eyes, my head, to see someone understand that thorns hurt.

Somewhere in this world, I am one with another.

Or maybe, it's just my headache.

I write poems, but I don't. I write what makes sense.

Which really doesn't make sense at all.

I am contradictory to everything that lives.

Call it "unique," but deep in my hollow bones, echoes the knowledge that I don't belong anywhere.

Maybe I am sad. Maybe I'm mad.

One day I will cease from existing and that brings solace to my bloody heart.

But, I will never find comfort knowing the unknown.