I wish I hadn’t found god in a bottle of sedatives

I have a lump in my throat &

the excessive amount of unorganised &

unwanted thoughts make my head ache.

I don’t think I’ve ever been this lonely before.

is it slowly worsening? has something in me changed?

I’m so ashamed & during nights like these,

in which I come to the realisation of my

desperation I just want to scream, rip my skin off &

reduce everything to nothingness. because I

can feel it deep into my bones, I can feel how

much of a wound I’ve become, how I’m

made of flesh: a flesh that seems not to heal,

leading me to this ever-lasting exsanguination.

I thought I had stopped running away or that

my diagnosed hyperreflexia was just a

consequence of a spinal cord injury but I’m

in the emergency room & the sterile stench

is nauseating. I’ve never been afraid of needles

like I’m of humans & there’s an intense & painful

sense of abandonment that leads me to a very

specific conclusion: at some point, like everyone else

I’ve expected not to, I’ve abandoned myself too.

untitled

it seems I have effectively forgotten how to adequately write a poem
be it about a bone I had the pleasure  to break it myself,
a heart that has been torn and ripped apart
or even the profane way I say my prayers,
which some may say it’s all about the same thing anyway.
and so frequently I have been finding myself looking you right in the eyes
all blood and sweat, saliva and semen,
blasphemous eyelids that refuse to shut:
how many have you killed with the simplest eyelash flutter?
there’s a graveyard where my eyes used to be
and covered on each other’s rawness
I so often wait for the next time someone will destroy me:
I so anxiously wait like nothing is sacred, like it’s all about dirt
and I think you have been teaching me that
there’s a certain way in which heaven is allowed,
in which heaven is putrid,
that heaven won’t heal us and has a metallic taste.
yet heaven is still heaven and for you and me
it’s so easy to get there and then
fall down to earth right after, bloodied-nosed
breaking and ripping each and every single one of our nails
digging our way through to the warmth of hell.

writing prompt: 1# empathy

for someone who grew up in a house like mine, who’s been cursed with so many eyes & ears & was never really asked for, i sure have empathy leaving from my eyes & evaporating through my pores.

as a child, i lied to myself & to everybody else about everything & specially about not caring about people. i strived so hard to bring that into existence while effacing my own: i’ve never been good at existing. i’ve never been good at lying: well, not even that. people could see & some even smell how deliciously weak i reeked.

as a child, i so often saw mothers kindly kiss their spawns’ cheeks & i didn’t quite get what was that all about, yet every-single-time my mouth would fill itself with blood & somewhere in me i knew if i spoke i’d either choke or exsanguinate.

SHUT UP.

I DON’T WANNA HEAR YOUR FUCKING VOICE.

people who live in silence for too long often unlearn how to speak, either always screaming or only whispering. weirdly structured sentences are common & they often find themselves in need to acquire such skill as if for the first time. it’s not easy to recognise once one has effectively learnt again but the odd patterns are always there, just waiting for the tiniest breach to make themselves noticeable.

my psychiatrist once told me some of us learn kindness from violence & caring from indifference & it made me wonder if anyone would ever put flowers around my grave & if the graveyard’s caretaker would ever notice the massive amount of dead birds & rats to be found there, just lying around my grave.

it took me over twenty years to realise why i have always been so kind and caring towards others exclusively: it’s easier than learning to do so towards myself.