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.
