Here is the point of the picture-and-definition post. Call it bullshit, or believe it. I don't care. I'm ready to shut down. I'm not shutting down on myself. I'm shutting you down, taking you out. I'm losing it from all this insincerity and avarice and self-centered heartlessness. Melt down. Shatter. RUN!
I will run rampant ultimately. Maybe it can be avoided, but I can do so little to change it. I will call it to light, but that's about all I can do. I just want to say you might consider watching what you say, what you do, how you act. It's not someone specific. It's all too many people, too many things, too many ways I cannot counter, this invasion into my peace.
Let the chain reaction begin. This fission is happening within. It haunts and hurts and burns and breaks and destroys and contorts and twists and ties and annihilates what I love. All that I know, all that I am, and all I ever want to be is being thrown off course because I've had enough. I want to unleash it. I've held it all in for a decade. I've bit my tongue so much, it looks more like chewed hamburger, and this white tee shirt is so blood stained, it looks more black than red, soaked and sticking to my skin.
The hatred I suppress carves my flesh with demonic words. Each time something happens, my flesh tears open, and the good blood sprays out into infinity space, and malice pumps through my veins. Do you have any idea what kind of pain agonizes me to be the better man? The bittersweet thoughts to give up on being a good kid, Peter Priesthood, Mr. Goody-two-shoes, and indulging in wrath and violence. Something to expel this hatred.
Why do I bring this here? No one believes, so maybe one of you will take me seriously, because I've had enough people disregarding this. I've had enough. I'm breaking apart, from the inside out. It's just built and built and built and built and built! And now it's about to break. So much pressure, that the cracks shatter like the most fragile pieces of glass and ice, and just as cold and sharp as the shards that flay flesh from bone, and heart and soul.
Why do you insist on hurting others? Why do you just break others down, even if it has nothing for you to gain? Why must I feel like the target, or the enemy? Love. Just love. Or you will hate like me. I wish I had more love, but I have given so much and have had nothing in return. I wish I could share it, but what little I hold, it holds me right back. Holds me together. It's how I stay connected.
Disconnect if you love me. Separate if you care for me. Come closer and closer if you hate me, because when this all breaks from the rips and bursts of pain and hatred within, I hope those I love and care for are long gone, and the wretched tormentors are incinerated in my soul fire, and we know my soul is going to Hell, so it's really just Hell fire spewing out of my ashen skin and loveless eyes. And if you care for me and stick around, don't forgive me for the burns, because my blind loathing for this corrupting world will blot you out, and I may never know you're there.
Bursting, breaking, rupturing, cracking, fission of light matter, bonding of darkness. Chasms carved into my skin that glow with evil, and burn like hell, agony from what the small things built into, the unforgiving freedom of what really resides inside. I just hope I can hold it in long enough that I can run away before it's too late for everyone else. . .
Don't give up on me.
the refusal to give up is in my blood. especially on you.
ReplyDeleteps: listen to "Kingdom Come" by The Civil Wars
This is good.
ReplyDeleteI loved the ending. The small text. The plea.
My favorite part:
"I've held it all in for a decade. I've bit my tongue so much, it looks more like chewed hamburger, and this white tee shirt is so blood stained, it looks more black than red, soaked and sticking to my skin."
I don't understand the title. I read part 1 of 2 and it's a little strange to me. I've read some of your other writing and it seems too fantasy for me, if that makes sense. That's why I liked this post so much. For the most part, it felt personal. It felt like you were writing about real people in your life right now. That's what I want to read.