Where do you start?

Where do you start?

A million beginnings have popped into my head over the last two days, but they all run away and leave me blank when I actually sit down to write. So maybe I’ll just run over the basics.

We broke up, yeah fucked up I know, I have become a cliché freak upset over a stupid boy, a stupid relationship, a stupid life. But I don’t give a fuck right now, its what hurts at the moment so I’ma try to sort it out.

I don’t know who broke up with who, well that’s not true I know for certain that I didn’t break up with him, but I don’t know whether it was a mutual thing or whether I just went along with him. Who really cares now though, its all over, over before it began and all I can think is … I’m back.

It was a Tuesday, I was baby sitting and I remember sitting there trying to keep smiling for the little girls… but eventually I had to go to the bathroom and puke. The rest of the day turned out pretty boring for them. As all I wanted to do was sit on the couch, and die.

It has been two days or one, depending on how you look at it, its Thursday now so there has been one full day in between but two full mornings since the morning of death. Don’t call me dramatic, I don’t do drama, I state things how they are and that is all.

Tuesday night I got drunk off my ass, I went to my chick friend’s house and drank, I took shots of something, and had beer and other shit. I spent the night in the arms of some guy, he is 21 or older, because he was the beer provider, I don’t know how old he was, I just know that I almost fucked him. I made out with my chick friend for a long time, she was sad because she wasn’t getting any, I was sad because I was lost. She tasted sweet and beautiful, like ice cream or white chocolate coffee. By contrast the man tasted hard and hott, like nature; it was the bitter taste of the wild and the sorrows of the world, the mountain pine trees, and angry earth. He tasted like hard work and lost dreams, like much beer and the sort of longing that fills a man up and makes him forget what he has done. They both tasted good in there own way, and I spent much of the night in simply tasting and being tasted. I imagine that I tasted like despair.

I worked in the morning, for two hours, through the headache, and the heartache. I worked to forget, but that’s not something that’s possible yet. At least my tears returned to me in all of this. I wasn’t able to stop crying for a long time, but now I am a little better, I can say his name without crying. The pictures are hard though, I am going to delete them today. But seeing them again is hard, the smiles and the sparkly eyes, I have never seen my eyes so innocent, they don’t usually do innocent, its usually the stare of the dead, or the image of a thousand demons that greets me in the mirror, I don’t like mirrors, I didn’t and now I don’t again. The pictures mock me though, they tell me a story of how things were and how they will never be, the show me a naïve little girl that I thought I had killed a long time ago, but it seems that she was resurrected and now I must hunt her down and murder her innocence again. There will be blood but in the end, everything will be quiet and I can bury her in the myriad pools of poetry that I will create with the excess blood and tears.

She is lost to me.

I float a lot, surrounded by air and music and blood, I can hear the blood in my ears pounding against my skull, screaming to rush out, to be ripped up and away, to spill again on white paper and white skin. When it all gets to be too much the music whirls me away in its endless eddy’s and streams, I can float for hours in the open sea of nothing, immersed in the sounds of forever and a drum set… but eventually something pulls me out of the dark to face the cruel light again, and I am reminded again of all that is not mine, and all that could have been. It is useless to resist, it comes anyway.

I cut, lying in the tub refusing to look at myself in the darkness, water pulsed to scalding little drops of molten metal burning holes through my skin. The knife is not sharp, dulled by a month of disuse, but it knows its path well and glides gently in the super heated water, I cant even fill anything except the soft caress of my pinky as it drags next to the incisions, the only pain is the slashes the girl in my mind is painting on the walls of my head, she runs with her razor parallel to mine, dragging her blade harshly through tissues, shredding my memories, I watch her coolly, knowing that it is a better pain, a better thing to lose than to remember.

She is the dark and she is glad to be out again and breathing the air, to be in control. She comes to me in the night and ravishes to her hearts content, but in the morning she tells me of the night, and how it has missed me, I sit at her feet like a little child listening to its mother tell a good story, I listen as her eyes spark with the fire that is her core, she tells of the end of pain, and the numbness that can only be found in the blackness of her heart, the heart that should be mine, invincible and devoid of holes, she draws me close for a moment to hear the soundless ness of her beat, it is a state to which I will gradually return whether I want to or not. She is a part of me and she will have her way again, she will make life hell until I give in. She tells me of the treachery of God, and how he has given up, she watches me cry on the floor of our mind, watches me beg God to come back, and she smirks in her knowing ness, screaming at me to shut up and listen, I listen intently hoping to here his foot steps returning to me at last, or his voice softly whispering to me, but there is only silence and then a whispered mocking laughter stirs in the stillness of my soul. He is gone, and she is back, standing next to my fallen body, her eyes shimmer her hate, and I know that pain is near…

When she is done killing me, I will be again in her control. She is me and I am her. We are one person.

and the sun sets on a ruined mind