I always get anxious in public, but I blast heavy metal in my ears heavier than my thoughts, so I don’t hear myself think. I love the silence that’s always hiding behind the chaos—I love the silence that I only find when I’m soaring through the skies. I haven’t processed any of my traumas this year, and I’m quite frankly good! or at least functioning? Considering my struggles with getting up in the morning, heavy on the crying when it’s storming. Everything seems pointless. I don’t have a purpose, I don’t even know how people find shit that deep within themselves, it’s like I’m the one that’s out of service. All I’ve found were bleeding open wounds, the product of being abused when I could’ve been swooned over. All I know is that I’m something called a ‘human’ living on a floating rock in space, those are the proven facts. The rest of the memories of myself are blacked-out nights and drug marathon trips or binge popping or snorting or sniffing or huffing or puffing or crying on the bathroom floor in a party, but it’s dark and I like how the floor feels cold against my skin, exactly the opposite what I felt like when he was raping me when he was pushing my face against the burning pavement, now he’s just an engravement. An engravement he is on the walls of my brain that rebleed every day. But it’s just me in the end, just me at the end of that tunnel. It was just me who held my hair up when I threw up. Just me when I forced myself to purge when I took two too many. It was just me when those I loved betrayed me. It was just me when my heart felt like nothing but a hollow cave that echoes forever and ever. It was just me who cared too much. It’s always been just me and an eternally lasting engravement of him.
POETRY FESTIVAL. Submit to site for FREE. Submit for actor performance. Submit poem to be made into film. 