justm3
Joined: June 2, 2016
Last Seen: 6 years
user id: 396532
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bridges have been calling me
calling to be built
calling to be burnt
calling to be jumped from
I have only build them
don't have the heart to burn them
can only burn myself
afraid of putting myself out
at the bottom of the river
should be proud of those
engeniering skills and selective hearing
but birthdays are not parties for me
so much to celibrate
nothing makes me sing
I'm sitting on the bridges
feel the bottom of the river
calling my flames
my feet feel supported
by the strong cool steel
says, Call your mother and say
goodbye. To save themselves, thousands of people jump
to the bottom of a river and turn
into fish. Fish survive devastation. Fish don’t worry about
whether they’re loved. What does
it mean to “end” anyway? To be a person and then a body.
To be a city and then a ruin. Maybe
someone should give this world the Heimlich. Maybe it’ll
cough up all the good people it
swallowed and choked on too soon. I think the birds are
in mourning. I think the trees feel
sorry for us. Too bad about all that skin covering all those
little bones. Too bad about that noise
emanating from the heart, untranslatable and strange. How
does the song go? Something about
feeling fine. I put a note in your pocket that said: CALL
ME WHEN YOU GET THERE.
You never got there.
low shoulers than strong back
am more deep sigh than fierce words
am sad
am world inside me crumbeling
instead of florishing
or coliding
and today might be such a day
of slow of blue
of getting trough with
snow and tea
snuggle sweaters
steam, blush on cheeks
a smile that could mean nothing
or everything
of getting trough
of my dieing by my own hand
not that day, not the next one
but soon because in the vision
I was still a little girl
I wept for my death
bought flowers, bought a black dress
prayed till my knees were red
to absolve my sins before I went
and then I didn't
not that year, not the next one
not before my eighteen and
not the years after
but the fear did not leave
there is still time and
n the mirror I still see
a little girl
but somethings just turn out
bad, wrong, rotten
you might be excited
to enter a new world or way or
walk of life now you met me
however you call this
venture in my head
but I am still a scared little girl
I'm still tossing and turning in my head
questioning my creator and self
scared if I will scar myself again
this time in my new self destruction
but it's new right?
and it's fun
right?
I write because eventhough it is quite imbarrasing
it's not as imbarrasing as contemplating suicide
and the humiliation when someone spots me and sighs
not this again
so I write because
yes this again
this feeling of needing to put the pain inside
outside
taking out the trash wherther it is
cutting wrists, writing anything, jumping bridges, blowing bubbles, reading poetry, crying buckets, talking about (it), healing from (it), remembering (anything)
as long as it keeps this stinking mess outside
only for tonight
I need to put the mess outside for tonight
because I want to sleep
I want to sleep because I can't sleep
because my body want to keep hurting itself
while it wants to heal itself
this is the human condition
this is my duality
What do you do when your entire healing process
feels like the beginning of a murder ballad?
I realized that what he had done was not right
in the middle of the night in some faraway June.
I somehow fell asleep after that. Woke up
the next morning, the floor below me
trembling, a kitchen knife in my hand
for a split second. There isn’t a way
for me to be honest and tell you
I haven’t ever wanted revenge
at the same time. I do remember his full name,
but I do not say it out loud. I scrubbed
any evidence of him out of me,
and now I reek of Good Survivor.
I am not supposed to fantasize
about dropping a lit match in his jeans.
I am not supposed to have imagined
my fist lodged in his Adam’s Apple.
So what does that make me? On his level?
Too angry? A girl in a song only preparing herself
to be left in the water? But I don’t think
I’m as hungry as I’m making myself out to be.
The truth is: if I ever saw him on the street,
I would cross to the other side and hide myself
in the nearest shop. That doesn’t mean
I still haven’t woken up every morning
thinking God has left a weapon in my hand
in hopes of the river inside of me
finally flooding.
still developing as they call it
so it's easy to take it as blame
to take my trauma and name it
my creator, my genisis
because it has made me the strong woman I am
today, right? made me survivor.
made me miserable to be honest
made me crazy. Made me say no
to drinks and parties and men
made me mad, made me vengeful
made me the match to the gasoline
the lade in the river, overflowing
too much rain
mostly it made me scared
of dark and men and myself
of power, of currency, of expectations
broke me, really broke me
and made me stand up without feet
made me walk and run without feet
made fun of me as I fell without feet
until I walked, and then grew feet
then made me strong. Made me survivor
made me example of survivor
good survivor
I would have walked
if I never lost my feet
I would have been strong regardless
there is no creator but myself
I had to learn again
to lose the mad and gain compassion
to become the flower instead of the dager
the smile instead of the punch
but I got there regardless