The walls you stand behind are wearing thin, and hopeless, I
beg for you to let me inside. I have been trying so hard to
keep in time with the words that flow from your mouth; the
things you cry behind these walls when you think I cannot hear.
sometimes I hear you cry about me, and that is when I think
that maybe you are both blind and deaf to the fact that I have
already destroyed so many things for you. What more can I do? I
am sorry that standing outside of your walls is exhausting;
that being vulnerable and open is exhausting. Waiting for you,
I think I'll have to build some walls of my own.
I would strip my skin off for you. I would let you see me, whole,
with no inhibitions. I would strip my skin off for you, leaving
nothing left but flesh and bone, and the tendons that flex
beneath my muscle. I would let you view me in this state,
entirely bare and vulnerable, and I will do it because you have
simply asked. I would endure the stares and the ridicule, the
sneering and the harassment, because I am doing this for you;
because you asked me to. The difference is, as I streak blood
throughout the house and my skin slowly dries within the closet,
you will do nothing. You will not reassure me and you will hardly
look my way. I have felt that recently, you have wanted to see me
as a half. You no longer wish to see me as I am, but instead
hidden in plain sight, shrouded in my skin. I have ground
embarrassed and ashamed, but I can no longer go back; I no longer
fit within my skin. I wish I could grow it back, to hide again.
Perhaps then you will start loving me.
I like his hands. I like the lack of warmth, how they are so cold
and dry against my heated palm. I like how, gradually, they begin
to warm from the radiation of my own nervous hands, and how he
doesn't let go when my palm begins to slip with sweat. I like
the sublte way in which he grasps my wrist, and how he will place
my hand into his jacket pocket, so we can bask in the comfort of
a secret. I like his hands, the roughness of his palm and the
blue defintion of his veins, but I like them especially when they
are holding mine.
My eyes are waterlogged, sunken in my skull and incredibly red.
I sit, listless, and stare into space. My eyes are swollen, and
thus I cannot really see; everything has started to haze, but I
have tried - I've tried so hard - to find
something...important, or worthwhile. Something beautiful,
perhaps, but there is nothing. I do not know if I am blind or
simply numb
Poor little Amelie dances through meadowed snow and calm,
soft lavender. She laughs as diamond dust floats above her
hair, and catches snowflakes on her tongue. Little Amelie
plays games by herself, as other children are scarce in such
a village. Perhaps Father will play? Ponders Amelie, prior to
dismissing such a silly notion. No, Father would not play -
not now, not ever again. Father is often sad - has a face
made of stony concrete - and does not speak. He does not have
time for silly little games. He does not have time for silly
little girls either.
Sometimes, when the night is vast and Amelie is restless, she will wait outside of Father's door. And she will hear him crying before he dresses for the day - although, in the eyes of Amelie, the day has not yet even begun. Amelie worries that this is the average life of an adult - fearful and upsetting, with short days and cold, long nights.
One day, Amelie decides to try and live the life of an adult. She rises at six, as the sun begins to paint the horizon in streaks of pale silver, and she pulls on her boots.
She does not come back for hours, and Father is livid when she returns - hours past sunset - and for some time she is worried he may strike her like Sister Abigail. Instead, he falls to his knees and grasps her face - so hard it would hurt if not for the look upon his face, which is cracking like plaster and becoming rather wet. He pulls her to his chest, runs a hand down her back, and whispers soft words into her hair. Amelie is confused, because she had just tried to be an adult - had succeeded rather well, she thinks - and yet Father is still sad? She does not know how to make him not-sad. But still, Father kisses her face all over, looks at her for some time - he seems tired - and then he smiles, small and crooked. Amelie startles, because...
Well, because Father is smiling. And Amelie has forgotten this face...
Such a lovely gift, this is, because suddenly Father has pulled Amelie onto his shoulders, and then they are amongst fields of virgin snow and poignant lavender. The sky breaks open and blesses them with frozen rain, and Father smiles again. He falls into the snow, makes angels with Amelie and catches snowflakes on his tongue. What a day! They build snowmen, and Father lends his scarf to a small snowman with a large carrot for a nose. They retire as the day brightens, from black to blue, and Sandman sprinkles stardust into their eyes. She is gone, to Dreamland - with snow and lavenders, and, best of all, Father smiling. When Amelie wakes, Father is still asleep, and he does not look quite so sad.
Sometimes, when the night is vast and Amelie is restless, she will wait outside of Father's door. And she will hear him crying before he dresses for the day - although, in the eyes of Amelie, the day has not yet even begun. Amelie worries that this is the average life of an adult - fearful and upsetting, with short days and cold, long nights.
One day, Amelie decides to try and live the life of an adult. She rises at six, as the sun begins to paint the horizon in streaks of pale silver, and she pulls on her boots.
She does not come back for hours, and Father is livid when she returns - hours past sunset - and for some time she is worried he may strike her like Sister Abigail. Instead, he falls to his knees and grasps her face - so hard it would hurt if not for the look upon his face, which is cracking like plaster and becoming rather wet. He pulls her to his chest, runs a hand down her back, and whispers soft words into her hair. Amelie is confused, because she had just tried to be an adult - had succeeded rather well, she thinks - and yet Father is still sad? She does not know how to make him not-sad. But still, Father kisses her face all over, looks at her for some time - he seems tired - and then he smiles, small and crooked. Amelie startles, because...
Well, because Father is smiling. And Amelie has forgotten this face...
Such a lovely gift, this is, because suddenly Father has pulled Amelie onto his shoulders, and then they are amongst fields of virgin snow and poignant lavender. The sky breaks open and blesses them with frozen rain, and Father smiles again. He falls into the snow, makes angels with Amelie and catches snowflakes on his tongue. What a day! They build snowmen, and Father lends his scarf to a small snowman with a large carrot for a nose. They retire as the day brightens, from black to blue, and Sandman sprinkles stardust into their eyes. She is gone, to Dreamland - with snow and lavenders, and, best of all, Father smiling. When Amelie wakes, Father is still asleep, and he does not look quite so sad.
"Promise me you won't do it again"
I can't promise that, and if I do it won't mean
anything at all
because no matter how much I promise, or swear
this entire conversation won't mean anything at all
at four in the morning, when I'm feeling like sh..it and wanting to die.
I won't be able to talk to you, because you are sleeping, unperturbed,
whilst I fight the conflict in my mind. I know I will feel guilty, because I had promised,
even though it was nothing to me, it was to you. and
I know you will be disappointed, perhaps angry, and infinitely sad
and I know you will cry, almost as much as me
but in this moment, I'm being selfish,
I'm thinking of no one but myself, and in this moment,
right now, I need release
because no matter how much I promise, or swear
this entire conversation won't mean anything at all
at four in the morning, when I'm feeling like sh..it and wanting to die.
I won't be able to talk to you, because you are sleeping, unperturbed,
whilst I fight the conflict in my mind. I know I will feel guilty, because I had promised,
even though it was nothing to me, it was to you. and
I know you will be disappointed, perhaps angry, and infinitely sad
and I know you will cry, almost as much as me
but in this moment, I'm being selfish,
I'm thinking of no one but myself, and in this moment,
right now, I need release
Is it wrong to be scared?
Is it possible to be invisible but oh so visible at the same time?
