Promises and Criminals - 07/23/10

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

I lay in the darkness
of night
but also of something more,
something within the head
that repeats those words
those terrible words,
to itself,
saying, over and over,

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

In the darkness,
covered but not protected,
shrouded but not hid,
the flesh on my legs,
on my wrists,
the paper that holds
my blood
in my veins

SCREAMS

to be ripped
to be cut
        cut
        cut
with quick and emotional
slashes to be torn
to be disgraced.
They beg for promises
to be forsaken.
They pled
for a need
we both have,
for something
to mean something,
for a feeling
other than the darkness.
Happiness is out of reach,
except for in lies,
which I take in public,
but not in the private
of my demented head.
Alone,
the thoughts persist,
the screams echo
in the silence
and the vacuum
that a mind creates
as it collapses in upon itself,
like a black hole,
consumed by its own hatred,
hatred for nothing more
and nothing less
than itself.
It is in the darkness
that the words persist
and hiss
in the shadows,
tearing me from rest,
but not yet slumber
to write words that hurt
far more than any cut,
to write them
and make them real,
to hurt myself more
than any blade could.

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

Words I wrote originally.
Words meant for me
and only me.
Words to kill myself,
to hold the cold gun
to my temple
and to shoot.

Word that spill out
rushed,
scribbled,
heard to read,
in the hurry
to finish
and free myself
of writing words
that kill myself.
But it was I
that did
enslave myself
to write
such words
that kill.

And to this effect,
in this extent,
every promise not to
physically hurt myself
is kept completely.

But I am hurt.

This pen I hold
and move across paper,
quickly and irritably,
hurts,
though it doesn’t stab
nor cut
nor slash,
merely dash
across the page
writing words
whose meaning seeps
into my blood
with the finality
of my fate,
of my destiny
that I look forward
to even as I wish
I didn’t.
The words:

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

push me along
not resting,
no motivation to resist,
as my head swims gaily with
sick images
of my own bleeding body
sprawled artistically
in agony,
a pencil jutting from my
ruptured trachea.

No fear.
No worry.
No contempt.
Nothing to stop the thoughts
except guilt
that someone disapproves,
is possibly hurt
because he loves,
and what a fool for loving me
he must  be.
But the guilt
does not vanquish the bloody image,
does not silence the flesh’s scream,
does not sooth my wrists’ itch.

It encourages it,
fueling the self-destructive flames
with more self hate.
It screams back

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”

“You’re a freak
And you’re weak
And you’re better off dead”



But don’t worry.
Not a soul worry.
I wouldn’t dare
actually make myself bleed.
I’m bound by a promise
that turns every thought
into guilt,
into those lines,
and makes the thinker,
makes me,
a criminal,
a horror,
a monster,
a bitch.

I am a bitch.

And what a selfish one too.
Needing contact
to keep my own life,
needing someone else’s
approval
to like myself.
What a dirty whore.
What a freak.
How weak.

I am better off dead.