hush little baby
Everything is hard. So hard. And I'm tired, mom. I'm tired. It didn't matter, you know. You said it would, but it didn't, and now look at me. I smiled and I laughed and I was the best Myself I could be, but they didn't like it. They didn't like me. And so I tried to be a Better Someone Else, and they didn't like her, either. I put on eyeliner, mascara. I painted my lips. I wore the right clothes. Maybe I wore them wrong. I listened to all the right bands, and none of it made a difference. They're never going to like me. I don't even like me. I look in the mirror and the girl I see isn't me, mom. I'm tired of being Her, but I don't know how to stop.
don't you cry
Hey. Um, it's me again. I'm just calling to tell you that I'm sorry I'm such an asshole all the time. You're right. I drink too much. I know that I told you it's your fault, but it's not. Don't ever believe that. Don't you believe anything I've ever said to you, not ever again. Well. You can believe all the times that I've told you I love you. I meant that. I'll always mean that. And all the times that I told you that you're beautiful, and that I love your smile, and that your laugh is the most precious thing I've ever heard. Some days I think of that. I think of your laugh and I just know that you're all that's good in the world. But I hurt you. I know I do, and I don't know how to stop. I love you, baby. This ends tonight.
all men die, all men die
Fuck this. Fuck life. Fuck them. I can't deal with this shit anymore. They think they can hurt me, they think they can push me around. Fuck that. I'll show them. I'll wipe those smug fucking smiles right off their faces and then we'll see who laughs. Three years is too long to put up with this. “Man up” my dad said. “This is character building.” and “No son of mine is going to be a snitch. If it's a fight they want, then you bring the fight to them.” Fuck him, too, I guess. So much for telling an adult. But he'd be proud of me today. I'm taking the fight to them, and to him. I've got a .45 and enough bullets for everyone who ever hurt me. I'm gonna burn their fucking worlds down, and they won't know how to stop me.
hush little darling
Just one more cigarette. Just one. It's funny. I keep telling myself that, even though I know it's not true. Sometimes I feel like that's all my life is. Empty words, empty promises, empty people. Lies. Every single one of us. Just ashes and filter with a bit of a buzz in-between. Whatever. It isn't as though it matters. I can hardly fault others for lying when I'm living the biggest lie of all. I hear my friends talking, and my family. We watch the news together, the current events and the political debates and one of them will say “Can you believe it? The faggots want to marry now. Want to adopt kids like it's their fuckin' right. Someone needs to put 'em in their place.” and they turn to me and ask “Isn't that right, John? Need to teach those faggots a lesson.” and I don't even move. Don't even look away from the tv screen. I just pull out another cigarette and light it, inhale and exhale slowly as if everything in me isn't aching beneath the weight of their words. “You bet.” I say. And a little more of me breaks off and dies. I'm living the biggest lie of all, and I don't know how to stop. But not anymore. Just one more cigarette. This ends tonight.
don't you weep
I just can't do this anymore. I thought I could, but I can't. Everything hurts and there's no fucking point to anything at all.
I thought that there was, once. A point, a meaning, a Grand Scheme, a Divine Plan. Whatever you want to call it. But there's not. There is no Plan and there is no God. Or worse, there is a God and He's watching us suffer and doesn't care enough to do anything about it. They say that killing yourself is a sin. Well fuck that and fuck Him. He can send me to Hell for all I care. It's certainly no worse than being here. And as far as I'm concerned, the only real sin is God's.
Who abandons children they claim to love?
all men must be lain to sleep
I saw this coming. Oh, you thought I didn’t notice, but I did. Distances that didn’t matter before are pronounced. Silences are silent. Before, we were life. Now we are the empty place between worlds. The vacuum of space between planets. We are a vast blackness that I can’t breathe through, and you suffocate me.
It’s not so bad, really. There is no pain. Well. That’s not true, exactly. There is pain, but it’s not the kind that I expected to feel. It is nothing at all like heartbreak and everything like my skin being stretched too tight over my bones. There was a world inside my chest, and now it’s gone. Strewn around me like so many fallen leaves, I recognize the pieces for what they were. Part of me whispers that I should feel loss for these broken things, but I don’t. I only feel the tightness, and wonder if, eventually, I will be forced out, too.
It’s no big deal. I always told people, when they asked, that you are like the earth. Solid and sure. That no matter the changes happening around me, I could look down and see that the stuff beneath my feet, the ground holding me up, was still the same. I think that, maybe, I still feel that way. You are still the earth. Still unchangeable and certain. It’s more as though the ground has shifted, and the spot where I had stood now belongs to someone else. I had thought it might feel freeing. Instead, I am left with the sensation that I am ungrounded, and, given the slightest provocation, will be sucked into the void that is the space between us.
It doesn’t bother me. Don’t think that it does. When we were younger I swore that we were forever. Like Watson and Holmes, Bonnie and Clyde. We were every dynamic duo that had ever existed and then some. Symbiotic in nature. Inseparable. Now we are dust and sharp rocks between my teeth. Part of me is glad. I never want to feel a hope like that again.
I don’t even think about it. So don’t worry. There is no gnawing at my bones, no buzzing in my mind. The photos on my walls scream your face and the doodles you sketched in corners cry your soul, but I don’t hear them. Everything that spoke of you is dying just as we have died. Eventually it will all fade, and there will be nothing but the vacuum and the tightness of my skin.
Don’t worry. I don’t even think about it.
I don't know what to write.
There. I've said it. I stare at this computer for minutes and hours and days, hoping for inspiration, for feeling, for fucking anything to come from my fingers and appear on the screen. But nothing happens, and I am disappointed. I am always disappointed, because I know that somewhere inside of me there is an untapped reservoir of emotion and ugliness and beauty and perfect-flawed humanity waiting to spill itself, waiting to be heard, to be seen, to be released.
And I wonder why that is. Why am I always waiting? Why do I stare at the emptiness of pages and waste my time mourning their blankness when I could be filling them? What am I waiting for? There is no Muse, no beautiful goddess of inspiration to whisper passions in my heart, to awaken frenzy in fingers, so what? What do I sit here and hope to find in the blank white and the blinking cursor? What can they give me that I don't already have? What can they teach me? Emptiness is emptiness is blankness is nothing, and staring does not change that.
I wonder if I'm afraid, sometimes. I wonder if the thought of baring that cracked-pretty-ugly-flawed-whole-human center of myself is frightening. Because that's what writing is. It's taking the deepest parts of yourself and throwing them on a page for the world to see and judge. Writing is tearing open your chest and encouraging people to poke at your lungs, your heart, all the beating parts of you. Writing is standing on sky-scrapers and screaming secrets; it is Naming yourself in a world that prefers anonymity; it is stopping people on the street and demanding that they look. Here I am! This is the Truth of it! This is the Truth of Everything. And they accept it or they don't, they look or they don't, they listen or they don't, and I wonder if perhaps I am afraid of screaming my secrets and hearing only silence in return, of Naming myself only to find that anonymity was better after all.
But in my heart of hearts, I know that it's not any of these things that render me silent. It isn't any of those fears which seal my lips or still my fingers. No.
My real fear is tapping that reservoir and finding out that it was empty to begin with. There was no beauty after all.
So I stare at this computer for minuteshoursdays and wait for something to happen, wait for that place inside myself to give up something, anything, and pray all the while that it be anything but bare.
I don't know what to write. I didn't when I started this. I still don't. But I cannot fight the fear of nothingness with nothingness. I cannot fight blankness with blank pages.
Thanks go to my amazing beta mika_starlightComments are food, people. Feed the starving ficcer.