I could no longer distinguish people from monsters.
And the stitches in my heart begin to pop. One by one.
I stay awake all night. My knees curled up to my chin, my arms wrapped tight around my small frame, my long brown hair the only curtain between us.
My eyes open to 2 eyes 2 lips 2 ears 2 eyebrows. I stifle my scream my urgency to run the crippling horror gripping my limbs. “You’re a b-b-b-b – ”“And you’re a girl.
Having a cellmate might be okay. Talking to a real human being might make things easier. I practice using my voice, shaping my lips around the familiar words unfamiliar to my mouth. I practice all day. I’m surprised I remember how to speak.
My past still clings to me, skeleton hands holding me back even as I push forward into the light.
I have nothing but a small notebook and a broken pen and the numbers in my head to keep me company. 1 window. 4 walls. 144 square feet of space. 26 letters in an alphabet I haven’t spoken in 264 days of isolation. 6,336 hours since I’ve touched another human being.
You are a monster!
I really hope you won’t let this stuff get you down,” he said. “Life gets way better after high school, I swear.
Truth is a jealous, vicious mistress that never ever sleeps, is what I don’t tell him.
In my less charitable moments I might call him a coward, but I get it. I’d opt out, too, if I could. I just don’t feel like I can. There’s still too much I’m willing to die for.
I didn’t want to be draped in silk. All I ever wanted was to reach out and touch another human being not just with my hands but with my heart. I saw the world and its lack of compassion, its harsh, grating judgement, and its cold, resentful eyes. I saw it all around me.
This was my miserable choice. I brought it upon myself.
You’re going to go on to do incredible things. I’ve always known that. I think I just wanted to be a part of it.
I’m feeling stupid. I’m feeling brave because I’m feeling stupid.
I want to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that signals the end of a person’s sanity. Because this world, I think, has a terrible, terrible sense of humor. It always seems to be laughing at me. at my expense. making my life entirely more complicated all the time. Ruining all of my best-laid plans by making every choice so difficult. Making everything so confusing.
Anger will make you weak and clumsy. It will divert your focus.
We don’t have to do anything at all to die... Living is more complex. There’s one thing we always have to do. Breathe. In and out, every single day in every hour minute and moment we must inhale whether we like it or not. Even as we plan to asphyxiate our hopes and dreams we still breath. Even as we wither away and sell our dignity to the man on the corner we breathe. We breathe when we’re wrong, we breathe when we’re right, we breathe even when we slip of the ledge toward an early grave.
Op de een of andere manier doet het me letterlijk pijn in mijn hart en toch kan ik maar niet ophouden de bladzijden om te slaan.
These words are vomit.