Suffocating Darkness, Unreachable Light

It’s one of those days when I find myself alone, and full of thought. Sometimes I wish I could just stop thinking, stop feeling, and all would be well. However, I know all too well that numbness is not any more bearable that full-fledged pain. I think, therefore I write. I write, and it helps. Usually..

****I keep everything hidden, so no one knows. I grew tired of others’ questioning. Questions to which the answer was far beyond my reach. How do I explain my misery, tell them what I need, when I cannot even simply admit it to my own soul? So, I began to isolate the deepest, most fragile part of me–my heart. My heart, a vessel that beats so imperfectly. Its bruises and open wounds continue to consolidate pain within my chest. Its insecurities thrash through my mind ugly thoughts, feelings of worthlessness and breaking my thin wire of faith like a twig, as I fight to find the will to live another day. They think I read as an open book. But I do not. I have learned to awake each day, wash the salty tear stains from beneath my eyes with that pristine water that runs so pure and clean-the way I used to be- from that leaky faucet of my bathroom sink, and fix a smile upon my lips, moistening them with my favorite brand of chapstick. The same one I’ve always used. Funny how a name can hold so many memories, both perfect and in pain. Pain speaks to me. “Maybe,” it says, “maybe if you apply enough, no one will discover me behind that hideous disguise you define as a smile.” I look into the mirror. It startles me. I see the image of I girl I do not know. The image of her almost translucent skin streched over jagged bones and tiny, purplish veins. The image of red curls, perfect ringlets stretching far down her spine. The image of eyes– green, cautious, hurting. Thick, long lashes blinking rapidly as they move to the sight of the fresh pink scars of the curse of keeping too much bottled inside that isolated, mangaled heart. That….and a blade. A blade for soothing despair’s cold blame, and that worthless feeling. A blade for proving that life is present. Gently, my finger traces the uneven yet precise splits that mar my porcelain complexion. Quickly, my eyes jump back to face themselves. What I never see is everything I am told by those who care. But who really cares? All I believe in fades in and away. It comes at a price. The price of isolation. Isolation calms me, speaking directly through to my vulnerability, lurring me in. “Come to me, dear, and it will be done. Do not trust anyone. Everything and everyone will always leave you on the ground, cold and alone. If they were true, they would see your hurt. Come to me and they’ll believe you. Just smile and say you’re fine. They do not care anyway. Never tell them what you see, how you feel, everytime you look into this mirror.” I smile. I laugh. But yet, I still cry. They will never see that, though. I am engaged in a constant battle within myself. Mentally and physically I am losing this fight. There was a time when the end was near, and I had victory’s medal proudly displayed; it hung around my neck. But triggers, such as stormy June nights and self-destructive thoughts I feed myself, caused this war I nearly defeated not so long ago to rage once again. Old habits die hard, so they say. Is starving, or cutting, or addiction a habit..or merely words that define who I am. This time is different. I am alone in this and that is all I will ever be. ‘Fake it until you make it.’ I am alive, my breaths come from the courtesy of blind hope and this aforementioned mentality. The rest? It shall remain hidden. I won’t confess what’s really going on behind these green eyes, until someone truly cares. But who would? Who would want to deal with something, console something so horribly flawed, so horribly hideous as the pain that I have allowed to succumb myself? I walk the thin line between darkness and light, periodically retreating into full darkness time and time again. Then there are the days, such as today, when it appears that possibly, oh the glorious possibility, I am finally feeling the warmth of light once again. However, as I sit alone, catching glimpses of my bony fingers as I write by candle-light, I cannot help but think this is all a mirage. That as soon as this light appeared, it will be gone, as it has left abruptly countless times before. So, I will keep lighting the fire and moistening, with my favorite chapstick, the lips that frame a smile, so that no one ever know these thoughts within my head.****

~ by candyshele1204 on March 17, 2012.