Catch me if I care

“If I could find a way

to see this straight

I’d run away

to some fortune that

I should have found by now.

So I run now to the things they said could restore me

restore life

the way it should be

waiting for this cough syrup

to come down.”

The billowing clouds luminesce overhead, drowning the innocent in the light of their joy. Escaping the fumigation they do, but not everyone is that lucky. Luck. As if luck has anything at all to do with this. This is the verdict of which I am guilty as charged. They say it’s a choice. They say I choose this hurt. They look at me disapprovingly, and judge of what they do not know. How could they extricate me? I am anything but clear. I may be young, but I do not boast myself in the way that is notorious of my entire generation. I am an exception. I do not flaunt my issues, nor must I seek reassurance for my flaws—as if I do not already see them; I live them. I am capable of hiding, managing, living my fabricated life without the company of compassion from another. But that is not good enough, as I am often told so; ‘for, how do I expect to be loved if I cannot open up? What kind of life is this? Disclose may I to you that this is exactly what you claim and everything but anything of what you thought it to be. But never was it, nor could it, be a choice. One may choose whether or not they smile for that day, whether or not they decide to put on a positive face, but one must note the grave difference in simple bliss and a carving on a canvas. Disapprove of me, shout at me, tell me what I am doing wrong. Tell me to suck it up. I hear you and I can promise you this, my darling: death will prevail to seduce me if It so wishes.

I think about it night and day, every second that I am alive. I imagine the bridge, the way the steel creaks when you sit upon its edge, the way the wind blows my curls around my face as I stare below into the murky waters of my future. I feel the heels of my feet slightly poised, my toes keeping my grip until the moment that I am ready. I see the passersby and they stare at me, yet no one stops to ask. No one pays attention to the ghost. Nonetheless, I discern that I am weightless. I am selfish. I deserve this.

And I fall.

Profligate. Cleaving. Burning. The wind cuts through my skin like a benevolent chainsaw seeking punishment on a willow tree, harboring both gentleness and viciousness simultaneously. I am amused. Addicted. Overtaken. My lips tremble with the lust. Passion? ‘For what possess me to speak of this? As if I know of the word and all its entitlements anymore! My passion was buried with a stake in its eye. Six feet under it sleeps while outside the wind whistles in the dead of the night. I envy the earth with a opaque bitterness.

I shut my eyes so I do not see. I walk the opposite way from the glass that mirrors a terrifying image.  I have no indication of what is real. The reflection always deceives me. They say it is not me that I do see. Then who, I demand the answer, who doth it be? I see a horrific monster within my eyes, but next I see a maimed skeleton. The Voice is not me, I know of this, yet I cannot distinguish its awful tone from that of my own. Rationality abandoned me. In its place stepped apathy. I stopped trying. It beat me down. I languish in the peril and it coddles me with love. A sick sense of love does it behold. Promises of life, worth, purpose. It imbibes me of my nourishments, burns the pills I slip down my throat.

In the wastebasket it does lay, the sertraline from today. I sing the line like an intonation within my head:

“Though I [feel] as grim as the reaper man..cast away with the doctors’ plans….”

Nervous laughter slips out of my throat.

Pain sleeps in me. Light tries to reach me. Blackness consumes me. Faith floats before me. The Voice weakens me.

And tonight I lie with my arms over my eyes.

Tonight I choose to stay in The Fight.

~ by candyshele1204 on April 8, 2012.