Frankenstein

Sometimes I wish I could have held on.

Held on the everything that I sacrificed to be alone.

If I just didn't let everyone slip away.

What was I supposed to do? There was nothing else to talk about. No more words to say. 

And mostly all I really wanted to say to all of them was how much I hated them for not caring. I hated all of them for not trying. Why didn't they just try a little harder to scratch my surface? Why didn't they burrow under my skin and squirm through my veins? 

How did I get away with no one knowing me?

And now I have nowhere to go and no one to talk to because no one knows who I am now. Just a strange girl in a strange land.

I hate them so much because I needed them. But they wouldn't really love me. They wouldn't really even like the real me. I am scary. My brain is so scary. And sometimes suicidal. And sometimes homicidal. And I thought that there was something wrong, really wrong for a long time. Something missing. But I realized that it wasn't missing. The ticker that stopped me from carrying out all of these thoughts that drove me insane was in there. 

It's in my brain because I can feel the euphoria when it hits my brain. All those thoughts turn into spurts of joy and laughs of hysteria. When suddenly I don't want to smash my head into the windshield just to feel. The longing to dominate and frighten everything I'm around just stops. And I'm happy. 

I'm happy.

I'm happy.

IM HAPPY.

                                                                                              But it just doesn't feel right. It's not a warm happy. It's hysteria. And it's nothing at all. I perceive that I am happy because I don't feel the bad things. But why would I be happy? There's nothing to be happy for in these moments. 

I should be mourning my thoughts. I should feel sorrow for all the evil that has pranced through my head. Instead, I'm just laughing. Laughing an icy, numb laugh.  

A dissection of the attitudes of people.

She never really understood why, but she always decided to be happy. Every time the brick in the hand of all of her demons bashed into her face she just laughed it off. There was never a time that she didn't have a smile on her face if she was looking you in the eye. She made a conscious effort to look you in the eyes every time too. She never said anything that was mean or crude, but instead said the sweetest things that only made you adore her more. Her hair was always fixed and her face always slightly enhanced with color. If you ever took time to watch her you would notice her selfless concern for everyone else. Yet, you knew nothing about her. The only thing you ever collected from your observances is that she was smart. So smart, but so humble. She didn't purposefully use big words to confuse you but on every term exam she made nearly perfect marks. She was so talented at everything. For her, you assumed that there was no limit. She, of course, put her heart into everything. She was the nicest person you ever met. While, admittedly, she wasn't the most aesthetically appealing, you never would think about it while in her presence because she was such a beautiful person. Although she rarely made you laugh or react to her, you wanted to talk to her. You would share every agonizing detail about your life with her while she actually listened and cared. Your secrets were all safe with her and that was evident. There was no fault or flaw to her. No rigid seem, just a soft, cool pillow and a warm wool skin. 

And these fond memories are all you hold of her.

Innocence and Adoration

I had myself convinced that I didn't need her and she was just a poison. Mostly, I don't miss her. I found a recording of her singing with so much passion and sadness that it made unintentional tears fall. But I miss the mommy that tucked me into bed and sang me to sleep. I need her so bad....... I need the warm feeling that her love gave to me, if there's anything there still at all. 

My memories of having a whole family are so soft and secure, even when tragedy was befalling me. I miss coming home from school to a fresh loaf of bread my mom had baked, still warm from the oven with a thin layer of butter on it. I miss locking myself in her closet while everyone was playing to wear her high heals and smell her perfume. I would pull down the large box of change that my parents had saved for vacation and wiggle my fingers down under the cold coins until my hand was completely buried. 

I would move to the deepest part of the closet, under my dad's dress shirts and hide against the wall as I slipped on his huge rubber boots. I would run my fingers across the white metal bars above my head and they would sing to me. I was happy to just lie there and smell the carpet that was infused with my parents' smell. And sometimes I would even sneak various items from my dad's office into my sanctuary and spend hours observing them.

Then I would transpire from my cave back into there bedroom, and rest my head on one of the cold, wooden banisters that extended from the corners of their king bed and trace my fingers over the fancy carving, working my way to the very bottom, where the wood met the carpet. I would lie on my back and thrust myself under the bed and reach through the holes in the box springs because the air inside was always a little cooler and I liked that. 

Several times a week I would open the chest at the end of their bed and pull out my mom's wedding dress. It was so beautiful, encrusted with shiny jewels and pearls and poofy shoulders. It was the most lovely item of clothing I had ever held in my hands. It smelled of the old musty wood and love notes at the bottom of the box. 

I loved sneaking into my dad's office that was off limits. It smelled thickly of his the fancy tobacco that he would smoke in the evenings while he chatted on the phone to his brothers. I would glide my fingers across his grandfather's antique encyclopedias, collecting a thick layer of dust on my fingers. And playing with his Mt. St. Helen volcanic ash never got old, and the fineness of the powder caused it to move in a very intriguing way that I still haven't gotten over.

After the bookcases lost my interest I would pick up the small cardboard box of my dad's agates he had collect over his many years spent searching in Yellowstone and lick them so they would turn into an opaque glass with ripples through them. And I would hold them up to the window until I found my favorite one. 

At night we would sit on the steps of the porch while my parents rocked together on the porch swing and we would watch the sun set as we ate fruit. In the summer, my favorite was watermelon. The juices would leave a sticky beard from my lack of etiquette as the coolness of the night set in and the mosquitoes started to buzz followed by the passing of the loud mosquito sprayers that crawled down the city roads in the evenings. 

I loved examining the old wooden school desks with initials carved in them where I learned my multiplication tables and how to write my name in cursive. I would dip my fingers into the built in well that once upon a time was used as an ink holder and pretend that I was Laura Engles. I would lift the top of the desk up to look at my neatly stacked, shiny books. And I loved learning everything and how proud my parents were of me because I always got every answer right. 

Some days when my mom was doing laundry I would sneak into the laundry room during the middle of the cycle and lie across the washer and dryer waiting to empty them because my parents would let me keep the money that I found. The money that they purposefully left in their pockets after noticing all my efforts to look for it. And I would usually buy a barbie with it that I would never play with because I already had a whole town packed away in giant clear containers in the sun room that attached the washing room to the rest of the house. 

And when my dad said it was time for bed I knew he was giving me a head start. I would run as  fast as I could up the stairs and shut my door, and then run into the closet and shut the door. My heart would start to pound because I could hear him stomping up the stairs singing, "Fe, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an English mum. Be he red or be he in bed!" Then it would get silent and the door knob would twist and he would look in, pretending not to find me. When I was sure he had given up, he would reach under the pile of clothes I had thrown over me and pull me out by my feet, throwing me onto the bed and tickling me just enough not to make me mad. Then he would tuck the covers around me and place his hand on my forehead and pray over my dreams. After a peck on my cheek, he would rise off the side of the bed and flip my light on, and leave for work for the night. 

Nothing ever felt out of place or cold as long as they were around. They'll probably never understand how much I adored them either. And I wish that time hadn't stolen that adoration of a shy little girl that woke up in a new world every day. 

Daydreamer

My   eyes are glossed and I can't wake up.

And something inside of me   understands the alcoholic in you.

The need to drink pastthese thoughts. 

They aren't even solid thoughts.

The need to drink past these feelings. 

I'm sorry for sleepwalking into your reality. 

And my eyes were matted shut and my arms strewn in front of me.

Just lik  e the fucking movies. 

And I can remember      when I thought I was living. 

My body twitching. My breathing heavy, but steady. 

I can feel the warmth of the sunbeams licking at my pale skin. But I know I'm asleep.

But one night   someone told me that everything seemed so important when it was dark.

But I'm sitting here. In the dark. Face agleam with        soft light from the monitor.

I'm still nothing. Nothing  but  a  puffy  eyed  zombie  gnawing  at  my  cheeks. Put in a sick trance by  the   words    that I thought might be important to you. 

    And there are gaps in my thoughts,, amounts of time that don't exist because my   brain  was to busy  to tend to    me. It's like I' m weaving a web so carefully but I  always  fall    through the gaps. and fall. and fall. and fall. Until I'm trapped  in someone else's web where  they tie me  up and feast on my blood. But I'm asleep and think it's a dream. And I'm asleep so it is a dream. And in my dreams, you're a black widow. And in my reality, you're my black widow.

But I never wanted to be important. And I never wanted to be noticed.

And now I'm not. 

But you understand that because my fingers are laced in yours; my fingers are grabbing at the last link to humanity that I have. But the clock is ticking and I merely have weeks before you ascend. I merely have weeks before I descend. 

And I'll keep sleepwalking in the deepest slumber with no chance of waking.

A walking comatose. 

And I'll laugh, but I                      

                                                                        won't feel it. 

And I'll cry, but I won't feel it.

Because the monsters will own me like they own you. 

But I'll let them because they pull my string like a doll and I say what I was programmed to. 

And they pull your string and you say what you're programmed to.

And do you always say what you're told to?

Are you always so polite? 

It's for show because I know otherwise;

I painted my self portrait on  my face for you and you never noticed. 

I think about it             . And if phases me.

Who cares if you're the Emperor of the Universe if your thrown sits in a black hole?

And I don't want to put the suit on.
I don't want to look fancy for all of this.
My knees are shaking from weakness and my brain is pounding from all the haze.

But I'm sad. So, so very sad. My head is heavy and my heart is heavy. Because I have no future. I mean, I'll always have a future, but I'll never dream of a future with anyone. I'll never have cute words to exchange. Because, for me, life's all business. And I can never want.
I keep telling myself I'm not going to cry. And my eyelashes lick up the tears that threaten to fall. But every other part of me cries. All of my muscles are in spasms, and the stitch stays in my side.
I can't breathe. Even now. Just short choppy spews followed by a shaky gasp.

It's the end of everything and there's nothing I can do about iiiiittt. And everyone else gets a new beginning. And everyone else is talking it out. I used to be so sickeningly optimistic. But now it's not even pessimism. It's nothing. And that scares me. That I feel nothing.



Void.

                             Empty.





                                                                  Nothing.





But man, when I feel, do I feel it all. I feel the nails being driven through my bones and the hands all ripping out my hair. And my head pounds. And my head pounds. And my head pounds. And I feel the fluid. And it's makes my neck stiff. And my it's making my neck stiff. And the thought of food makes me heave. And the smell of food disgusts me.

And everything I do is to punish me, not to make me a better person. But I don't make a scene out of it. I quietly torture myself because I can't stop. And it's sick. Especially when I scratchatmybrainwithmyclaws. And it screams, but I'm so satisfied.



I'm fragile. Mostly because of me.

                                                                             But when someone else stabs at me, I crumble. And I'm fragile.

And nothing from before seems to matter to me because I know it's the end. And I know I lost. I lost because I didn't protect my pulsating heart. I let it be butchered. And it's all gone to shit.

Oh how I hate being crossed.

Iris in; Iris out. Cut.

It's like I remember exactly how I felt while I was growing up. And I've closed in on the distance between what I am willing to pay attention to and what people are trying to say to me.
It's like I always understood the general concept of what they were saying but I wasn't hearing words. Just roars of emotion. And I would react in an appropriate manner, moving my facial expression to match what emotion I thought they would want to hear back.
But you can see it in every photo. A distant, all too familiar look. And I'm always smiling a sheepish smile that is less than confident. It's just the eyes. My eyes. They are glazed over and it is always evident that I am thinking because my attention has gone to my own agenda and I'm not thinking what they want me to think. I'm thinking about me. And all the things that matter to me. And all the ways I made them proud. And all the things I wanted to say. And my imagination.
And I'm so lost in my head that I don't know what reality is until they would boom me back into it.


But now
            I can hold my brain into a con
                                                        versation for a while before I drift away
                                                                                                                  into my world.

And people like that. And people like me. And people like me when I listen. And maybe people would like me if I talked.
But talking is even harder than listening. Because I can't track myself. I can't remember where my thoughts spawned from so it's hard for anything to have a point to it. I have no idea what my thoughts all collectively mean.

But in my world, in my head, I am a genius. And I think complex thoughts about things I could never verbalize. And in feelings I'll never know outside of my dreams. And it's suffocating. And it's suffocating me. But less than it has in the past. Because now I have realized that no one can really communicate their soul and self to another person. And I'll never take anyone seriously because no one feels like I do. Feels so strongly, like I do. And no one spends as much time analyzing everything as I do. And I do. So, accordingly, no one must know as much about life as I do. But I don't.

And because we all think we are smart, it must be that we all are not.
I mean there are obvious spheres of intelligence that people fit into. But some times I feel like I have my own sphere of being an intelligent moron. And what's the point of participating in an oxymoron if you don't even get to benefit from it.

It's just a thought; let it go.

What has this become? My sad prison cell that I vault my thoughts in because it's the only space left in my entire universe.