My breathing came in quick, rapid gulps. I clawed at the stone floor, at nothing, wanting everything, nothing... I flopped onto my back and stared at the ceiling, at the blinding lights, and I choked on loneliness... Bile rose in my throat, and I forced it back down. I ran my grimy fingers through my hair, and my breath hitched. I wanted warmth, I wanted comfort, I wanted... It didn't matter what I wanted. It was gone, all gone, and how long has it been? Three months? Six years? It didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, nothing... I turned over on my side and stroked the floor. It was stained in blood. How hard had I fought against it? I couldn't remember. I closed my eyes, and I sucked in a labored breath. I needed something. Anything. Something other than the cold gray floor and the same electric lights, the ones I woke up to every day. But really, did I sleep? Could I sleep? It didn't seem like it. I opened my eyes and gazed at the bloodstain. Whose was it? Could it be my mother's? My father's? Or maybe my sister's? Did it even matter? Maybe nothing mattered. Nothing at all... I sat up, every muscle in my body aching. Was my family dead? I stood up shakily, and leaned against the cold cement wall. I pressed my forehead against it and drew in a long breath. Everything... Was... Fine. I forced my gaze over to my left, and heaved. Bodies... Dead bodies. My family. I felt bile rise in my throat again, but this time I didn't force it down. I sunk to the ground. Why hadn't I noticed their rotting corpses? I crawled over to them. Human flesh... How long had it been since I had felt human flesh? I stroked my sister's hand. Cold. I threw up my head and wailed into the everlasting silence. No. No. I grabbed my mother's arm. Limp. I screamed, and, in desperation, grabbed my father. His blank eyes stared back at me. I threw him against the wall, and crumpled to the ground, pressing against my mother. I needed something living. Warm skin. Eyes that saw me. I clawed at my mother and sister, sobbing. "Come back! Get up!" They didn't. They lay there, unseeing, unfeeling. Dead.
fragility of life
[the empty feeling at two am] nothing goes away anymore
i’m stuck with identical curving lines down my wrists
and the thought that “something’s changed” -because i don’t understand myself anymore
and all i know how to do is stare at the ceiling
i love myself and i love the whole fucking world! (is what i must repeat)
what have i become? and what have you become?
suicidal dreamers (!) and yet i still cannot forget.
and yet i’m staring at the ceiling
Fear
Fear.
Of dying broke. Of not dying broke. Of letting him kiss me. Of not letting him kiss me. It's all on your shoulders. You become this horseshit writer. A broke motherfucker. You watch too many Godard movies for your own good.
I am afraid and trying. Desperate and overflowing with words I cannot contain.
What Really is Love?
LOVE IS NOT WHAT WE’VE ALWAYS BEEN TAUGHT.
LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION.
LOVE IS NOT THE BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH.
IF YOU CLING TO THE IDEA THAT THE BUTTERFLIES
IN YOUR STOMACH ARE TELLING YOU THAT
YOU’RE IN LOVE, THEN
YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO HAVE A LASTING RELATIONSHIP
BECAUSE BUTTERFLIES DIE.
LOVE IS A CHOICE.
THE CHOICES YOU MAKE CAN LAST FOREVER.
BUT BUTTERFLIES IN YOUR STOMACH FADE AWAY AND DIE.
LOVE IS NOT NERVOUSNESS.
LOVE IS A CHOICE.
IT IS A CONSTANT CLINGING TO SOMEONE
BECAUSE YOU WANT TO,
NOT BECAUSE YOU FEEL YOU NEED TO.
LOVE IS NOT SEEING PERFECTION IN SOMEONE’S EYES.
LOVE IS SEEING THE LIGHT AND THE DARK AND
CHOOSING TO HELP LIGHT UP THE DIM PARTS.
LOVE IS NOT THAT ELECTRICITY YOU FEEL
WHEN YOU KISS SOMEONE.
LOVE IS CHOOSING ONE PERSON’S KISS OVER EVERYONE ELSE’S
REGARDLESS OF HOW IT MAKES YOU FEEL PHYSICALLY.
LOVE DOESN’T JUST GO AWAY.
PEOPLE CHOOSE TO STOP LOVING ONE ANOTHER
BECAUSE LOVE IS A CHOICE.
PEOPLE DON’T WAKE UP NO LONGER LOVING SOMEONE.
PEOPLE WAKE UP CHOOSING TO NO LONGER LOVE SOMEONE.
IT DOESN’T JUST HAPPEN.
IT’S A RESULT OF A CHOICE.
PEOPLE CHOOSE TO LOVE OR TO NOT LOVE
BECAUSE LOVE IS NOT AN EMOTION,
LOVE IS A CHOICE.
LOVE IS A CHOICE.
LOVE
IS
A
CHOICE.
Friends in High Place
His friends had come back to him.
They had left for so long, he was worried they would never return, but they had come back. It was barely and audible murmur tickling the shallowest places in his mind, but it was there. Completely unintelligible, but there nonetheless.
The sensation washed over him, covered him in a blanket of warmth and ecstasy. Mere moments ago he had felt alone. So very, very alone. Yet now he could hardly remember the sensation. It was like a fleeting dream escaping his grasp. No, nightmare. It had been a nightmare.
Oh, what joy. What rapture! What salvation! The Women in White had been cunning, but he had been far too crafty for them. Yes. That was what is friends were communicating. Congratulations for his cunning.
Oh, The Women in White had been worthy adversaries. They had found that fiendish blue pill when he had hidden it under his tongue and in the hollow of his cheek. Oh, yes they had. The Women in White had punished him for his crimes. Made him shallow their capsule. They had promised to banish is friends.
They had. But The Women in White had failed. His friends had come back to him.
But he, Aaron Thomson, had beaten them. The answer was so simple. So gloriously simple. He would sallow the demon pill, oh yes he would, but right after he went to the bathroom and vomited his enemy away. Down and down it went, swirling away with the rest of the filth.
Did he enjoy making himself vomit? That was beside the point. It was his friends. He would do anything for his friends. Anything.
That is what separated him from The Women in White. That is what make him stronger. Even at his weakest, even with them draining his strength, he was stronger. And he had his friends to thank. Yes, his drive for them made The Women in White fail.
Oh, and they had failed. His friends were back. His friends had come back to him.
Their voices were getting louder. They were just on the edge of comprehension. He could almost make it out. Yes. YES. The Women in White had failed. They should be punished. Yes, punished indeed.
But how? No, not like that. That was cruel. Too cruel. But they had taken his friends from him. And he was no longer alone. He could do it with them. He wasn't alone.
Never alone. Never again. His friends had come back to him.
A.D.E.E.
As far as the guys at the warehouse where I (18 year old me) worked where concerned, I also moonlighted as an "Accrued Debt Elimination Enforcer," or "Adee/80" for short. Job responsibilities included: making an intimidating appearance to invoke a desire to pay a debt, making physical contact and witty threats for payment, and if all else failed-- break some bones until payment was received. Their proof of my explanation was in the knife scar on my forearm, busted lip, and bloody--swollen, knuckles.
It was a believable lie that served its purpose.
| another_proser |
