My mind feels like a glitch
A mess of noise and static
A numbness that spreads to my hands and legs
A dryness of the throat, saliva in the windpipe
the ends of my skin breaking up into sea-foam
My inner core like molten Lava, feeding off any feeling left to stay alive
But there’s nothing left and it hurts so bad
To have the flames feed off the walls of my brain, making my head itch and eyes twitch like crazy
On the brink of sheer madness, so potent and pure
I relish in my tears that drown my volcanic heart
And whisper to myself, crazed, dazed
As I rock on my bed
More bits becoming sea-foam
Fingernails falling off
My mind become tangles of color and sound, melting like it’s on acid
Every part, every piece and organ, skin and muscle feels like it’s melting
But my throat stays dry
No matter how much water pours from my pores and back into the sea from which it came
I can’t speak a word
Because I have nothing left to say, what’s the point of speaking when everything stays the same.
How about a bedtime story? A change of tone, my heathens. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t Sunday.
Today, I speak with you all personally about a dream I once had when I was a very small child. The thing about being a child is that there is so much that appears to be beautiful in our eyes. From the way water trickles down the driveway after the car is washed to the way the lavender-colored trees sway to and fro on a very windy day because they are just so enormously tall. A sparkle and twinkle in your eye, a grin spread so wide that it may just be good for something later on. Ah, and your hands were so small, just like all the clothes you used to wear.
Or perhaps you used to live near the sea? Where breezes were mingled with salt and water and the skies had a constant grey overcast, it can’t always be sunny after all. But there were still days where the sand would become littered in shovels and pails and little moulds of turtles and seahorses. Lighthouses that never really worked the way you thought they would. Wooden fences wearing down because the sea kept trying to face plant into it. How the world seemed so divided once your feet moved from sand to black asphalt, so different.
Maybe you lived somewhere stranger, like near a bog or marsh? I’ve never been to a place, but I know a dear friend who has. They live there in peace and fill my nights with love stories between cloud gods and thunder strikes, hot weather and rainy weather, the cool darkness of their room compared to the warm embrace of a million bedsheets.
Strange and crazy things happening right under your nose that they couldn’t possibly tell me for…reasons, I suppose.
It is such a pretty world we live in that sometimes I forget the monsters that plague us everyday. I forget the cruel truth of friendships and love, how the two seem so unbreakable yet, are truly very fragile.
I feel like we are stepping on a glass marble that will shatter under our heels at any given moment. So strange, yet so familiar.
I am happy we can be content in knowing that our existences are fragile. I am so happy.
Goodnight, my heathens. May your slumbers be ever peaceful.