anopenwound
I̸'̷m̵ ̸g̶o̷i̶n̵g̷ ̶h̵o̶m̶e̶.̵
- Jul 27, 2024
- 184
On this side of the Earth, the sun hits as if it's out to kill you. Climate change still hasn't blown up the very most of us, but it's getting there. Every day the temperature doesn't get milder is a bleak reminder of the direction we all decide to happily run towards to, like a car racing through a brick wall. It's going to explode on impact and leave no survivors. The far right marches under my window alongside every ghost and memory of a happier time. None of them seem to have any intention to let up. I think I'd rather deal with fascists, 'cause their bones I could break. Loved ones I can't speak to, it's a whole different story.
Each day, week, month and even year, it all gets relentlessly worse. I look like some hot shit. Like somebody who could handle it. Someone just as unstoppable as the wheel spinning, insane enough to find yet another way out. But I've hit my own, very same brick wall one too many times and this one, this time around, I felt it was my bones that cracked. I see bruises making their way to the surface of my skin, under the blunt force of the pathetic 2 kilograms dumbbells I got when I thought I was going to take care of myself for good, this time: do some push-ups, lift some bags of rice, get these weights from the grocery store. I've cut my legs, I've cut my face, all is visible: I'm not getting out of this house. I don't want to get out of this house. I'm planning on dying here.
There's only so much pain, grief and loss I could have ever taken. I don't think I was made to survive any of this. I don't have time for those who want to convince me that I can. They don't know tired like I do. They don't know broken like I do. They don't know what it feels to carry yourself around like your entire body is an open wound.
At every step of the way, some piercing, shattering blow; then a dull acceptance, like fists hitting on a drum. The meek consolation found in knowing I don't have to get out there and pretend I like any of this anymore.
They all believe I do. They all think I got this. Which is why they don't listen when I'm screaming I don't.
Would they believe me if they saw the scars?
Will they believe me when I die?
Will the story be the same, over and over again: I was crazy, it was my entire fault, and I took the easy way out?
Will everybody find comfort in the fact there was nothing they could have done?
I've been hurt, I've been harmed, I've been tossed around and had everybody's afflictions made mine as if I created them. Every thought they had, mine to explain away. Every hassle, my apology. I don't exist anywhere on this planet. It's all somebody else's projection of a person. When I say the truth, they think I'm ill.
This is me. This is my agency. I'm talking to all of you from the nightmare timeline. The walls are closing in and those around me are grabbing at my neck. I can't escape this. I have no interest in seeing it through.
It's been years. I held out to see what direction it would all take. I'm sorry to say it's all been disappointing at best, unbearable at worst. My head hurts. My chest hurts. I'm done imagining things could be better while my efforts turn to dust as they get worse. I'm done torturing myself.
I feel nothing more than some kind of spasm where I used to have so much love for everybody. I remember what life used to be when I could experience joy and all I see is that a part of myself is dead and I'm holding its corpse. They made me lesser. I made me lesser.
I'm bringing me home. I'm giving myself the send-off I deserve. I don't know what to think of the afterlife, but even nothing can be better than this.
Each day, week, month and even year, it all gets relentlessly worse. I look like some hot shit. Like somebody who could handle it. Someone just as unstoppable as the wheel spinning, insane enough to find yet another way out. But I've hit my own, very same brick wall one too many times and this one, this time around, I felt it was my bones that cracked. I see bruises making their way to the surface of my skin, under the blunt force of the pathetic 2 kilograms dumbbells I got when I thought I was going to take care of myself for good, this time: do some push-ups, lift some bags of rice, get these weights from the grocery store. I've cut my legs, I've cut my face, all is visible: I'm not getting out of this house. I don't want to get out of this house. I'm planning on dying here.
There's only so much pain, grief and loss I could have ever taken. I don't think I was made to survive any of this. I don't have time for those who want to convince me that I can. They don't know tired like I do. They don't know broken like I do. They don't know what it feels to carry yourself around like your entire body is an open wound.
At every step of the way, some piercing, shattering blow; then a dull acceptance, like fists hitting on a drum. The meek consolation found in knowing I don't have to get out there and pretend I like any of this anymore.
They all believe I do. They all think I got this. Which is why they don't listen when I'm screaming I don't.
Would they believe me if they saw the scars?
Will they believe me when I die?
Will the story be the same, over and over again: I was crazy, it was my entire fault, and I took the easy way out?
Will everybody find comfort in the fact there was nothing they could have done?
I've been hurt, I've been harmed, I've been tossed around and had everybody's afflictions made mine as if I created them. Every thought they had, mine to explain away. Every hassle, my apology. I don't exist anywhere on this planet. It's all somebody else's projection of a person. When I say the truth, they think I'm ill.
This is me. This is my agency. I'm talking to all of you from the nightmare timeline. The walls are closing in and those around me are grabbing at my neck. I can't escape this. I have no interest in seeing it through.
It's been years. I held out to see what direction it would all take. I'm sorry to say it's all been disappointing at best, unbearable at worst. My head hurts. My chest hurts. I'm done imagining things could be better while my efforts turn to dust as they get worse. I'm done torturing myself.
I feel nothing more than some kind of spasm where I used to have so much love for everybody. I remember what life used to be when I could experience joy and all I see is that a part of myself is dead and I'm holding its corpse. They made me lesser. I made me lesser.
I'm bringing me home. I'm giving myself the send-off I deserve. I don't know what to think of the afterlife, but even nothing can be better than this.
