Hear Me

I don't know why I bother. I really don't. I don't know why I try to be happy, why I still attempt to dwell in that elusive world of existence. It's not gonna happen. I'm as worthless as always, as bitchy as ever. A waste of space, if ever I took up any.

Maybe if they knew, they'd be sorry.... But, no. I can't even TRY to fool myself with that old ploy. They don't know, they don't care, and they don't even realize. I am bloodstained, and they can't (won't) see it.

I hate how they take things that are pure for me and corrupt them with their derision. Like my dancing, my words, my walk. I can't find sanctuary anymore. Even my hope has been tainted. (Where is that scarce entity these days, anyways?)

There's blood on me, on this notebook. Don't ask me if it's real, 'cause I don't know. Hell, I don't even know if I'm real. How am I supposed to answer for a bit of red-brown stain?

I want to cry, but I can't. I'm so scared that things are going to go back to the way they used to be. I'm so scared, so angry, so bitter. I FOUND sanctuary, I FOUND hope, I FOUND safety. But what am I kidding? Certainly not actual circumstances. If I really had those things for even a moment, I definitely do not have them now. (Please, please, don't let things go back to the way they used to be!)

I get told the same damn things over and over, like it's something new for me to learn. "Ignore them." "Rise above it." "Don't sink to their level." Well, guess what? I been there, I done that, and it DOESN'T WORK. So there. Will you shut up with your platitudes off the mountain now? (They only have value when dispensed from the valley.)

This is a cry for help that no one will hear. (To hear would be an inconvenience, because then they might be obligated to DO something.) I'm running out of hope, I can't smile when I dance, and I am alone. There are cuts on my hands from where I've hit the glass too many times and bruises on my knees from where I've fallen. I am scarred and bloody, and I don't remember when all that grime accumulated. I won't lie and say that I'm not angry, but don't try to oversimplify the situation to that one word. It's more than that. I keep trying and trying and failing and failing and I'm fairly frustrated because NOTHING'S WORKING. I can't separate myself from how I feel and I'm well aware that that's a bad thing.

So, this is it. This is my last call out, my last plea, and I know all too well that no one shall hear me.

Bored to Insanity

Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me! Let me wander from this pen of a concept, marking me up with good intentioned beating! Stop! You're bruising me with your attentions to my attentions to the subject.

Let me see.... Ah, yes. Here's a fairy, flittering about in my brain. The first thing I see are her wings. They're twin jewels, gold and red and green and black, severe knifes protruding gauzily from her bare back. She's a whirl of colors, a blur of gemmery. With her exotic, burnished skin and cat-green eyes, the illusion is compounded. And then she parts her sanded-peach lips in a poisonous bloom of a smile. This fae creature is more dangerous than her miniature size would lead one to believe.

You're STILL talking? What the hell FOR? You're only rattling on about things that don't matter, the noise emitted from your mouth even more irritating when contrasted with the potential of other things you might have to say. (Like *SILENCE*) Your words are crates of glass in the back of a pickup truck driving on a gravel road. (Yeah, slightly toward the annoying side.)

Hm... let's try this. A girl steps from a white Cadillac, swinging her denim-blue toenails encased in four inch espadrilles elegantly off the side of the brown leather seats. The black grosgrain straps twine up her golden-brown calves. She ducks out of the car, snapping down her shades with her perfectly manicured fingers before anyone can glimpse her eyes. She's hiding from the world, and doing a perfectly acceptable job of it.

And you're STILL yammering on. Oh, freedom of thought, preserve me!

Winter's Return

Why is it so cold NOW? It was so warm and sunny, spring having returned in all its glory. I spent the entire weekend stretched out in the luxury of the sunshine. Then I woke up, prepared for pleasant spring heat only to shiver in winter's evil return.

Why is it so cold NOW?

Superhero

He wants to be needed. No, he NEEDS the sensation of being relied on, of being integral to some existence. (Don't we all?) I know what this means, even if neither you nor he have figured it out. You're too strong for him. You stand too tall without his support. You'll never view him as the superman that his nature demands he be. The clock ticks on and soon he shall be gone. (I knew that this would pass.)

The Inkstain

Nondescript, like a story gone wrong. An ink stain on an otherwise blank page. There's no telling what that blot does or does not conceal. Or, perhaps that blot is the story itself - just spewed out on the paper, too many words at once. That's me then, my form in a nonform, a contradiction of symphonic beauty ugly for its all-at-once nature. Maybe it's better than I am a stain, though. There's a lot of ink there. If it was all written out pretty, no one would bother to read the book. Not that it matters - no one reads it anyways. So am I an inkstain - so are we all.

A Good Question

I am so close to giving up, to ceasing trying. After all, I have seen no evidence of progress, only the slow traces of what I hoped would never be again. (Traces is probably understating it, but I have to believe that SOME things are better.)

So why am I still struggling?

That is a good question. And I do not know the answer. (Who does?) I only know that I remember the intoxicating calm adrenaline rush of reward with a sobbed longing, and that I regret every time I ever flinched and looked away. I also know that every day brings more regret when it contains the possibility of finally finding that rush I crave.

So why am I still struggling?

It is still a good question. And I still do not know the answer.

Escape

Help me escape. I don't want to be me anymore. Since that's not a possibility, I want to be reminded that 'me' is not such an awful person. You could do that for me, and I could do the same for you. Let's do it! Let's hold open the exit doors and sweep through them - forget all the things, both good and bad, we'll leave behind.

No? Oh, okay. I guess I got ahead of myself. (Yet again.) After all, you barely know me and I hardly know you. From what you've seen, 'me' really is an awful person. Besides, you're content in your life and have no need of that exit door. You probably don't see a reason why the lot of them should not be filled through with cement. I don't know why I thought you'd help me escape. (What was I thinking?)

Regrets

From now on, I am a force of nature, glorious in my wrath! How dare you! I was polite, I was pleasant, and yet you crossed me. No, not just crossed me. You entangled and strangled me with your ropes of duplicity! (We shall not discuss what I was doing that I was standing still long enough for you to tie me so securely.) No more! The fact that I often hide my fangs does not mean that I do not have them.

I am neither blind nor stupid. (Though I must admit, the prescription in my lenses is pretty strong.) Quiet, perhaps, but that is mere artifice on my part. In truth, I'd rather watch the back and forth of other's interactions rather than engage in my own. But, oh.... Let's see how you handle when I not only use my voice, but scream with it. (I wasn't the lead in all those school plays for nothing.)

I did try to be nice, you know. I smiled, laughed, played pretty. I already have so many enemies, regrets that I cannot change. Despite all appearances, I like people and rather prefer it when the feeling is reciprocated. But after all of this sordid affair, I am forcibly reminded that the only way to shield myself from harm is to rack up those regrets.

I am sorry that we couldn't be friends.

Consequences

Here I thought I'd won something, gained a little ground. But, no.... Not only am I not moving ahead, I've fallen behind. I lost a decent reputation and that scrap of scarce comfort along with it.

How much of an idiot can I be? Once was a risk and dented my reputation severely, but the second time just made me crumble. I know better! But I wanted the attention, the admiration, that I thought it would bring. HA! I guess I got what I wanted. And like a wish granted by a genie in a bottle, I got it in the most awful way. I knew that's what would happen, too. But I suppose desire blinds you, makes the world an opaque blur when mixed with desperation. (THERE's two liquors that'll put you on the bathroom floor.)

So, I'll just have to deal with the consequences of my wish, my actions. God, I was so stupid.... This is gonna hurt me. (Pass me more to drink.)

Vice Versa

Have I not been pleasant? Have I not played pretty, managed not to saw their heads off with my fingernails? I thought that I'd kept a civil tongue in my mouth, a soothing smile on my face. Revise that: I KNOW I did.

And yet they still hurt me. The kick me like a cur despite the fact that I'm a bitch. They pull the rug from beneath my feet though I'm standing on hardwood floor. Well, enough is enough! I'm sick of this whole bitterscratch affair!

You're going to leave me alone, let me be. You'll keep your fabrications inside your head and your nose securely out of my business. (Unless you want it chopped off.) Since you're a bitch to me when I'm nothing but nice to you, maybe my assuming the role of bitch will make our roles reverse.

The Not Escape

She sits still, dressed in silk ribbon and fine lace, letting her life go by. She watches it as though from a distance, exchanges of words mere meaningless gestures playing out across a cotton screen. She views every indignity, every insult, every stray bit of shrapnel that impales her, passively.

This can't be happening to her! After all, Mother always told her that if she smiled wide and let it seem as though emotions didn't matter, that everyone would love her, love her deep indeed. So, she followed advice well meant off a cliff to discontent. Look where it has gotten her! Her heart has forgotten how to bleed, but wiped from its memory along with that is its ability to beat.

She sits alone, resplendent in her china finery. But what good are the clothes if SHE's the one no one bothers to see? She wonders what she's doing there, imagines all the ways things could change. All she'd have to do is get up, move, tear down that thin linen sheet. It wouldn't take much, just a twitch of motion, to set her free. And yet she doesn't move, transfixed by all the horrors she has 'seen'.

There's an exit door off to her left, the sign glowing poison-go green. That's another option for her - walk out that door, don't glance behind her, be reborn as someone new. She could escape - the movie that passes for her life, the binding clothes, that valley of discontent. Never again would she have to endure the bite of those emotions or those false 'I'm just fine' grins.

And yet she still sits there. Still, she doesn't move. Poor girl - she's been sitting there for so long, she's forgotten what it means to feel in truth.

Happy

This is what happens when I'm happy. I smile more, frown less. I make large gestures, take up more space. I am more alive than you could possibly conceive. I stop worrying about the pointless to and fro of social drama and simply ride the waves out onto the golden beach of contentment. I know I'll get there eventually.

I let my dialogue snap. Ironically, I'm more likely to be called a bitch when I'm happy rather than when I'm angry. I guess that people would prefer me to sulk instead of toss witticisms. But when presented with an opportunity to let a zing fly, I'm not likely to find any answers to the question "Why not?" I'm thoughtless that way.

I stand taller. Some people may say that that's not possible, but it is. My neck extends and my jaw tilts up and I am undeniably more vertical than moments before. I move more fluidly, like a dance of fire lapping at the soles of discontent. I am simply more alive.

(Now if only I were happy...)

A Move in Motion

What was that? It was a move, a fluid motion made as though in dance. I must confess, that caught my eye. It was graceful, smooth. It makes me wonder how you'd handle on a dance club floor, the music pounding in our blood. Consider my attention captured with a foot-cross-under spiral-down. Show me more - I'm curious.

Lines of Slates

I'm going somewhere else. Please don't wag your finger at me, dress me down for stepping out of line. It's pointless. Of course, I'll understand if you are unable to comprehend that concept. After all, you've been trained to believe that we're all blank slates upon which a specific formula must be written. It's hardly your fault if I've already marked my slate full.

I am someone else. I am not the person who came before me, nor am I the individual who follows after me. I am unique, with my own plans, own ambitions, and own specific needs. And if you will not address those needs for me, I must find some other means by which to fulfill myself. Forget it- I am not such a contortionist that I can fit in that little velvet box you're holding.

I'll be completed somehow. But you don't have any more pieces to my puzzle - you don't even know what I should look like. So give it up. Back down. Watch me sway away, feet finding ground you've never dreamed of treading. You can wait for me to fall, to fail, if you'd like. Whatever - I don't care. But stop trying to squeeze me into that velvet box and realize that not every life thinks linearly. You've got to let me go, or else risk damaging everything that's within me that's already been pressed into place.

Love & Hate

Oh, dear.... What is love and what is hate? Hardly can I discern a difference. Both are born of a passion red, forged of fire in the hearth of caring. But which sword bites harder? Which dagger digs deeper? For love or for hate am I consumed? The rocks fall and they crush me with their weight. A funeral cairn! And still I wonder, and yet I ask.... What is love and what is hate? Or are they match for match?

The Goddess

Here she stands, on top of the world. Oh, how she's fallen! Or, didn't you know? She's a bird without wings, bound from the sky. Exalted for once, bitter for ever.

But then she twirls, begins to dance. Every eye is fixed on her, no spotlight needed. And in that song, she'll be okay, she'll fly again. But when the music stutters, stops, once more is she forgotten, the word stamped across her forehead.

Yet she survives, carries on, draped in the shadows of who and what she used to be. And all those that used to follow her titter and laugh, pleased that she stands no taller than they themselves. 'Great mercy' is a mute plea if it should ever pass beyond the gatekeeper of her lips, for if 'compassion' is an alien term, 'altruism' is truly nonsense.

She grows smaller and smaller, dreams of her glory days forcing her to shrink. When she looks to the future, all she can see is all the ways it'll never be her past. But if that song should only return, she'd strain back toward the sun, resplendent in her power. Yes, she was once the ultimate, above the world in her sinuous twines of flight. Angels held no spark to her sacred glory. But never ever again will she dance, for the DJ that knew the mix abandoned his pulpit in Hell, seeking exaltion of his own, leaving her to fall forever.

The Empty Audience

The empty audience need not agree - only smile and nod. The empty audience need not think - only have ears and the appropriate face. The empty audience need not exist, the performer is so caught up in herself. The empty audience has walked away - and no one, not even the orator, either bothers or cares. The empty audience is dead and gone, and still she talks, on and on.

The Ghost

I am nameless - a ghost of an unnoticed thing, left adrift in an existance uncertain. Who would notice, who would waver at the edge of uncomfortable uncertainty were I gone? Perhaps none, stretch far for one. Forget me, for I've already been forgone.

Save me, please! Name me kindly, graciously. Endow me with an identity all of my own. Let me not usurp another's - I am nameless still in that respect, a petty player hiding behind a clever mask. Save me!

Never mind. It's already too late- I have fallen beyond all reach. So silent in spirits, the ghost of an unnoticed thing walks these halls and dreams of sound.