This day doesn’t have a song it doesn’t have a theme. It’s tired and worn and warning my brain to take more care of my heart. It’s a day of telling myself I’m stupid, of reflecting angrily but knowing better. It would be a day of apology but I never do.
My chest feels shattered, kicked outward, all wounds are self inflicted. My wounds usually are. I don’t let people close. It’s a fractured hole but it’s pointless pain. A wound of healing rather than harming.
I am enraged over seemingly easy lives and naturally resistant psyches. It’s easy to be easy when it’s been easy. Easy, adored, never proving because you’re just so fucking fine. This battle is all within but you are the face of the enemy.
Spoiled - bad fruit maybe, dangerous ideas, getting above and all outside of place. I should have been born different. I should have been born with the right spoon, the knack of fitting in, the ability to tolerate bullshit. Something tore, long ago. Something cracked.
I can’t do it, you know. I can’t be what I want. I can’t be you. You’re the enemy I envy for what I am not. I know, though, that I’ll never be. And never being I’ll never be wanted. I’ll never get what you have. I’ll never be like you. I’ll never be ordered or calm or patronisingly kind.
My brain will always say but and question if I sound like an arse. Right now I do but you won’t see. I see all sides, all lines, all ways. I see it. I’m tearing shreds but it’s from me and it’s very hard to care. I don’t know if you understand what it is about me.
6 comments:
I have an old friend - A. G. - whose farm I would stay at in Wiseman's Ferry up on a hill. AG did it tough at times during her life but has kicked on well into her 70s where I met her - in my 2nd year uni class. The grad photos are priceless.
Even though I never got together with her bald older son who I fancied like a nasty drug with nastier side effects, she gave me exactly what I needed: attitude. AG explained, mainly through action, that our lives are imperfect. That the people who don't tolerate the disordered, unpredictable life are the true insidious ones among us - the kind, the cheery souls, the ones whose rugs are beaten of dust and whose placid smiles match the decor.
Go easy on the gouging. Rage and rage! Just leave most of yourself intact for us because we like you, you are so cool!
You know, cool is not how I ever see myself. Ever on edge on the edge. Mostly it just feels like undiagnosed mental illness. And a hellish amount of awkwardness.
The placid ones sound like they owe a lot to chemical help.
Easy lives are frustrating, but that's all they'll ever be. Boring.
I don't even know if they're boring or easy or considered boring by their owners. I'm mostly just hating people who don't throw angst around like I do. People with a sense of discretion and the illusion of easiness. Bah. What would I know?
I really liked A.G. She taught me the phrase "I don't give a twopenny [pronounced tuppenny] fuck", which I haven't ever actually said out loud, but sometimes I try to think it. Actually, I don't often think it, because I usually do give a twopenny fuck, but it would be good not to. More often.
Maybe if you practice saying it, Alexis, then you'll start not giving a twopenny fuck. With our thoughts we make the world, you know..?
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