...not now, please not now, dammit...
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...and suddenly 3 AM arrives and I can't breathe.
Jackknife phrases and razorblade prose, words from a never-quite-a-lover that weren't meant for me to read, echoes of someone I would kill to have never heard of and would kill again to be able, just for a minute, to hold. Moments of madness, and when it gets this bad this fast the madness starts feeling like sanity and I start wondering why it is I ever leave this state... thinking that maybe, the smiles and the warmth and the perfect moments are just whitewash on a mausoleum, that beneath it's nothing but this, always this, the decay and the dust and the scent of long-ago tears and the certainty that if you stand still enough you can hear the dead sobbing...
"the year nineteen ninety-nine passed with the soft dull of numbness. the onset of a vicious cycle of depression and self mutilation and drug abuse. methadone and morphine and codeine. narcotics. female razors with the safety bar torn off, box cutters, pocket knives. a fledgling suicide, a developing tragedy, a breathing cliche..."
She. I... enjoy, in an odd way, reading what she spills onto a page.
"where oh where oh where to start. before the yesterday. before the regression[!] into drug use and alcohol consumption--both in excess. before the heartache, the depression, the mania, the destruction of anything loving and good...
"oh baby, you always knew the rightwrong buttons to push. always knew that [im]perfect spot.
"band-aids and bruises. scratched off skin, bits of you hidden under bitten-short nails. safe there.
"sitting on a dirtyfilthyhard floor, kneeling down in front of the far-away blue cathode glow of the screen, grabbing onto any semblance of rational thought and wrenching it out, raping and forcing it into a collection of words.
"everything looks different when you're face-down on the floor. black and unyielding. blacking-out and yielding.
"promiscuity. comfortable. casual. SLUT.
"flash me that smile, girl. show warmth in the depths of this cold...this cold, cold despair and depravity.
"toes curled, fingers curled, streaks across cold glass, fibers caught on ragged edges. quiver. shiver. sore muscles and sore bones, just sore everyfuckingthing. sore walls. sore enclosure. sore sounds...quiet."
Fuck-me-up, fuck-me-over, rip-me-apart, laugh-killing heartache beautiful.
Oh yeah, I know right where I'm standing now. I've got the whole night to pace inside the barbed-wire walls of my mind. Dead sober; I hate this state, hate it when I've got nothing I can feel but this bitter rush, and at the same time I love it, I really do. It feels... honest. Like nothing else ever does. It feels like this is what there IS, and the rest of the time I'm just dreaming my way through life.
Sweet dreams are made of this...
...and no, I'm not disagreeing. Not at all, not for even a moment.
Hmm. We've got some vodka somewhere; I bet I can find some benadryl; I know where the anti-nausia meds are and enough of those at once will make me a bit loopy as well; and if all that fails, I know where I left the razorblades and the candles.
It's kind of entertaining, actually. Part of me is screaming, protesting this... mood. Part of me is reveling in it, pushing me deeper and deeper, taking advantage of the fact that I am sober enough to hurt to MAKE SURE I do indeed hurt, that my mind is nothing but agonyache and bloodlust... and part of me, most of me, is just... sitting here. Watching. Waiting. Wondering how far it'll go this time before I either self-medicate, pass out, or manage to get it out some other way. Just watching.
Sooner or later, one of these late-night hellpits will be a bit too deep and I won't climb back out in time.
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