Monthly Archives: May 2013

Blood-Baths and Ivory Towers


Days like today are hard.  I feel….place-less.  Something like you don’t belong, but that would imply that there is a place where you do belong.  Place-less….feels like you never had a place to begin with.  There’s no room for you.  That’s how I feel, today.  Tonight.  Wherever I am in whatever time this is…there’s no room.

People can say whatever they want.  Nothing will stop them, really.  I’m not going to try.  I don’t have to listen, but their faces say enough.  Their feigned pity and failed attempts of caring say plenty, even if I never hear their words.  It’s enough to wound, every single time.  After all this hurt, all this pain, you would think I would have bled out.  You’d think there was no more flesh to tear, no more heart to break, no more dreams to crush and no more hope to kill.  Logic-lacking as this twisted dirt-skinned body of mine is, it seems to think that it can keep going.  I still bleed, every time.  I don’t cry, but I bleed.  I stare at all these cuts and scars, and I remember how it hurt then, and how it hurts now, and how I just….well, I don’t want to hurt anymore.  But that’s asking for far too much, unless I choose to take the one road that everyone says I can’t.  (But maybe, just maybe, I should.  I could make it look like an accident…)

I hate mirrors.  They show all your flaws, all your imperfections.  I hate bright lights, because you can’t hide anything.  I prefer soft gray light, that lets just enough show.  It’s comforting, to reach across the dark and know that someone’s hand is there to hold.  (Or at least, I imagine it is.  I would never know.)  The problem with summer is that the sun shines.  And people wear less.  And you are painfully aware of everything that you can’t hide.

See, I look at my cuts and scars and the bleeding gashes and dirty wounds.  I look at them, and I wonder exactly what kind of person I was ever supposed to be.  Of course, that’s assuming that I could have been a person, that I even had the capability.  But no, I am a monster in human skin, bleeding over and over again, never quite dying but never quite living either.  I’m hideous if you look up close, but on the surface I seem nice or plain enough.  It’s scary, how normal, how human I appear.  But I know the truth.

I wanted to become human.  I tried.  I suppose you could say I still am trying, but it’s a desperate attempt, really.  A scratching, a clawing at what I know will never be.  It’s like trying to grab a fistful of wind.  Impossible.  I should give up now.  It would be smart.  It would be logical.  If you see no point in it, then why continue?  Why labor over the futile?  We will all die.  Some of us just face it sooner than others, braver than others.  It wouldn’t even have to look like an accident.  The ones who would need to know would know.  And those who stay locked inside their ivory towers of bliss will never know the bloodbath that rages on all around them.

If only I could.  If only I knew how.  If only I wasn’t so weak, so inclined to believe that it’s worth it when everything and everyone else tells me that it isn’t.  Even they know.  They know I have nothing here, and yet I still live.  This torture is not a life.  It’s some sort of hell that mimics the real thing, but the pain never ends.  If I could shatter the illusion, if I could silence them, then maybe I could live for the first time.  It’s all just one monumental ‘if’.  I just wish I knew whether or not it’s worth it.  I guess that’s why they keep me alive.

In Pain, Exhausted, and Defeated,

The Scribbler

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