Dystopia

I swear to god, I’m going to vomit the next time someone touches me.

I want to be noticed I want to be noticed I want to be noticed.

Isn’t that contradictory, I can hear, in the trill of your voice, as you try to reason with me.

No. I respond, all in my head, to myself.

The burn in my throat is a good burn, the vomit a pleasant poison, born of my anxiety rather than my revulsion.

When people touch me it is an electric shock, every time, it is the hand striking midnight. I wonder what it’s like for others.

Do they also fear it? Does it terrify them? Do they crave it, like I do, and seek it out, like I don’t?

I feel like I’ve never been properly touched. I’m wondering just what proper is, when my heart convulses just with the passing of fingertips over each other, the exchange of a paper, of a fallen pencil.

God, I can’t even read with all this buzzing around. It just makes me more tense, more wound and ready to pop, the too-tight cork of a celebratory champagne bottle. I probably wouldn’t taste good as champagne. Too sweet.

Should I acknowledge my own decay? This seems an awful lot like what I’ve been doing this whole time, all this shouting of I want to be noticed, I want to be touched.

Properly, that is.

But the dystopia of my empiric brain takes no prisoners, leaves no room for breaks and subtle nudges.

I will checkmate when I have all my pieces in place, and my knights will knock me down.

Reviews

[Peach]

I felt so serious after reading this. I relate with this greatly, in a kind of good way.

[lenabean]

This is wonderful and raw. So many metaphors for this pain of needing touch and love but not being able to stand it. Your self-expression through even the hardest emotions to bear is amazing. This is excellent! Keep writing :)

[Aura Inanna]

Thank you so much!