Reflective Consequences

I’m giving up on the harshness, and writing words as they come stampeding through the wickedness in my steadily expanding mind. I thought by now these wounds would heal, but my collar bones are tired from hiding my hands behind my back so my fingers don’t have the urge to pick, and itch the sewing of the seams when I lay down to dream .

The bruises make me wonder if I ever put up a fight. I’m getting scared to sleep again, and the awful moons beneath my eyes don’t fade quickly. “It’s nice to talk to you when things need to be said,” but what I really meant was “I really don’t want to drown you with my plights” and you never sense a single notion that things were going wrong because I let myself pretend and perfect for entirely too long.

I just want to be so clean, and the bruises won’t come off no matter how many soapy tears I cry. And all of this is old, and it’s rotting in my throat, making fertile soil for the newer bitter things to grow, and it’s so hard to breathe when I’m clawing at my throat, cawing like the crows in those symbolic scenes.

Metaphors are for the weak, the ones who can’t see things for what they really are, but god, it makes my lungs feel light when I realize not everything has to be original, and again, this is so old, these creepy words are now my neighbors, hanging cheerful paintings above their bedroom windows, saying “we’ll be here for a while, might as well make ourselves at home.”

Refer to above statement, metaphors are for the weak. And I hate that certain things inspire me negatively and I’m supposed to leave that out, never reveal the reason behind the words, and hide it all away. But I’m giving up on harshness, and writing words as they come stampeding. And I’m repeating, repeating, repeating.

Repeat. 

Something about a telegram. Stop.

Something about this world. Stop.

None of it makes sense. Stop.

Save me from this repeated loyal wickedness. The signs were there, I know it like the stupid song stuck firmly in the back of my head.  Give me 3 minutes, 40-something seconds, and it’ll be worn ragged under the needle.

Wait, I have gone too far back, and I’m losing the words I was trying to speak aloud. Speak aloud, loudly. Maybe it’s better in the quiet, maybe I have gone… what’s the word? … Crazy.  If I can count all the words you said maybe I’ll be okay. I’ll skip to 471, and restart again.

I’m sorry if you’re reading this. It’s how my mind works. I thought I’d skip the harshness.  Write the words as they come. It’s harder than it sounds. Looks…

Stop.