Dialogue of the Emotionally Dead

A short piece of spoken-word.

sharp, clean and glinting silver.

Things haven't been right for a long time, a very long time. No drawings, no stories, no poems, but everyone thinks it's just a dry patch. Nobody around here can take a hint. They tell me that someone is doing worse, that it's just a phase that I'm going through. They tell me that I think too deeply, over-psychoanalyse things.

"How hard can it be? Just sit down with your sketching-pencils and draw something!"

She tells me, with all the close-minded, bovine stupidity of a woman controlled entirely by 'the system.'

The last time I cried...it must have been months ago. Women cry four to six times a month on average, but it's been so long since my tearducts have seen any action that my eyes are permanently dry, itching and feel infected.

It started out in a small way, hiding tears when I was around other people. Then it became more extreme, even if I was completely alone I couldn't cry because it was showing the world that I was defeated. Soon it was a reflex action, if tears stung the corners of my eyes, I automatically held them back. Now I don't even feel them, I'm so dead.

Razorblade, slicing into my legs, arms and sides. Long stripes of red across my sides, bleeding letters on my legs, where they're hidden. These droplets of blood are my tears now. Some manic laughter, some suicidal tendencies and some blood are all that I've been left with. The only artistic talent that I still possess are a few tortured scribblings penned in the small hours.

"She's going through a death-poetry phase, you have to detach yourself from her, really."

I'm my own worst enemy. I can run from myself but I can't hide. Sooner or later our true colours show, a dripping crimson flag, all the ugly, manic, scarred faces of my personality....a crystal of dried blood, all the sides come up the same eventually.

Author's Note

It's just a thing I wrote.