Tuesday, September 19, 2017

9-19

When I am sitting still my restless hands have little to do but hunt out ways to reach out to hurt you.

Things are boiling within. I want to unleash them, but then I'm proving you right. I lash out, I regret, I retreat, I fill up with steam once more.

The unfairness. The injustice. I roil with anger at it. That you think you can just leave this path behind you and choose another. That you can turn away from the consequences of your choices. That we won't haunt you.

My hands twitch and itch and I look for ways to strike at you.

But I am not a ghost.

I cannot be still with this pressure burning in me.

I am not a ghost. I remind myself, pinching the fat of my palm between my thumb and forefinger. I look at photos of myself to remember. I exist. I am real.

I am more than a haunting memory. I cannot enforce your guilt. You will never feel the shame that you should. You walk away from the damage you inflicted and you see only the beauty ahead for you, not the storm clouds and broken buildings you left behind.

They say life is unfair and this is life and I wonder if I want a life where things are this truly unfair.

But I am not a ghost, I must focus on living.

When I can move, I forget you. I sit cross-legged on the floor and my hot angry hands move fast and they fly over new things, touching and feeling and experimenting and learning, and I am alive again for a while.

You have no place in my living mind.

I twist wires with thin-faced tools and there is red paint under my nails and things spread around me waiting for me to come to them and make them alive, and I am focused, and you are gone from my mind then because you are nothing in comparison to living.

I am not bones and a corpse to bury in your muck. I am not the wraith you made me, crawling and clawing after you, gaping toothless mouth, wide unseeing eyes.

I am warm blood and fast pupils and a bright brain and eager fingers. I am happy when I move. I feel music bubbling under my ribcage, replacing the empty socket where you drained and drained and drained me because you did nothing, nothing but take, and then you demanded more, and better, and you left me an open wound.

Dorian Gray, you were exhausting. You did nothing but pull the good things out of me and scoff at what remained.

The unfairness of it.

When I sit still it overwhelms me. I must keep moving, I must stay alive, because you are dead for me.

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