I’m losing all sense of reality. I can no longer distinguish what’s real and what isn’t.
I start school tomorrow.
This is a short composition I wrote years and years back.
There’s a note folded up in the the back of my favorite book. It’s exceptionally old. The corners are torn from the times I’ve read it over and over. Your handwriting is slowly fading, but still legible. The note is a reassurance of your loving personality that will always be there for me. Your signature is scrawled at the bottom and a “P.S.” is crammed in the corner, making it seem as though it was nothing, but it was everything to us. It was the only thing that kept us going. It said the most lovely words that has ever fallen from your lips. “I love you.” These are the same exact words that has caused so much joy, yet so much pain. I later realize that I never really knew the difference. Until you, I never knew what it was like to really fall in love. Spending every hour, minute, and second of the day wanting to be with you, and it hurting so bad that I was unable to because of this distance.
As I read My Ishmael by Daniel Quinn I find your note. I haven’t read it in years. A tear forms and everything around me gets so dim. The brightest of colors faded to the dullest of grays, and for the first time music seemed like just noise.
I lost you completely when your heart broke. You are still the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last when I fall asleep. I miss you. When I couldn’t find the Kerry I knew anymore in this hollow bodied stranger that claimed to be my most adored one. I lost my sense of security. Even though it no longer means anything I will keep the tattered note as a reminder that you felt the same way as I felt so long ago.
It was about a year ago that I finished high school, and graduated. It wasn’t long after that I had my first breakdown and ended up in a psych ward. A scary one at that.
But here I am now, Summer of 2014, starting school on June 2nd. I’m excited, but also scared. But I’m doing this for my baby. So my baby can have better than what the life I am leading now would get him/her.
So here’s a post to school and my lovely unborn child.
when i get angry, i get really fucking angry.
there’s a storm screaming against the trees outside and every time the thunder cracks all i can think about is the way our hearts tried to beat their way out of our chests, unsatisfied with the skin prison that kept them apart and i can’t help thinking about how funny it is that people are scared of the way lightning reaches across the sky, desperate for the touch of the ground when they should be scared of the people who act the same way.
after all, it is in their nature.
and i’m angry about the way he looked at me after we had sex for the first time and he had tears in his eyes because he was so happy that he lost his virginity to me and all i could think about how sore i was and how every colour in the room seemed to have been turned down, like maybe if things got dimmer, he would look brighter to me but nothing made anything better since i had yelled at him to stop and he didn’t.
and i’m angry about the last time we spoke. and i don’t mean a hello on the side of the street, i mean the type of talk that stumbles across your vocal chords and shatters on the floor by my feet. before the last time, and after the first time, when it was somewhere in the middle and we were outside on your balcony in our bras in the summer and i was thinking so fast the speed alone could have rotated the earth and i wanted to be yours more than i wanted allergy medication that would actually work and i wanted you to be mine more than i needed to breathe. but the last time we spoke, my brain hit a brick wall and my lungs would rather have collapsed than know you were ready to kiss her in the daylight but i would forever be trapped behind closet doors and i’m still angry about the fact you could never call me a manipulative bitch to my face.
and i’m angry about the way i can’t look myself in the mirror most days and i’m angry about the way i painted my room yellow when i was nine years old because now i am seventeen and i’m tired of pretending to wake up on the sun. i’m angry about the way i’m too fucking lazy to ever match my socks or paint my nails or try to put myself together because i must have been dropped at a young age, and burst open across the floor like the wine glass my mother should probably have held tighter because i’m a mess that nobody knows how to clean up without staining their hands blood red. i’m angry about the way i’m never easy to get along with because i feel i am right most of the time and i’m angry about the way i try to treat others when they roll their eyes at me. i’m angry about the way i shut down when you try to stop arguments because i’m a train derailment, still going too fast when it already knows things are hopeless. i’m angry all the time because i’m doing all that i can to stitch open wounds without the doctor’s help and i’m angry that my parents don’t know and i’m angry that i’m going to wake up tomorrow and roll over and know my bed is cold all over except for where i’m laying.
This is a poem that won me $100 my senior year in high school!
I can’t bring myself to say your name without my whole body cringing. The short consonant gets stuck in my throat like I swallowed a football and the linebackers were fueled by the hate and the regret of the memory you carefully planted into my brain, watered with the most acidic mixture of lust and inability of control.
The first letter of your name feels like a razor blade finding its way back down my throat and into my stomach to accompany the remains of the butterflies you created when you gave me that look. That same look the same day you made a trip into town in the middle of the night and cried in front of me for the first time. The most densest of pains is falling in love with someone you cannot have, but you cannot tell me that I meant nothing to you without your bones shaking with the sadness of the lie. Because in those says that we spent doing nothing but exploring each others’ bodies your body spoke with love. Your hands spoke with curiosity. Your eyes spoke with mystery. But the only mystery there said I’ll never get close enough to really know you.
So now there’s nothing but rage, and I never knew it was there until it was too late. Sometimes you can’t even feel it until it climbs up inside of you and becomes an inherent part of your soul.
That’s what our love was.
I never got used to being used. And now all this hate is here because of you.