Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.


Truly Free

I finally quit. Full notice and all that. I’m strangely elated. It’s like climbing up a mountain weighed down by  thousands of pounds, only to have it all lift away effortlessly when I got to the top. I’ve definitely come a long way from where I was; I am more capable than ever of leading some semblance of a normal existence. As much as I hate the hopelessness of being unemployed that has already begun to writhe somewhere in the back of my consciousness, that horrible, deadly anxiety has fled me.

I almost forgot what it was like to be free of the unbearable pain. I almost forgot what it was like to get up in the morning and no be so sick to my stomach that I have to lay down for a few minutes and brace myself before getting ready for work.

I am fucking free. And the best part of everything, is I finally realize it is all worth nothing. There is nothing to fear. I stood for what I wanted and didn’t relent. I didn’t crumble and go weak like I thought I would. The animal in me is so frighteningly sure, so confident that there is nothing that can touch me. I can make my own path, I just have to choose it.

I am without a master. Let those who scorn me feel what I felt tenfold. I wish them nothing but the purest, cruelest of suffering. Let their worlds fall down around them, crushing and destroying anything and everything that holds meaning to them.

Your time will come. I need not do anything for my revenge to find its way. The thought itself is enough, and the words I spoke, enough.

Destruction will find you.


I don’t care anymore if everyone feels the need to figure out what I am. I think the main problem has been all along that I’ve never fit with the vision in my head. If you make a new one, does that technically mean you’re settling? We grow as we age and our vision must change, but I believe that at the core it will always be the same. If the core is stagnant, then that means everything else is just superficial. Those ideas, the changes to that perfect state of being? Nothing more than painting a wall or changing the carpet. It looks different, might even feel different, but the walls are still as solid and the same as they ever were.

I don’t think I’m faltering anymore. I’m getting there, somewhere. This place, it’s coming up on me fast. I feel so much like nothing matters. I’m not alone anymore and I think that has made all the difference in the world whether I choose to believe in it wholeheartedly or not. I am the same, but now I’m not so afraid. Consequences seem so unreal. I can be the devil I always wanted to be. I don’t think I’m happy; this is so different from that.

I believe I’ve been tricked into a false sense of security. I’m not better. I’m not thinking about dying everyday, but I sure as fuck think about hurting. It’s all so laughable now. I’m in my own hell, and I’m somehow enduring my misery because of this slow burn. I feel so ready to explode. It hurts so bad but it feels so good. God can’t know what this feels like. I curse the people who dared to speak of me.  I curse the ones who’ve made it so impossible to get here. But I’ve needed it, all of it. All of this suffering is leading to something. I can feel it in my bones.  

I’ve had my first taste of true, evil revenge and I want nothing more than to go on drowning in it. There is no substance and no amount of fucking that can equal or compare to this. I don’t know how I can be so fucking high and so damn low at the same time. This hazy landscape makes it so easy not to think. I don’t want to be a person of words anymore, I want to do things. I want to move beyond my own stiffling mediocrity. I want to tear off all the lies and show it all to their fucking judgmental faces so they might all sit back and stare at the beast they’ve harbored.

I’ve been here all along. And I’m so fucking patient. Oh god, you can’t even believe. I’ve been waiting. And, I swear to that abandoner, that hater of men, it’s coming. These years of hatred and self contempt have prepared me beyond reason. My disgust with myself is what gives me power. My complete acceptance of my uselessness and cowardice are what will make me strong. I am going to go so beyond what anyone could ever dream. And I will sweat and bleed and hate and scream. But I’ll get there. I’ll push harder than anyone has ever pushed and break myself into indescernable parts.  I’ll fracture like glass.

 I’ll be nothing but a thousand bleeding, angry shards.


It’s days like these that I am infuriated to find that I’ve woken up. Here it is all over again, and it’s not going to go away any time soon. I’m not going to get better. If I stay, this is what it is going to be for the rest of my life. I’m going to be in a job I can’t stand, in a relationship with someone I don’t even like, and spending every moment having to hide my crippling problems and deteriorating sanity.

And every damn time I pick up a gun, I hate that I’m too weak to make this just stop. I don’t want to inflict pain anymore; I want to end this mindless existence. I can’t say that to the fucking therapist, I can’t say that to my friend, because deep down it scares them and they don’t want to hear it, and they’d do anything just to get me off their hands so that they never have to come into contact with my problems again.

I hate you. I hate you for running away, and I hate you for being indifferent to my suffering. I laugh and am glad that you don’t know what it’s like. I take comfort in knowing this is too dark for you and I’m the only one that has any chance of coming back from it intact. That is the only strength I have.

inconsequential bullshit

I have this urge to get incredibly drunk. I’m going to be one scarred motherfucker; I’ve already accepted it. I just hate the fact that anyone thinks they have the right to say something about it. Since when did you give a shit, suddenly? You weren’t there when I was doing it, were you? Holding my fucking hand? No, that’s right. People shy away and look at me like I’m fucking insane, and maybe I am a little. But there sure the fuck was no one there to hold my hand. No one is ever there. All these ridiculous proclamations of love and caring and no one was there. No one was fucking there.

And they wonder why I call them liars? Why I don’t trust anyone? I think it is blatantly clear now. I hope they see every fucking line and know that when I did it I was thinking of them and their fucking worthless words, their coddling and handholding and all those secrets in the dark. I hope you know. I hope you know and I hope it hurts you far worse than it ever did me. Every line is my revenge. That quarter-inch wide, angry red scar was for you. I hate you for breaking me. I hate you for taking me out of the water for a second just to watch me drown all over. I blame you. I don’t care if it’s irrational, I don’t care if it’s unfair. I blame you.

And I hate me for being stupid enough to believe everything you said. I knew it was a mistake, the worst kind of trap, and now that I’m back and I’ve gnawed a leg off, I get to remember for whatever time I’ve got left—that I choose to give myself—that I was as useless and stupid as everyone else is and fell for it. Your idea of heroics is sickening. It’s wrong and cruel. As far as I am concerned, you left a dying person to die. There was nothing valiant about it.

I wouldn’t of left you. I swear to god if our places were reversed, I wouldn’t of left you. No matter what. Even now I can’t laugh at your suffering. I hurt for you; I can’t help it. That one night you did stay with me. The sad part is, it’s the only time someone ever did.

It doesn’t take a mirror to really see….

My self loathing is at an all-time high. I seem more disgusting than usual, in all departments. Even my thoughts are more childlike and underdeveloped than they generally are. I can’t say what I want to say without feeling as though I’ve fallen incredibly short of my original intentions.

I’ve been…bad lately. I have no self control. It’s like a fucking game, yoyoing around insanely until something snaps and I have to face the inescapable damage. I’m having these episodes. It’s ridiculous. I want to strangle myself with one of the electrical cords. 

I’m preparing for death, that’s the trend. It must be. I’m thinking I’m going to die and I go into a right fucking panic, trying to get ready, to let go. I always eat when I feel like shit, so there it is. Refraining is not even a vanity thing. it’s a I want some fucking control thing. No matter how much I lose I will always still find something to point at and be grossed out by because I am everything I never wanted. Everything about me is somehow displeasing. I can’t sit back and think, “here are the things that are nice about me”. Instead all I can do is pick at every imperfection until I’m a bloody mess and all the farther from whatever ideal I’m trying to adhere to and become. All there is to torture anymore is a body. The head is long since dead. There’s no soul to shred anymore. I’ve ripped it apart time and time again, leaving it in frayed, ugly ribbons. You can only relive your most vulnerable, pathetic moments so many times when you are numb. Eventually you reach the point where your reaction is to blink dumbly, utterly unaffected, uninterested, which leaves you forced to move onto something else that will ellicit a reaction. 

It frustrates me that I can’t cause suffering in the way I want it. I want to push until there is no more pushing to be done, I don’t want to sit back in idleness and wait for the world to do it for me. Why should they deliver the death blow? Why should it be their strike that is the final crippling hit? Why can it not be my own? Why can my weapon not be the spear that is the beginning of the end?

I believe it can be, but that it would take more effort than I am currently willing to draw out of myself.

I just don’t have it in me. Yet another failure in my faulty design.