This piece of writing just came out of me quite angrily (there’s a theme occurring here). I’m not sure it makes much sense, but it helped to get it out of my head. So I guess it does makes sense, in a way. TW: self harm
I feel rotten inside.
I am over it but I am not.
I’m holding myself together but it’s an illusion.
There is a black mould growing around my heart and my lungs.
There is barbed wire inside my skull.
And bare electricity lines running through the veins in my hands and arms.
I feel I have no control.
In a desperate bid to distract myself from the gnawing, twisting feeling inside
my hands reach for anything.
Anything sharp. Frantic.
To anaesthetise my head.
To focus on a pain more tangible.
Is it even a pain?
Or is it a chronic sickness?
Something that you learn to live with
like the ringing in your ears after a loud firework
or a landmine.
That’s what it feels like.
It feels like I stepped on a landmine.
I blew into a thousand pieces.
And then, miraculously, before 5am, I had stitched myself back together again.
I did such a good job, nobody could even see the scars
where I had been torn, limb from limb
heart pulverised like ripe fruit
Nobody suspected a thing.
Maybe I was just so glad I didn’t die from the explosion, that I failed to notice the warning signs.
My stitches were pulling apart at the seams.
Bits of shrapnel I’d not noticed.
One in my shoulder, so I’d walk hunched and stooped.
One in my eye, so I’d never quite trust my own judgement again.
One in the back of my head, so that I always felt as though you were lingering right behind me.
Another in my heart. That one I leave there. I don’t try to dislodge it. Nor do I let anyone else close enough to try.
I feel like second-hand goods.
Used, broken, less valuable.
But I can feel my seams splitting now.
And this darkness oozing out.
Covering my clothes and hair with thick black tar.
Everyone can see.
They give me a wide berth.
Don’t want to get any of it on them.
I’m trying to stitch it back up, I really am, but I’m running out of thread and I’ve been sewn up so many times before that there isn’t any material left without a puncture wound already.
My hands are slipping and I can’t even see my needle and thread through tear-filled eyes. I tried.
Like a mouse on a wheel, I am not making any progress any more. I’m tired.
I’m just holding the fabric now.
The fabric of what was,
what could have been,
and what never should have been.
Sewing was futile. I can feel myself, covered in that viscous, black tar.
Landmines only explode when you take your foot off them. I wish I would’ve paused.
Splendid suspension. For just a fraction of a second more.