The_Scream (1)

Come little girl

Have you ever played with fire? Have you ever cut yourself just to make the thoughts stop, blood pooling out of your human suit, wanting it to wash away all the doubts, fears insecurities, winged black monkeys scratching at your brain, the names, always the names.

Stupid failure useless useless useless.’

Self destruct before the world does it for you. Starve and harm and die before he has a chance to break your heart, before the disease gets you, before your best friend who shared your demons and journeyed with you to hell but with her, you got the tiniest slice of heaven dies and leaves you

alone alone alone

knowing you are only here, still struggling like a stubborn stain that just won’t fade because you may be a  masochistic but you are no sadist, you don’t want to put those who care, those who love, in that kind of agony.

Please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop stop make it go away

Say it like a prayer, and incantation. Howl it to the moon and hope your body erupts in fur and claws, you transform into your inner werebeast, you might be a monster but at least you could run, at least you could finally be free.

I want to run, I want to run so fast my sweat flies off my stupid human shell cocoon falls away, I want to run and run and stab and stab and free myself of this.

I don’t know if I am cursed or cursing myself, slowly poisoning my mind and body untill one day there will be nothing left to hold, nothing left to love.

I think of the secret garden, one of my favorite books as a child. “If your head is filled with thorns there is no room for the roses to blossom.”

I want roses. I want beauty. I crave it like I do love, like I thirst for water, the stream of liquid refreshing, reviving, healing. I want to heal. I want to be happy.

But the fire burns so brightly, hell calls out with the voice of a siren, luring me ever harder against the rocks, wanting to crash my tiny human skeleton out completely, the vultures are circling, the buzzards want to fly into my eyes and rip chunks out of the decaying flesh, the hyenas chomping what ever meaty bits are left.

Disease is like those predatory creatures in nature, always taking, never thinking of anything beyond the bloodlust.

Cancerous cells multiply, wanting to exterminate the bits and pieces that were once a young girl, once a beautiful boy.

Everyone wants to change you. Everyone wants to fix you.

Take your meds, Ali. Eat, Ali. Do your algebra and brush your teeth and perfect the mask, wire your gums shut, let the peroxide bleach your teeth as white as they can make it, as if having that perfect porcelain smile will somehow lighten the stains on your corrupted soul.

And if you stray too far from their perfect path of numbers and uniforms and tucked in shirts they will lock you away, send you to a prison they call hospital, inject you with needles and make you eat the fuel they call food, make you listen too the screams of all the other lost souls like yourself.

Little rat scurrying on on the floor of your cage. They want to turn you into a gerbil running around and around in circles, test their makeup on you, sell you the perfume and the bleach and the hair dye, the chemical treatment or even someone else’s hair to glue onto your head, giving the illusion of length, of perfection.

Perfect the mask. Sell them the products and the window dressings we call fashion, Focus on making the eyelashes long and dark and fluttery, the lips red and glossy and pouty. Coat the nails in bitter metallic polish to stop you from biting, shave the hair and keep the skin moist.

Do all this and they won’t judge you, won’t point at you and whisper and call you a freak and a loser and pathetic and broken. Do all this and even but it is too late, the damage has been done and the voices are in your head now, the disease is doing a victory jig with its burning eyes and poker sticks. You have been corrupted, the demons have collected their bounty, little girl has lost her body and mind.

You are poisoned and one day death will creep in like a comforting velvet hug, embracing your shattered psyche, letting you finally rest at ease.

Distract yourself with the games and numbers and drama, take the pills, buy the products. Do it so they won’t lock you away and throw away the key, like the witch did to Rapunzel, suffocating her with her wants, her desires.

It’s ok. If there’s one thing I can do is make a good mask, color in the lines, swirl the colors so perfectly they see a model, a daughter, a fiancee. Act the perfect part in the endless play called life.

But one day the cracks will get too deep, I will fall from the ice and plunge into the freezing

bottomless abyss.

Pick pick pick

Chip Chip Chip

Scratch burn hurt cry.
In the distance, the wolves are howling and the vultures swoop in for the final kill.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: