Thursday, May 20, 2010
Are you beautiful now? @ 2:15 AM
It’s an emptiness that feels like it’s hollowing you out. But your skin burns as you scratch at it, trying to rip off the scars that prove your worthlessness. A pattern that means nothing but yet tells a story filled with self loathing and fear. Every mark destroys you; eats at you until there’s nothing left but there’s still the compulsion; the need to try to murder yourself a litter faster than before.
You feel like you’re suffocating but still you can take a breath. Your body feels heavy, but it may only be the weight of your soul. Your feet feel like they’re dragging even though you walk with a steady precision; you know where you’re going – it’s inevitable at this point. You always question the when but not the how; never the why. You know; you’ve always known. It was him and her and them and everyone that paved the road to this place:
Bodies upon bodies and lust upon hate; the weight of one man feels like a hundred because of his number. But it’s required; it’s what you
do. It’s what we all do. We play the game and do what’s expected because it’s the way we’ve been taught; the way
you’ve been taught. You know how to obey, more than you know how to protest.
The word ‘no’ sounds foreign for all the good it does; most of the time it never makes it out of your mouth anyway. It’s a coy look and a smile; a laugh like it’s a joke even though your skin is crawling because you already know the way this game ends. There is no choice anymore; it’s all a lie. It’s laughable how easy people make it sound; but they don’t know reality. They don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped by repetition and habit.
You learned young, didn’t you?
This is what you do;
this is how you do it. And you will always,
always give it when it’s needed.
And it broke you.
Fool. You thought it gave you power. Do you feel powerful now? To have lost count? To feel sick every time you touch yourself? But you still persist; let the insanity of this addiction consume you whole and spit you back out again until you lie there; naked and bleeding and wondering yet again why people think this is fun; sexy.
You have the fantasy; consume yourself with it. Of what it’s supposed to be like, what it’s supposed to
feel like. So you sit and you write and you run away… but you never run far enough. It’ll never stop, and no matter how much you write about perfection, you will never have it. No matter how much you write about the pain, it doesn’t make it go away.
It was bearable with the distraction. Fill the pipe, spark the flame; watch the smoke swirl in the little glass bowl and taunt you with promises of forgotten nightmares as you inhale and feel the weight be lifted from your shoulders, just a little. But the pipe is broken; the release long gone. What’s left? Your skin can barely handle the torture anymore; mistakes, excuses, and destruction are starting to rise up instead of blend with the background. It’s ugly and that’s something you can’t bear.
You’re ugly on the inside; you must be beautiful on the outside. Fix your hair and pound on the makeup and have cleavage that goes for miles. But that’s not beauty; that’s a sign on your forehead. You make it true; all of it. It’s the way you dress and the way you speak and the habits you’ve fallen into so deep that’s near impossible to climb your way out of. You feel like trash and all you do is make yourself look like beautiful garbage.
So you take a swig of the liquor and swallow more of your new salvation. The room blurs around you but you lather, rinse and repeat as the numbness settles in your chest. It’s a finality; a calm. You aren’t scared, for the first time in your life. It’s an expected closure that you’ve been waiting on bated breath for. You need it;
crave it.
Save me.There are no tears; tears would imply sadness. You aren’t sad; you’re relived. Finally,
finally… a promise of peace. The voices stop screaming in your head and you feel yourself smile slightly; the muscles shutting down even in your face making it more difficult. But it doesn’t matter;
you know your smiling.
Are you beautiful now?
Tell me,
are you beautiful now?Labels: drugs, sex, suicide
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Are you beautiful now? @ 2:15 AM
It’s an emptiness that feels like it’s hollowing you out. But your skin burns as you scratch at it, trying to rip off the scars that prove your worthlessness. A pattern that means nothing but yet tells a story filled with self loathing and fear. Every mark destroys you; eats at you until there’s nothing left but there’s still the compulsion; the need to try to murder yourself a litter faster than before.
You feel like you’re suffocating but still you can take a breath. Your body feels heavy, but it may only be the weight of your soul. Your feet feel like they’re dragging even though you walk with a steady precision; you know where you’re going – it’s inevitable at this point. You always question the when but not the how; never the why. You know; you’ve always known. It was him and her and them and everyone that paved the road to this place:
Bodies upon bodies and lust upon hate; the weight of one man feels like a hundred because of his number. But it’s required; it’s what you
do. It’s what we all do. We play the game and do what’s expected because it’s the way we’ve been taught; the way
you’ve been taught. You know how to obey, more than you know how to protest.
The word ‘no’ sounds foreign for all the good it does; most of the time it never makes it out of your mouth anyway. It’s a coy look and a smile; a laugh like it’s a joke even though your skin is crawling because you already know the way this game ends. There is no choice anymore; it’s all a lie. It’s laughable how easy people make it sound; but they don’t know reality. They don’t know what it’s like to feel trapped by repetition and habit.
You learned young, didn’t you?
This is what you do;
this is how you do it. And you will always,
always give it when it’s needed.
And it broke you.
Fool. You thought it gave you power. Do you feel powerful now? To have lost count? To feel sick every time you touch yourself? But you still persist; let the insanity of this addiction consume you whole and spit you back out again until you lie there; naked and bleeding and wondering yet again why people think this is fun; sexy.
You have the fantasy; consume yourself with it. Of what it’s supposed to be like, what it’s supposed to
feel like. So you sit and you write and you run away… but you never run far enough. It’ll never stop, and no matter how much you write about perfection, you will never have it. No matter how much you write about the pain, it doesn’t make it go away.
It was bearable with the distraction. Fill the pipe, spark the flame; watch the smoke swirl in the little glass bowl and taunt you with promises of forgotten nightmares as you inhale and feel the weight be lifted from your shoulders, just a little. But the pipe is broken; the release long gone. What’s left? Your skin can barely handle the torture anymore; mistakes, excuses, and destruction are starting to rise up instead of blend with the background. It’s ugly and that’s something you can’t bear.
You’re ugly on the inside; you must be beautiful on the outside. Fix your hair and pound on the makeup and have cleavage that goes for miles. But that’s not beauty; that’s a sign on your forehead. You make it true; all of it. It’s the way you dress and the way you speak and the habits you’ve fallen into so deep that’s near impossible to climb your way out of. You feel like trash and all you do is make yourself look like beautiful garbage.
So you take a swig of the liquor and swallow more of your new salvation. The room blurs around you but you lather, rinse and repeat as the numbness settles in your chest. It’s a finality; a calm. You aren’t scared, for the first time in your life. It’s an expected closure that you’ve been waiting on bated breath for. You need it;
crave it.
Save me.There are no tears; tears would imply sadness. You aren’t sad; you’re relived. Finally,
finally… a promise of peace. The voices stop screaming in your head and you feel yourself smile slightly; the muscles shutting down even in your face making it more difficult. But it doesn’t matter;
you know your smiling.
Are you beautiful now?
Tell me,
are you beautiful now?Labels: drugs, sex, suicide
credits.
