What an awful person I'm becoming,
I'm terribly sorry.
I guess I'm just in the wrong.
Always stuck between who I am
What I'm feeling
and how people want me to act.
I guess since it seems like I have been doing so well
you have forgotten what has happened
what is happening.
"But you're adult." You say.
"You can't live in college dorms. Too many awful things happen there." You contradict yourself with.
"I'm going to get a house with a basement quite for you to live." You contradict yourself with.
And no matter what I say
Act
Or do
I will never
ever
be
or have enough
to convince you
otherwise.
What a terribly awful person I'm becoming.
I'm stuck
and my heart hurts a lot right now.
And I don't know what to say
because my emotions aren't proper right now
and you get angry with me
and say how I need to act like an adult
because my disrespect
is unacceptable
and I'm stuck
and I don't know what to do
and it's really hard to breathe
and I just need to get away
and you're pulling my by reigns
and choking words down my throat
so quickly that I can't answer
so I stay silent
so you get angrier
so I close my eyes
so you exhale
and everything gets quiet.
And I don't know what to do
what to say
how to think.
And you mutter something that I could only imagine
and you leave.
And I know that you've left a part of me in this room
and you won't take it back
and this will happen again
and again
and again
until you have nothing left of me
and I am nothing
to
you.
Showing posts with label hopelessness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hopelessness. Show all posts
Friday, 15 May 2015
Monday, 29 December 2014
To a Friend
The first time I saw my father, I was already a twenty-nine year old man with an ex wife and a daughter.
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either. It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke? Only the best for my paps."
Oh no. It was a bloodbath to say the least.
You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age. My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food. Which is what he did. By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind. Literally. I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard. I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone. They was howlin' though. Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked. And I knew it toos. See, my paps was a drinker. Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid. A blood related one nonetheless. But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on. That was m' curfew. And I had screwed the fuck up. I know that. I triggered him. Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me. I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset. He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're! You should've seen m'girl Nancy! She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother. I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing. Short brown hair, large blue eyes. Medium build. She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though. They've course were them gooey type. Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians. Fucken' Asians. They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers. Y'know, the sweaters. Ughk. Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything. In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho. I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me. I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness. It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school. I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool. That's kind of when things slowed. Because then I found art. HA. It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore. Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork. I built everything I could've in those three short years. And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em. Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl. It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed. She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin. It was a light brown. Then her eyes, oh god. They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray. And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither. No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes. In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks. And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit. I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain. It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me. She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it. I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated. We had Lillian when we was a bit older though. We was twenty-four, twenty-five. But then Lucy kept gettin' sick. She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time. But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day. Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more. Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain. Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed. See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak. I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest. Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed. I'd fear for Lily. I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily. If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset. I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that. But I never hit her. I guess that's a lie. Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her. No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap. I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.
I didn't mean to. I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived. Some place in Oklahoma. I drove for a few days. I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him. I didn't want him to know she existed. So I went up to the old, rotting door. And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
"I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy." He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way. Before I meant to I said,
"Jacob Merth! I'm Jacob Merth. Your son." He froze. Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
"Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
I don't know why I went in. I shouldn't have. I know that now. But, it's too late.
All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places. The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?" I felt shocked. Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
"What.. do you mean?"
"Apol-o-gize." His iron stare made me uneasy. Why did I come here? "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
"I didn't know you went to jail. I was six and in pain. I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back. Suddenly I was scared for Lily. Would she be adopted now, too?
All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other. And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand. It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head. I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose. He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him. With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch. My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation. The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more. I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic. I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor. The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine. It hurt more than losin' Lucy. But I was going to jail. I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now. My conscious was wrong now.
I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him. But it was me.
I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth. I love you, Lucy, Lily. Please forgi------------------
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either. It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke? Only the best for my paps."
Oh no. It was a bloodbath to say the least.
You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age. My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food. Which is what he did. By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind. Literally. I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard. I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone. They was howlin' though. Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked. And I knew it toos. See, my paps was a drinker. Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid. A blood related one nonetheless. But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on. That was m' curfew. And I had screwed the fuck up. I know that. I triggered him. Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me. I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset. He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're! You should've seen m'girl Nancy! She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother. I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing. Short brown hair, large blue eyes. Medium build. She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though. They've course were them gooey type. Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians. Fucken' Asians. They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers. Y'know, the sweaters. Ughk. Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything. In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho. I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me. I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness. It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school. I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool. That's kind of when things slowed. Because then I found art. HA. It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore. Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork. I built everything I could've in those three short years. And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em. Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl. It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed. She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin. It was a light brown. Then her eyes, oh god. They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray. And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither. No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes. In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks. And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit. I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain. It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me. She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it. I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated. We had Lillian when we was a bit older though. We was twenty-four, twenty-five. But then Lucy kept gettin' sick. She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time. But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day. Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more. Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain. Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed. See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak. I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest. Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed. I'd fear for Lily. I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily. If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset. I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that. But I never hit her. I guess that's a lie. Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her. No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap. I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.
I didn't mean to. I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived. Some place in Oklahoma. I drove for a few days. I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him. I didn't want him to know she existed. So I went up to the old, rotting door. And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
"I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy." He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way. Before I meant to I said,
"Jacob Merth! I'm Jacob Merth. Your son." He froze. Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
"Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
I don't know why I went in. I shouldn't have. I know that now. But, it's too late.
All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places. The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?" I felt shocked. Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
"What.. do you mean?"
"Apol-o-gize." His iron stare made me uneasy. Why did I come here? "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
"I didn't know you went to jail. I was six and in pain. I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back. Suddenly I was scared for Lily. Would she be adopted now, too?
All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other. And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand. It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head. I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose. He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him. With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch. My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation. The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more. I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic. I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor. The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine. It hurt more than losin' Lucy. But I was going to jail. I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now. My conscious was wrong now.
I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him. But it was me.
I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth. I love you, Lucy, Lily. Please forgi------------------
Saturday, 18 October 2014
Another Secret
She walked down the dim road, arm wrapped around the girl whom she was best of friends with.
Her friend held her waist, and they laughed about nothing as the last light shut its eyes.
As they walked, they spoke about the future. They spoke about the past.
And in a moment, the light from both of their eyes became solemn, and the girl let her arm drop off of her friends shoulders.
She tied her long curly red hair up into a bun, looking at her friend's deep brown eyes.
"Is it okay, that I don't tell you everything Sammy?"
Sammy brushed her black hair away from her face, letting the brisk air lick her cheeks pink.
After a few minutes, she nodded once. "I hope you don't tell me everything. Because if you did, you wouldn't have anything that was truly yours."
The red haired girl felt a wave of sadness slam into her gut, and she decided to simply sit on the cold cement sidewalk.
"I don't feel like anything is truly mine anyways." She sighed.
Sammy sat down across from her, bringing her gaze to her friend's. "You do. It may not seem like it, but you do. All the feelings you get when you see the boy you fancy? That's yours. The inhaling of icy air when you run? Yours. And the way you smile when you remember something that made you happy? Absolutely yours. Cris, you have so much that's yours."
Cris allowed doubt to cloud her eyes.
"It just seems that whatever I want doesn't matter. A tattoo? My mom promised it a year ago, it never happened and now she's getting one. My friend got one before me when I have been wanting one for seven years." She punched the ground, "Seven years, Sam." Her hands clenched into fists.
Sammy fiddled her hands, unknowing what to say.
"Your hair is unique." Sam ran her hand through Cris's icy red hair, pulling it out of the bun.
"It does nothing anymore." She brushed away her hand.
"Your eyes are stunning." Sammy was sounding exasperated now.
"They make me look placid." Cris snapped back.
Sammy stood up, ruffling her own hair. "Your clothes are so different and beautiful compared to others."
Cris stood up too, crossing her arms. "That doesn't mean anything. Everything I wear is baggy and black. I look like a murderer, but I can't wear other clothes that girls wear! Like crop tops, or skirts or dresses or shit like that!" Tears were pooling in her pale blue eyes now.
Sammy screamed now, shoving her friend's shoulders, "Well I can't tell you things you want to hear until you feel better, because you won't Cris! People can tell you you're beautiful, it doesn't make a difference! People can tell you you're talented in art, it won't help you feel better! I can't do that for you! I can't help, even though I wish I could! Do you think I like seeing you so sad that you can't hold conversations well? That you can't eat in front of people without feeling fat? That you can't stop comparing yourself to other people? I can't help that!" Sammy was sobbing now, "I can't help that."
Sammy hugged Cris tightly, crying into her shoulder.
Cris didn't speak.
Sammy whispered in her ear, "That's what you need to do. Somehow. Remember the little things that are yours. That make you happy. That will help. You can help you."
They were silent for a long time. Letting the cool air wrap around them.
Letting them give themselves each another moment that was truly theirs.
Her friend held her waist, and they laughed about nothing as the last light shut its eyes.
As they walked, they spoke about the future. They spoke about the past.
And in a moment, the light from both of their eyes became solemn, and the girl let her arm drop off of her friends shoulders.
She tied her long curly red hair up into a bun, looking at her friend's deep brown eyes.
"Is it okay, that I don't tell you everything Sammy?"
Sammy brushed her black hair away from her face, letting the brisk air lick her cheeks pink.
After a few minutes, she nodded once. "I hope you don't tell me everything. Because if you did, you wouldn't have anything that was truly yours."
The red haired girl felt a wave of sadness slam into her gut, and she decided to simply sit on the cold cement sidewalk.
"I don't feel like anything is truly mine anyways." She sighed.
Sammy sat down across from her, bringing her gaze to her friend's. "You do. It may not seem like it, but you do. All the feelings you get when you see the boy you fancy? That's yours. The inhaling of icy air when you run? Yours. And the way you smile when you remember something that made you happy? Absolutely yours. Cris, you have so much that's yours."
Cris allowed doubt to cloud her eyes.
"It just seems that whatever I want doesn't matter. A tattoo? My mom promised it a year ago, it never happened and now she's getting one. My friend got one before me when I have been wanting one for seven years." She punched the ground, "Seven years, Sam." Her hands clenched into fists.
Sammy fiddled her hands, unknowing what to say.
"Your hair is unique." Sam ran her hand through Cris's icy red hair, pulling it out of the bun.
"It does nothing anymore." She brushed away her hand.
"Your eyes are stunning." Sammy was sounding exasperated now.
"They make me look placid." Cris snapped back.
Sammy stood up, ruffling her own hair. "Your clothes are so different and beautiful compared to others."
Cris stood up too, crossing her arms. "That doesn't mean anything. Everything I wear is baggy and black. I look like a murderer, but I can't wear other clothes that girls wear! Like crop tops, or skirts or dresses or shit like that!" Tears were pooling in her pale blue eyes now.
Sammy screamed now, shoving her friend's shoulders, "Well I can't tell you things you want to hear until you feel better, because you won't Cris! People can tell you you're beautiful, it doesn't make a difference! People can tell you you're talented in art, it won't help you feel better! I can't do that for you! I can't help, even though I wish I could! Do you think I like seeing you so sad that you can't hold conversations well? That you can't eat in front of people without feeling fat? That you can't stop comparing yourself to other people? I can't help that!" Sammy was sobbing now, "I can't help that."
Sammy hugged Cris tightly, crying into her shoulder.
Cris didn't speak.
Sammy whispered in her ear, "That's what you need to do. Somehow. Remember the little things that are yours. That make you happy. That will help. You can help you."
They were silent for a long time. Letting the cool air wrap around them.
Letting them give themselves each another moment that was truly theirs.
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