I wish to be a better human being
– make a promise
I wish to be a better human being
– make a promise
Today, I went to the city,
and as I felt the overflowing surge of people spilling onto pavements in the arteries of my train tracks, I was content.
The clumsy shoving and pushing around until I lost sight of what I knew, and what I discovered that I never had seen before.
A little town of an entirely different world, exhilarating, no one ever sees when they go into the city; a small temple filled with little trees- no one remembers it-
no one remembers me.
The sun was pink when I was returning home, and as the dirt caked on my skin all I could feel was the buzzing in my flesh,
And when the familiar worry returned to dig at the back of my skull, I realized-
That is who I want to be.
I have a sour candy in my mouth and the powder seems to burn through the lies in my tongue. I am pressing it to the roof of my mouth and wondering why the relief of truth still hurts. I can hear the buzzing of the tv, it is not buzzing. It is speaking in rhythms and I wonder if I am being brainwashed.
I am alone.
When the sun hits my skin it softly burns, when the sea hits my skin it washes away.
Am I that forgettable ?
That was a rhetorical question, I want to say. I see mouths answer but they keep it locked in their voicebox.
I wish a voicebox was like a wind up music box. I wish mine had a ballerina on it.
I don’t care about those words, I say, yet they revolve around my head as if my brain is the biggest star in their galaxy. Why are the planets closest to me the painful ones?
They shine brightly, though.
Sometimes I cry at night because I am scared of the times where my mother might be gone. I wish I never come to that time. It terrifies me.
I feel that I am not truly alive but I still am scared of death.
Of the death of others. I am lonely, I guess.
I am a carcass of an animal that’s name has long been forgotten. I am immobile with no heart to feel. My eyes are empty sockets with no life to fill them. I want to think of thoughts that are not thoughts that I do not want to think.
But the thoughts that I do not want to think, I think.
My bones have become dirt, so I become a waterfall. My laughs echoes love, my arms glisten in the sun. I still have no heart to feel. I still think of the thoughts I don’t want to think.
The waterfall has dried up, I am now a tree. The wisdom of many years flow through me, my limbs are filled with compassion and I am at peace. Yet, I still have no heart to feel. I still think of the thoughts that I do not want to think.
The tree was chopped, so I am a star. I burn so bright, so quick. I am filled with hydrogen till I start to pour. Nothing can stop me, there is no pain. But, I still have no heart to feel. I still think thoughts I wish I could not think.
The hydrogen gave out so the star burst into a hole that swallows things, I am now left with nothing to be so I am dirt. Rich and heavy. I can feel my carcass deep down inside me. It asks me, “Did nothing change with the things you became? How are you still haunted with invalidity? How did you never find a heart to feel your feelings?”
I open my mouth and speak before it is filled with sand,
(image by photographer Ren Hang who committed suicide on 24.02.17, you will be remembered)
The wind speaks in licks of icy fury, a cold hand reaching for embrace. Its fingers can’t reach. Reach. It grabs, its fingers latch onto throats. Shutting down words that are meant to be said, lips pursed blue. Cheeks so red, it is mistaken for the early spring that the cold does not promise. Limbs huddled till the pain is so numb it does not exist. There is a fire; it burns in the people’s eyes, filled with questioning and curiosity. The wind cannot reach the fire. It cannot stop it. The fire dances proudly unable to be diminished. It is diminished. It is snuffed out by words that are so sweet you can taste them in the air. It is snuffed out by the lies that spew uncontrollably, inhaled through the nose. It is snuffed out by the hate that twists in hearts and crushed warmth. It is snuffed out by the unwanted words that threaten drops welling in eyes.
It is snuffed out.
The wind speaks in licks of icy fury, a cold hand reaching for embrace. Its fingers can reach. It swallows the hearts that are unable to refute its ice.
” Read between the lines” she says and only too late I realise the blank space didn’t mean nothing.
– can I go back with my new memories.
There is water, water, water, water but I am not drowning. I am feeling better but the thought of your heart beating against my flesh pulls me deeper and deeper until I cannot feel anyone, until I am just another green glare in the camera that is shining over your face, obstructing your face. Careful, you say and there is strawberry in your breath, you warn me of gargoyles that caress skin. You say there is much I don’t know and much I shouldn’t. I argue that I want to know, that I am strong enough to handle what I cannot.
The apples of my cheeks are pink but you say they are not. I have a blind spot and your existence vanishes in it without my strength being able to stop it.I have two eyes, two ears, and a mouth yet I am unable to see the smell of the words you speak. You are aware. You are aware.
You know how I feel, you know my Achilles heel, yet you do not say anything. You’d rather pretend that I can never know because I am strong enough to be unaware.
I do know.
I accept that belonging will never be an accomplishment.
hands reach out,
there is earth under his fingernails
the mole on his wrist seems even more distinct.
the fate line on his palm is curved and decorated with faint etchings
his hands are not soft and cuts adorn them.
his hands are trembling.
The body is a place of violence. Wolf teeth, amputated hands. Cover yourself with a cloak of leaves, a coat of a thousand furs, a paper dress. The dark forest has a code. The witch sometimes dispenses advice, sometimes eats you for dinner, sometimes turns your brother to stone.
You will become a canary in a castle, but you’ll learn plenty of songs. Little girl, watch out for old women and young men. If you don’t stay in your tower you’re bound for trouble. This too is code.Your body is the tower you long to escape,
and all the rotted fruit your babies. The bones in the forest your memories. The little birds bring you berries. The pebbles on the trail glow ghostly white.
-Jeannine Hall Gailey
(not mine just really loved this)