I feel like fucking shit
It’s true, I am hitting that wall… and it’s about time.
Is it mania? Some people think I have bipolar, and it runs in my family. As a high functioning poly-addict, it can feel very easy to just continue doing drugs, because it doesn’t get too in the way of my achievements. In fact sometimes, it may even help. Perhaps that is the deepest and cruelest lie of my addiction.
If I could observe myself in creation, death, and recreation, my endless cycle, I might feel different. The highs are high and wonderful, but the lows are dreary, sometimes suicidal. Of course, I would rather write than take any inaction I could not regret. I know how many it would hurt, my friends and family, admirers that I adore and mirror in fascination. I could write a list of names with many more I forget in my miserable stupor. How pathetic, how lost am I, when yesterday I was so high.
The clouds, the cold dew drops slicing like little knives as I fall from the sky. The condensation collecting and freezing on my eyelashes, eye brows, nose hairs and peach fuzz. Frozen, turning blue I await to shatter on the ground. That fall is nothing but pure swirling fear, a haze in which all light is snuffed out, and street lamps seem to suck the joy out of the nights sky. Paranoia runs rampant, and I can imagine everyone I knew to love me the day prior turning against me, plotting celebrations at my demise.
What an awful sickness this is, to doubt my health and wallow in the bleeding exposed wounds, watching them fester and spew all array of infectious pus, leaving the world acrid beneath me. The air that follows me is thick and caustic, and only I can breath in naught but wheezes. I hide in a cave I have dug with bloodied hands, skeletal and held together by decaying tendons and peeling skin, whatever is left on my walking corpse with gray skin and hollowed eyes. Gaunt, the creaking of my bones and tearing musculature. I stink, though I present burning cleansing flame, what is left of me is putrid ash, sinewy and sickeningly moist to the touch.
Where a person once may have stood, a beautiful and confident human, ecstatic because I breathed, a shell of a body soaks in my own leaking bodily fluids in bed. Sores form up and down my body, and the cartilage that once made up my nose has collapsed into mushy imitations, a soiled watercolor where my face could once propose emotions at a glance.
Misery, woe, woe is me and I am her. I am the death of all that was once good, with no where for life to flourish inside, viruses and bacteria fight over the remains of my pitiful body. I am full of nothing but hatred, though it does not burn with the anger that at one time could drive me to create change. Nor is it full of the ambivalence and inner peace that churned the motion of revolution through my hands and body in a delicate dance with the outside world. Apathy, depression, a sinking bottomless hole that once poured over with self-compassion and empathy for others. I am drained. I am empty. The vessel has broken, cracked and leaking where it once served a beautiful god, or goddess. Or many.
The monogamy to which I have married myself to, even more evil than the reaper himself; the tired slug of shame, my hunchback of regret. I have spoken too much and have not done enough. I have exhausted my energy in manifesting disappointment. I have lied to not just myself but the person I claimed to love the most. Her beautiful dainty wrists, the short and powerful arms that connect to her body, which stretches hidden beneath casual attire. Gorgeous curves that outline her face and thighs, cheeks that I want nothing but to caress and cherish, shower with pretty kisses.
I fill her ear with sweet nothings, falsehoods that await to be turned into reality, in time. Patience: I lack it, I have nothing but passion that has burned the candle to the wick, and the wax has melted over and formed the shape of my hand. Why had I held the candle as it burned to my finger tips? My blood is made of mostly booze, and it lit up and cooked me from the inside. My skin bubbled and melted off as both the candle and I became formless puddles. I have nowhere to go, I cannot dissolve into the universe. I am instead trapped in the misshapen ego that sprawls across the floor, trapped in boundless contempt for the person I once was. For the miserable fool that let herself be loved into oblivion.
I was too honest, and she too kind. And still, nothing has changed but the weather. I have cried enough tears to drown several children, and yet the genocides explicit and implied rage on. I love the profiteers of the death of my loved ones. I feared for a moment I may die, that one misplaced speck of fentanyl may enter my supply, and I might be found with dried frothing overdose at the edges of my lips, the excrement of bacteria and fungi seeping into the carpet, never to be removed or cleaned. I am bulbous and green. I am the worst thing to be seen. Ignore me, or perish at my Medusa’s glare, for I cannot turn anything into stone or gold, just memories and hatred. Not the kind that burns at the dying of the light.
The kind that reeks of wasted potential. She of the past, and it is many of her, retching at the thought that perhaps I could have been anything more than disappointment. Please, let me wallow. Please, let me die. Please, let my memory join my body, and my name be disguised. History will eat me, as billions more replace what I once was. The only comforting thought I have left inside, that I may be forgotten. That I once touched the inside of my babe’s thigh, and she now knows only the comfort of another.
