it feels so so heavy. my legs have the weighted sand feeling. i'll always do this to myself. who am i fooling? good morning. good afternoon. good evening. did you know that i never stopped? she asked me why i did it. i think she firstly assumed that i did it to relieve something. it doesn't. it doesn't. it just hurts, and i see it. i see it clot, gush, and bleed. i feel it, i see the smears it makes. she asked me, also assuming, that i wanted to stop, right? of course i said yes. i don't know if i meant it. i don't know if i want to stop. what does that mean? what if it's not the part of me i can handle well that doesn't want to stop? and what if i do? when did i start differentiating parts of myself again? she brought up the old topic of the little girl. maybe i hadn't forgiven her.
"Why can't you forgive her?"
please raise your hand if you ever felt guilty. now take a shot if you've instilled that guilt yourself, and you've never been told differently. now drag a box cutter razor, or anything else sharp you can find across your leg if that guilt is shoved so far into you that it becomes a part of your soul and no matter who apologizes, not even the one who made you feel guilty, can say anything to make you feel differently.
does that make logical sense? the wound keeps getting reopened every time she does it. it makes me want to bound up my hair in a fist and pull and scream and cry and scream and scream. please stop, please stop. do you know what it feels like? your death will be on me. why won't you stop? stop doing all these things! it makes me feel like a shaking six year old. it makes me feel like i can't breathe.
i've spent years trying to breathe. trying to breathe.
they look like they belong on me, the discolored scars. it's like i deserve it. it's like everything is so heavy. so, so heavy. the thuds of my heart feel heavy. i want to change. i want to get out of this. out from under. i don't think i should drive tomorrow. i want to die. the thought of dying brings me some sort of longing. are some people just meant to die? is that what fate is? i don't know. i don't want to be alone. i've always been a coward. i've just always tried to breathe. please stop shoving your dying down my throat. please stop involving me in it. stop dragging me down with you. i want to breathe. i want to breathe, guilt free. that's why they're on me, everywhere. i've just been trying to breathe. it hurts but i'm trying to breathe. it's all i know. do you understand?
YOU ARE READING
holding on; 2019
Non-Fictioni never expected to be here for this. i did not think the need would let me go. i can still feel it's grip, but i might as well hold on as well. it's only fair-isn't it? a self-documentation.
