My last two posts were drunk posts of which I have no recollection.
Proud.
Proud.
I feel haunted.
Some days have passed since this photo graced my tumblr.
Ice froze my veins, a mixture of fear, shame, and loathing prevailed.
Originating from a bewitching hour long passed.
A prepubescent in a state of emotional suspension.
Suddenly thrown back to Earth.
Continued on a night full of substance.
Perceptions of omniscience coupled with impotence.
Reduced to a frightened child pleading and screaming for validation.
Reality warped, I am broken.
Passenger to a blue Beretta.
Traveling down a dank dirt road.
An old white church, smaller than most homes.
"The meeting place," he tells me.
My mind jumps to these doctors.
Come to declare me as no longer viable.
The Birdman brings confirmation of what I've long feared.
Mental Illness of the terminal nature.
Locked in my own mind.
The corn gives birth to doctor upon doctor.
The rows converge in a vanishing point.
Closed eyes bring only more vivid impressions.
"Wouldn't it suck if the car broke down out here?" he questions.
My mind reels with possibilities.
I beseech him to retract his words, lest he tempt the fates.
We're unwitting cast in a horror film.
The fabrication of my God complex, Karma is plentiful.
The screaming starts as he plays with the pedals.
Puppeteer of a woman no longer a real girl.
He admits it's his own doing.
But in this D-grade picture it's the lull before the tragedy.
I blather of our assumed victory, tell how fully it will rebound.
Soon the car will stop for real.
The doctors will come.
They will bring me to their temple, they will carry me home.
The church is some distance back now but still achievable.
Again he plays.
We slow and stop.
I scream and gouge my nails further,
deepening the crescents in the apples of my cheeks.
They are coming.
Accepting my fate I curl into my seat.
Ears plugged, eyes squeezed, and jaw clenched I await my reckoning.
Time passing with my resolve.
I come back to the world.
The surrealism of the night leads me to question my reality.
Crawling so far back into my head I'm unsure what was expressed beyond it's walls.
All I ask of him is to tell me what has happened.
Were my screams internal? They must have been for him to be so cruel.
His answer?
"I don't know what you're talking about, you've been
staring out the window for the last five minutes ignoring me."
I trust him.
I believe him.
I begin to doubt my sanity.
The terror of the Serotonin Syndrome recrudesces.
The Shadow Creatures beckoning to me.
I demand the truth from him.
He confirms my experiences.
But the doubt lingers.
I ask question upon question, hoping his answers coincide.
With each right answer relief flows through me.
With each breath the panic drains, and betrayal swoops in.
Mingling together these emotions take the last of me.
Sinking into the upholstery, I'm done.
...
Some days have passed since this photo graced my tumblr.
Ice froze my veins, a mixture of fear, shame, and loathing prevailed.
Originating from a bewitching hour long passed.
A prepubescent in a state of emotional suspension.
Suddenly thrown back to Earth.
Continued on a night full of substance.
Perceptions of omniscience coupled with impotence.
Reduced to a frightened child pleading and screaming for validation.
Reality warped, I am broken.
Passenger to a blue Beretta.
Traveling down a dank dirt road.
An old white church, smaller than most homes.
"The meeting place," he tells me.
My mind jumps to these doctors.
Come to declare me as no longer viable.
The Birdman brings confirmation of what I've long feared.
Mental Illness of the terminal nature.
Locked in my own mind.
The corn gives birth to doctor upon doctor.
The rows converge in a vanishing point.
Closed eyes bring only more vivid impressions.
"Wouldn't it suck if the car broke down out here?" he questions.
My mind reels with possibilities.
I beseech him to retract his words, lest he tempt the fates.
We're unwitting cast in a horror film.
The fabrication of my God complex, Karma is plentiful.
The screaming starts as he plays with the pedals.
Puppeteer of a woman no longer a real girl.
He admits it's his own doing.
But in this D-grade picture it's the lull before the tragedy.
I blather of our assumed victory, tell how fully it will rebound.
Soon the car will stop for real.
The doctors will come.
They will bring me to their temple, they will carry me home.
The church is some distance back now but still achievable.
Again he plays.
We slow and stop.
I scream and gouge my nails further,
deepening the crescents in the apples of my cheeks.
They are coming.
Accepting my fate I curl into my seat.
Ears plugged, eyes squeezed, and jaw clenched I await my reckoning.
Time passing with my resolve.
I come back to the world.
The surrealism of the night leads me to question my reality.
Crawling so far back into my head I'm unsure what was expressed beyond it's walls.
All I ask of him is to tell me what has happened.
Were my screams internal? They must have been for him to be so cruel.
His answer?
"I don't know what you're talking about, you've been
staring out the window for the last five minutes ignoring me."
I trust him.
I believe him.
I begin to doubt my sanity.
The terror of the Serotonin Syndrome recrudesces.
The Shadow Creatures beckoning to me.
I demand the truth from him.
He confirms my experiences.
But the doubt lingers.
I ask question upon question, hoping his answers coincide.
With each right answer relief flows through me.
With each breath the panic drains, and betrayal swoops in.
Mingling together these emotions take the last of me.
Sinking into the upholstery, I'm done.
...
I am haunted by the ghosts and the trauma.
Shadows of a child's mind.
Ill at ease as it once was, my innocence tainted.
Flashbulb cognizance of moments insignificant to others.
Drowning.
Simulated despair.
Turmoil belatedly expressed.
Screams lost in layers.
Foresight forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment