The Disturbed Sit Still...

The disturbed sit still. I’m like a black widow waiting patiently in my web. I lure you in and then mess with your mind.  I spin my silk around your brain until you’re blind from within and you don’t know how you got so lost. I’ll steal you into my embrace, lull you into a love coma and then suck your blood dry. You’ll be alive, but your existence will confuse you and leave you wandering aimlessly in a world you once knew; and you’ll long for release. I’ll tighten the web and look into your eyes. I’ll reassure you that it’s all ok, there’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll stroke your face and kiss you softly on the lips and you’ll let down your guard, against your better judgement and the nightmare will begin all over again when the sun sets. In the day light I’ll pretend I don’t know you. I’ll ignore your pleas for a shred of recognition from me. I’ll continue to look into your eyes and I’ll see you plead and lose another piece of sanity.  I’ll smile at you maliciously, and walk gently away.  I’ll leave you stranded and naked in the middle of an intersection, dying. Praying to a god you had abandoned in your youth. Every morsel of your now pathetic being will be in my power. Like a love hungry abused puppy you’ll be at my command. I’ll whisper horrible truths in your ear while you sit chained at my feet for hours while I ignore you. When you finally hear my voice directed at you, you’ll do anything to win my love and trust again; I’ll play mind games with your head.  I’ll plant tiny timed explosions; years after you’ve escaped my deadly clutch, you’ll think you’ve found peace. You’ll move on with your life, find a good therapist, a partner who’ll accept you with your flaws. And then out of nowhere, years down the line, you’ll implode from within. Piece by piece you’ll fall apart until you’re nothing but rubble. The jagged edges will cut anyone who dares to come close. You’ll be unable to speak, because I will have stolen your lips. I will keep them in a jar next to your picture. I’ll leave ghost trails in your soul; you won’t be able to trace me. I’ll disappear and reappear in your nightmares.  Like a caged animal battling for release, I’ll terrorize you from the inside of your brain. You’ll go mad and you won’t be able to speak my name. I’ll cut out a piece of your heart and wear it around my neck; like a powerful voodoo doll I’ll be able to control you for eternity. You won’t understand it, but you’ll long for me, even after you’ve left me. I’ll be like a childhood hymn stuck in the back of your mind, like a painful thorn in your side. When you open your mouth to speak, a thousand fire ants will gush out of you. The darkness will once again wash you over and you’ll pray for peace. You’ll memorize the bible and think foolishly that god can hear you; that he cares, that he can do anything to stop me.  I can read your heart like a map. I fill it with wrong turns. I prevent you from breathing. I keep you in a glass coffin on display and you’re paralyzed; terrorized and full of dread. You can’t sleep because the fear holds you so tightly, you suffocate. You feel claustrophobic in your own skin and I tell you I’ll cut holes in your body to release some of that ache. I look into your eyes for the first time in a while and I can see the dread. This makes me warm and fuzzy inside and I take out my knife. You are still unable to speak. You can’t move. You regret not taking Morse code more seriously back then. Your brain pulls into a high speed pursuit. You become frantic and scared and you wish you weren’t so dehydrated so you could pee yourself: it would be humiliating, but at least you would have some semblance of control over your mind and body. If you could cry it would mean you’re still partly human. You hope this thought could appeal to some part of me that’s not disturbed. But I’ve long ago learned to ignore those impulses. Buffalo Bill’s got nothing on me.  I don’t need to tell you to put the lotion in the basket. I transport my threats telepathically and you reluctantly hear me inside of you. I turn off the light and blow you a kiss in the dark.  

Sweet dreams lover...

Shoebox Heaven and Consequences...

In my little shoebox heaven there’s a false sense of stability. I’ve seen this movie before. There’s nowhere safe on this planet. I contemplate consequences, their place in my head. Their lack. A world without consequences sounds seductively dangerous. I wonder if I could ever let go. I wonder if I could ever get comfortable. You’ve slipped away from me and I can’t fathom a way back.  In my little shoebox heaven, I can pretend that everything is ok. I can pretend they’re not watching me. Spying on my every key stroke. The threat of the outside world remains just that: outside. My inner demons come out and all hell breaks loose, but it’s ok, because I’m safe in my shoebox. In my head I have scenarios, entire conversations; oh, the things I would say and do if there weren’t consequences.  

               

“Holes imply, a hole practically begs to be filled and my head is a hole full of thoughts. Unspeakable thoughts of violence against you. Thoughts of revolution. If my holes were revolution, they would fill themselves and overflow and the unspeakable from every hole would drown you.  I lie there full of holes wanting to disappear; I want to be empty, holes want to be empty. I want to be hollow, understand?”

I wonder about all the horrible things I want to say. The dark images in my head obliterate any notion, or even idea of light. I hate the light. I think about the great literary characters who didn’t give a flying fuck about consequences, I think about movies I’ve seen. If life were a movie... I think about eating myself to death. Shut the world out and eat until I can’t move. They’ll need a whale transporter to deliver me to the hospital to die. That death scene from The Simpsons pops up in my mind: where Homer dies of obesity and has to be buried in a piano crate; the lift breaks and his body crushes that of his family. How tragically comic.

I would die without music. If I ever went deaf, I’d demand a refund ticket and hop on the first train back. I’d die. I wonder about my relationships with people; I think about how I relate – or don’t - to those around me. This can’t be normal... can it? I read about broken people, flawed people, they still find someone. Serial killers get married in jail and have stacks of amateur porn in their cells.  People with bad breath have someone to kiss every night.