Poem: it’s actually simple, but not really

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Fiction (?): Skin

I’m backed into the damned corner. Again. Not a physical corner formed by the union of two solid walls. The place in my mind, it’s a black dusty mine that waits for a gap in my happiness so I might fall into it. Haplessly, I do arms around my knees and head tucked in. My sooty lungs press hard against rib cages not built to take the rpm of my beating heart.

I am not nice. I do not belong the name “Mia”. I am not the scarred brown skin that thinly veils my continued existence. I am not the tentative smile centered by two brown eyes.

I am a dark night dappled in stars, covered in howling wind and cold rain like hard fingers.

Sometimes I am the words I read, the shows I watch, a part of a far flung community of inside jokes.

Mostly though, i am the banshee heralding my own demise. That wretched woman who screams and screams that falls on deaf ears of the living. The things she knows about the all things she does not, insanity. Wailing wailing waling, unnoticed by passersby caught up in their own affairs. 

i … i am lost among people who love me. i, who know not how to pull off the leaches that suck the light out of me, surely do not deserve that warmth nor can carry that weight of it.

There is a silent horror that lives behind the eyes of the tortured, i’ve come to know. It’s masked by a habitual tiredness.

Horror birthed from dark seeds, physical and mental trauma are it’s famous progeny. Little fears of mundane objects is the stealthy child.

Some things I’ve learned

Before you go further, I’d like to thank all those people who recently followed me. I mean, why? I’ve been active as a sloth in the summer (not sure how accurate that is, I know they are creepy looking and slow beyond comprehension). What I am try to say is this: thank you so much!

It’s not easy to communicate the way we feel especially to a person we trust. We worry about their opinion about us, because let’s face it it’s easy to say that ‘it doesn’t matter what people say’. I treat it as a blanket phrase. It matters when it’s someone we value, because they matter. I don’t know why I ever thought that writing about my problems should be any easier. I’ve started countless times only to scrap an entire post because I feel ridiculous and I realize just how much of a private person I am. I have read blogs where writers bare a good portion of their souls to perfect strangers and I think it’s both stupid and brave.

These days I’m hounding the scent of inspiration. It is what drives us, not only a good cause will be enough to stick to a goal; be it studying, to put in volunteer work, to work two jobs even if you don’t have to but because you think it will prove beneficial in the long run; to make your parents proud; to prove a point. We need the motivation, some of us need it as incentive to live another day, to not give up on ourselves. Let me share this quote I found:

People often say that motivation doesn’t last well. Well, neither does bathing. That’s why we recommend it daily” – Anon

I don’t admire the girl I was for the past five or six years ago, if I could I would slap her silly and tell her to grow up fast. The quicker she learned that time is running out, how very far she’s yet to go, how much she’ll suffer in her own hands; I wish I was more aware of my mortality and (ironically?) my own indifference or obliviousness, or both if it’s not already the same thing. I’m thankful that I did, at any rate. At the same time I heeded the timeless advice of learning from my mistakes, most of the time anyway. That’s progress.