expostulatingthoughts

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Winter Winds

It took her six months, two turnings of the seasons, to visit the stones under which her rocks had been buried.

It took her two slaps in the face from the moving world around her, the withering of life around her, the crunch of dead leaves under her feet and the ice that numbed her hands. Only complete disassociating brought her back to a reality she never wished to face.

It was almost sadistic. Bright lights that burnt her eyes, ever-growing giggles that made her sick to her gut. Reunions. She was unsure whether it was jealousy, resentment or overwhelming, overdue grief that drove her. Cold December crept up on her, and while most had already come to terms with what had happened, what was to happen, she felt paralysed. Frozen, like the earth toppled body that was once her resilience.

It was almost cruel, how they ruined it for her. Her hands clutched the cold silver she had been gifted that exact day, twelve months prior. The object seared its painful coldness into her hand and not looking back, she threw it into the white sheathed ground, barely grasping a glimpse of the names on the cracking rocks before slowly stomping away. It wasn’t her fault - but she held herself accountable. It ruined the season for her - she ruined the season for herself.

But taking it in was easier than acceptance. It would have been ruined either way. They wouldn’t be there either way. There would have been no bettering either way.

[expostulatingthoughts]

PERSONA: SHE

She had always believed in love as whole.

She believed it could be found in a bouquet of

(flimsy, half dead)

flowers

That it could be found inside a letter

(bullshit taken from some oversold book)

with scribbles of professions of passion

Or that it meant someone kissing every single one of her freckles and telling her she was like a constellation

(pretentious, pretentious lies)

When she found herself

lying in crumpled sheets

her head spinning as her lips involuntarily gaped into a silent scream

(of anger, of lust, of defeat)

did she understand

there is no wholeness

no holiness

in love

it is mismatching shards

and that is all she is ever going to get

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

you once said

"smoking can kill you"

but so can a blow to the head

so can a fucking meteorite

crashing down my window

dissolving into nothing

but still manage to somehow

slip into my mouth and choke me

so can any little thing that you have done

or will do

so can i

and mostly

so will you

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

a stranger ; one night alone

"Wake up" she whispered to herself "It's me" she slurred, her voice hoarse and laced with her loss of inhibition, her lack of control.

The sun was coming up at the early hours of the morning, the wind ricocheting against the window. Four hours into a winter day, it felt colder than ever. Ice crossed her mind, despite the faint rays of pink that had started to creep through the darkness.

"I can't sleep" she mumbled. Finally, dark brown hues met a pair of misty grey.

"I can't stop thinking" her whisper grew louder and he felt her shiver. He placed a hand on her pale cheek, directing the wavering brown eyes back to the now piercing grey. Her hand attempted to forcibly move his. It felt just as cold as the grey in his eyes looked.

"It's morning" she looked out the window "I can't sleep" she attempted once again, her eyes now reading desperation.

"Stay with me" she finally said, in an attempt to redeem her isolation in the arms of the unknown. He engulfed her, she was consumed. A wave of orange fanned onto his chest. And for one night, she did not think.

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monster

There is a monster under your bed.

There is a monster inside your head. 

But monsters aren’t real. 

  Oh but darling, they are. 

  They are. 

They bring you to life; 

they raise you step 

by step with a knife pushing against your neck. 

Just lightly enough so it brushes, 

so you forget it’s there. 

Take one step ahead, 

   I dare you. 

 Try and break loose. 

   I dare you. 

You push. 

Slowly, you push against the knife.

You try and push the monster away.

   But oh, he knows you. 

   He knows you better than you know yourself, 

 he tells you. 

 He knows you so well that he’ll push you against his blade himself, 

 he’ll push you so blood trickles down your neck as a warning. 

 He’ll push you and makes you think 

 you are pushing yourself.

There’s a monster hovering around you, 

all time every time of day. 

Sometimes he flees, 

he pretends to go away, 

he pretends he’s no longer there 

so you can breathe. 

He comes back, two knives instead of one,

pushing into your chest and throat. 

You can feel his foul breath, 

a breath of lies, 

of rotten rotten lies and 

rottener words. 

You can hear the shouting, 

  you can hear the shouting, 

    you can hear the shouting in your ears. 

You can hear the whispers they leave behind, 

whispers so thick you can’t chew over 

 over 

   over. 

 There’s a monster inside your head.

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She

‘’ What does it look like? And how will I know it when I see it? ‘’ You won’t. When you have it in your hands, and all you want to do is make it disappear. When she had safety clasped between her palms – family, career, love – all the components for the perfect life, she threw it to the side and ran as fast as she could. When she attained it, she realized it looked like absolutely nothing. She had been constructing her own path for settlement, with the ultimate destination of resentment. What she had stacked together was nothing but a fabrication, a model of what she believed to be the key for comfort. The cost of her self-preservation was paid with her freedom, as found herself encapsulated within a paper-thin structure built under her tongue-tied sight. ‘’ What is she doing? What has she done? ‘’ Nothing. When your image is carved by a foreign chisel, your core begins to disintegrate. When she had her arms entwined with those of others, she pulled them right away from her like burning hot iron. When she looked back at what she had, she saw a disguise in which she was wrapped with, in which reflections of others’ expectations translated into her own person, until she became a fabrication herself. The scratch through the paper wall that kept her contained in her reality broke the cycle she had found herself trapped into. It wasn’t for her, and it never had been. The trinity that formed the capsule of conformism – the little comforts within the capsule that translated themselves into mindless outings and pointless meetings that added nothing but the image of a by-the-standard life, for which she blindly signed herself up to. ‘’ Run ‘’ She’d leave behind stray bits of her. Small reassurances that she was around, even if she wasn’t there – her own way of marking her presence while avoiding her whereabouts. An unknown face and a clean slate. She ran away from her frustration. She would take no blame. She was only human – and she needed to remind herself of that.

>

[expostulatingthoughts]

Prozac Diaries

My mind has been racing, but no words from my head make sense when put on to paper, if they even manage to get there in the first place. Even this sentence itself is making me stuck, reading itself over and over and over again in my head as it has been for hours now. Anyway. I’m rambling. Day one was a haze. It was strange, because it wasn’t. I slept a lot, but it felt like I didn’t sleep at all – or better, for no time at all. Sleep ran and in a snap of fingers I was awake. I slept over the alarm and I slept over my thoughts and I slept over my duties and I slept for about ten hours and then some more and not even coffee could keep me awake. I felt like my head was spinning and my hands weren’t my own, they were tingling, but they were more my own than what they usually are – it was strange. It didn’t really make me magically happy, it just made my mouth dry and my chest heave and my stomach hurt and so many contradictions: tired and ecstatic; hungry and full. I weighed at 49.9kg. I know I shouldn’t have weighed myself. I don’t know what’s more fucked up – that the only reason I’m happy I’m taking Prozac now is because I’ll lose weight or that I almost wept of joy when I saw a 4 replacing a 5 on the scale. Official day 2 though, was a manic day. I smiled like a fool and I felt anger like a madman madwoman can I say that am I one? I felt very angry or very ecstatic and very irritated or very fucking manic and so out of control. I felt like I could smash my fist through a mirror just to release all this adrenaline or rage or anger or mania or ecstatic-ness or whatever it was that was possessing me. My hands were still tingling, my mouth was still dry, my breath was still heaving – more actually, I felt more full, I ate less and I wanted to eat more. Classes were nerve-wrecking, standing still was nerve-wrecking, hearing people discredit mental illness was nerve-wrecking and triggering too, but listening to people tell me about their lives, and their problems, and advising them and helping them a little made me feel better. It made me feel helpful and happy that they could feel better even if for only a second because it felt like we were sharing a second or two of relief. It was too momentary. And it wasn’t prolonged or strong enough and it didn’t last enough and it wasn’t good enough but then again what is, really, what is. I’m typing like a madman madwoman can I say this? I haven’t typed like this in ages and it feels so good even if it doesn’t make sense. The sound of the keys bashing, and the feeling of my fingers bashing against the keys is somehow cathartic. I’m very tired. My computer broke. Everything around me seems to be breaking. I seem to be assigning metaphors to everything around me. I keep forgetting things are ethereal and I keep giving them an unbreakable status and when they break I metaphor them and it makes no sense because then everything is a goddamn metaphor. 

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april second

It’s been two months

Quite a bit has happened since

A void has been replaced by a tachycardic feeling

of discontentment,

unsettlement, resentment.

It’s quite mundane.

 -

I grew out of my nothingness, becoming

a chunk of meat

flesh of the body.

The softness under the skin:

open and uneager to the touch,

easy, simple, supple,

hard as a million shards,

craving but unwilling.

 -

Stretching pliable muscle –

fat, skin, a body.

I am not nothing now.

I am nothing but a body:

physical, present, a possession

where thoughts become an unheard mumble,

an unnoticed echo.

Silence.

 -

I am a body.

I’m the pungent alcohol running through my veins

The burn on the throat.

The scrunch of the muscles of the face.

The numb lips,

the sickening dry giggle convicted

in playing itself over and over

and over in my head.

I am the intoxicated sway of the hips,

the chapped mouth that

flexes into a curve

stretches into a laugh

parts the lips

shapes the tongue.

I’m the hands,

the chains on my waist

grasping, grabbing, gripping the flesh

that is mine but is not my own.

[expostulatingthoughts]

prompt: describing colours

i. red

it’s the cliché for passion. it tastes sweet in your tongue, almost overpoweringly so. it is strong, it looks like it’s about to burn you with its vibrant massiveness. it’s all kinds of sweet and sour, it’s warm, so much that it has the ability to make you blush. it’s the colour you see when you squeeze your eyes shut so tight you can feel the wrinkles on your eyelids, it’s the colour you see when your lashes are pressing onto your cheek, when your face is scrunched up and a little, almost pleasant headache begins to form when you expect to see darkness and instead see red.

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Emotion and Intimate triangle by Yves Rossetti