moonsickwolf

[moonsickwolf]

"you don't respect me out of fear, you respect me out of love" my mother said, directly in my face. Seemingly unaware of how wrong she is.

How ironic it all is.

[moonsickwolf]

I don't believe I was raised by my parents, I was lowered into a grave they made. While they told me to dig myself out alone.

[moonsickwolf]

I feel I've lived the entirety of my life by 22, there's nothing left to live. Everything is either impossible or meaningless. Live to see the next beautiful sunrise? I've seen thousands and my city is so polluted we don't have them anymore.

Live to spite others? They'll die one day too. Outliving them means nothing, we will grace the same soil eventually. Live to find love? I don't desire it, and I believe I do not deserve it even if I wanted it.

I could disappear for weeks and no one would look for me, no one would call. And I doubt anyone will weep at my funeral. And the ones that would proved those tears are fake long ago anyways.

I am, ungodly, endlessly, lonely. And I don't even mind anymore, I worry I've always been lonely. Even among people I wasn't among them, I was just the ghost haunting their lives in some desperate, fucked up attempt to pretend I was there.

I don't feel being less lonely will heal this broken thing, I just don't belong. But the world only seems to care for it's things when they begin to leave. I've only ever been loved when I was about to take my own life, then abandoned when everyone saw me drop the knife.

As if these feelings leave as easily as I would, as if putting down the object of their offense is all there is to care and compassion. Love ends at the guarantee loss isn't immediate. Like broken toys, only valuable again when you have to let go, so you keep them. Hold on to what's left.

Does our pain end at dropping the knife? Does it end to us or to them? What's the point of halting something if you're not going to prevent it from happening again? Why does their feelings end at that, but mine don't? Is this what it means to be broken?

[moonsickwolf]

I am not a person!! I am a vessel for others enjoyment!!! It is why I scream and no one moves, it doesn't matter until I am useless to them. Then they come by the withering corpse to poke it until it dances to please them!!! I can't do it for myself I must do it for them, what other purpose is there? I can't live for myself, it is selfish. I am not made for love I am made to please, I was bred to please, I was taught to please.

Who cares for my tears and blood!! Watch them fall as I serve the king and their court! Limp bodies commit nothing and do no work, lift them up and force the spirit back. Work isn't done. I was born to please. Who am I if not the people's parade? Is eternal punishment the price of being alive? Will servitude make me redeemable enough for you?

Does my weeping entertain you enough? I've given everything to the stranger you think I should be, but I'll never be enough. I don't have enough to give. I can't make more. Please take my weak heart so I can't feel sorrow anymore, please take my broken mind so I can't think of violence anymore.

Will you forgive me.

I just want to be anything but a rabid dog. I need to be fixed, to be cured. Why do I bite if I was meant to serve?

[moonsickwolf]

The voice I heard as a child was right, I'm just broken fragments of everyone I hate. Which do I own? Which can I live with? Divine evils aren't supposed to be right, but through his cruelty he was.

He was rarely loving and enterally disappointed in the ward he chose. But he was right about me. I lived a thousand sleepless nights and bloody wrists defying a truth sayer. Because he was cruel.

I don't think I could ever be more shattered than who I will be when I see him again, my terror, and have to see that smug smirk when he hears the words "You were right". There's no amount of "I told you so"s that could even partially equal my disgust seeing him smile.

I don't want to give it up again, not to him. But I don't have much of a choice, when I was proven no one else would have me like he would. No one else would love me. I might lose everything, but he will be at the end of the sidewalk, waiting.

He'll be glad to see I'm the same child he desired, and I wilt the same.

[moonsickwolf]

The world needs the moon and sun to survive, what happens when the world loses their moon? The tides break their cycle, and the world floods. It drowns.

My moon is gone, how will I survive without my moon. How dare they say I should be grateful to have my sun? While my moon is dead. I fear for the future, I fear for the tides, I fear for the lone sun. For I can't comfort it anymore.

I can't replace my moon, I can't calm my tides, I can't soothe my sun. I can't predict our future, or how soon it will be over. I miss my moon.

[moonsickwolf]

I'm taught I'm not allowed to hope, because every time I do I am rewarded with tragedy. I cannot even hope silently, expecting no real results, because to life all hope is the same whether you act on it or not.

[moonsickwolf]

Many days I feel like I'm running out of time, but I'm young. Why do I feel like I'm always running? Why do things feel so short? Other days I feel immortal, never dying, living too long.

I see a dead bird and think. "I wish I could be mortal like you, I wish I could feel the warm embrace of death like yourself." But you didn't want to die did you? I wish we could switch places, but I imagine something so free would still become bored of living so long. Perhaps that's why your life is short, then why is mine so long?

-

(also sorry for being inactive for a while, I gotta be in a certain headspace to write and I just got back into it recently.)

[moonsickwolf]

I wish I was half as monstrous as I usually feel. Maybe then I would feel safe, maybe I'd speak out more. Maybe I'd mourn less, maybe I'd be used less. I think I liked the voice in my head more than the ones outside, because even while he told me I was worthless. He made me feel worth something.

He was cruel, but he saw what others did to me and shamed them. He wasn't afraid to tell me they were horrible, he didn't tip toe around them out of fear. He was cruel, but he was kinder to me than the ones who claimed to love me.

-

[moonsickwolf]

It was never about the name, the presentation, the science, the certainty. It was never about feelings or love. Love is learning, love is adapting, even if you don't understand. Love is effort. You put effort because you love.

It was never about love. Loving me is too much effort, especially as a son. I have to accept I will never be anyone's son, as long as I'm their daughter. I will always be their daughter, never a son.

The effort I put in, the discomfort I feel, the way I ache will never change their minds. Their love begins and ends at what they want me to be, what I can give. They make excuses, say they love me to keep me quiet. So they can pretend I'm not real.

How could my worst nightmare treat me with more kindness, a gentler touch, than those that love me? I built a monster from ashes and blood and he cradled me as I cried and treated me as a son. Spoke to me as a son. I made a monster so horrid he told an 8 year old me people would be happier if I was dead. Yet this monster who told me I was rotten called me a boy while he berated me

-

[moonsickwolf]

To the point giving up just sounds so sweet right now.

I got nothing, and no one worth it. I feel sick in a way I can't explain, bizarrely like being cursed in the blood. Two bloodlines full of nothing good, ones better to die out. On top of useless blood I've got nothing of value to me. My cousins are becoming officers and detectives, I'm a friendless loser still shut at home. Too scared of the world to face it, too proud of nothing to ask for help.

I suppose I'm worse than nothing, I'm a waste.

[moonsickwolf]

This claustrophobia makes me sick.

This suffocation makes me wheeze.

My mother's love makes me choke.

I never imagined love was supposed to make you feel trapped. I never imagined it'd feel like thorns scraping your lungs.

Like a firm hand against the neck.

I never imagined someone's attempt at love would be so cruel.

It taught me love contains shame, fear. It contains pain.

It's nothing like the fairytales, the stories of lovely families living happy lives.

It's not as sweet as lullabies or soft as the movies.

It is brutal, it is cruel.

It's a grip at the arm, the one that digs nails. The one that draws blood.

It's threats of passing if you leave, it's scorn, it's fury.

It's conforming to an idea of yourself, one that mother wants.

It's abandonment, it's bribes, it's guilt, it's impossible expectations.

You'll never be a person, you're a vessel. A science experiment, a thing to be programmed and commanded.

A mother's love is a special form of hellish I can't understand.

-

[moonsickwolf]

I look through my creations and I see only pain, there's only despair in every line. In every stroke, in every pixel. I don't feel relief in them, I dread coming back to them.

Like a broken home, I cannot live here but I stay regardless, because I know nothing else. The roof leaks, the stairs collapsed years ago, the stove is rusted and provides no heat.

But I know the paint that peels off the walls, I recognize the wallpaper underneath. I remember the floorboards and the creatures that lurk under them. It's no longer a house, but it's home.

The lights flicker, the roof caves in, the plugs spark. But I stay because the neighborhood is foreign, I don't know anything else. I am not safe.

[moonsickwolf]

[moonsickwolf]

Mom was aggressive and stubborn, get two stubborn people in a room and you either get a dream team or a war. All depends on if they agree. Mom never lost a fight, didn't need to use fists, won them regardless. Not because she was always right, she was just loud enough. I was quiet.

Mom knew I was stubborn, both her and my father were so I was bound to get it. But it was a losing battle, fighting her. You either lose or lose, give up. Taught me I was wrong. It paid to be quiet, cost to be loud. Being loud was trouble, especially when you're wrong.

Lesson in arguing, standing up for myself. Don't. Always wrong, don't try. Be quiet, be nice, be what they want. Didn't matter the want, just conform. Change. Observe. Fix. Please. Don't worry about why, what, when. Simply give. Give yourself, all of yourself. Lose yourself. Be everything at once, and nothing at all. That's purpose.

----

This one is part of a huge thing I'm doing, I consider myself a "scrapper kid" in many ways, powered by strictly survival instincts. So I was going over my many types of survival instincts and finding where they came from. The grammar isn't perfect, it's not supposed to be. Perfect is an illusion, perfect isn't real. They lied to you.

[moonsickwolf]

Some days I do not feel human. I feel wretched and rotten, I don't believe in curses. But my condition may just make me.

If I am cursed, I believe I deserve it. I'm not religious, but I don't need to be to know I'm unholy. Sometimes I relish the idea out of spite, of being everything a horrid god would hate.

But occasionally in my weakness, I want to be loved.

[moonsickwolf]

My family feels like a pack of wolves with none of the love or bond, only need and necessity. They won't wait for their weak to die and mourn the loss, they'll leave them in a ditch and mourn the weakness.