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mushykat · 4 years ago

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i am failing 4 classes

I’m sick and I don’t like it. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, and I don’t like how it hurts to wake up. I don’t like how the feeling of hearing damage is the only thing grounding me to a plain of nothing but heartache and tragedy. I hate how much I’ve let myself spiral. I’m tumbling down a black spire that I’ve built for myself. What lays at the bottom will hopefully kill me when I connect with the waters below.

Sometimes I want to draw. The picture I want to use to express the swirling mass of razors and burnt scraps of thoughts that plague my consciousness never turns out how I want them to. I don’t want to sit down and put time into something that I cannot love. It’s why I refuse to try and dig myself from the pit laden with the shreds of memories I hold on to in order to justify the horrible things I see.

I don’t want to write as a career. A career path means choosing a secondary school, and it means going and applying myself to something. I can’t put the effort into keeping myself afloat in the sea of that of which troubles me, and yet I’m expected to weigh myself down with books full of repeated sentences that will suffocate me with a bad credit score and the inability to apply for a loan.

I don’t want money to be spent on me for college. I’m going to do bad and eventually give up, like I always do. I never apply myself to anything like I should. I know better. As I sit and write, and let the crisp feeling of the screen sear the exhaustion ridden pupils I’ve tormented as such the night prior, I have assignments I haven’t turned in. If I can’t bother to not fail an 11th grade math class over my own impotence, then how am I supposed to swallow down the poison that is higher education.

What’s the point of using flowery language to cover the corpse of what I write? What will the sprouts of tulips and daisies do against the rot of myself. Why must I try and work every word into an intricate tapestry to illustrate the images my hands refuse to draw. Why do I try to form the pictures my mind refuses to accept of what I see of myself. Why am I fucking sick?

I can feel the rise and fall of my chest, and yet my lungs always feel empty. I can feel the beat of a heart cradled behind the intertwined digits of marrow that tuck it away in a forest of fleshy fat, and yet I wonder if I am truly living. Is this all life is to be? Am I expected to carry on in the future. Carry on and carrion are easy to mix up, I presume. But what a simple mistake for such a bloated carcass such as myself.

I feel like if I try to chase after the fleeting ideological wisps of smoke that arise from the coals I smother, and do in fact explore writing as a career, I fear I will run out. I think the only mirrors I can truly accept are the ones others have pointed towards me. The only thing I can see anymore is warped and distorted by the heat of a long burnt-out inferno that ate away at the only thing I could hold dear to myself.

These little mirrors sit behind my eyes, and reflex off of each other. They shine beams of light to one another, as some sick paradox that I am too shaded to partake in. I want to see the light, but I fear what I may see if I allow illumination into the crevices of where I hide. The dark is cold and safe, and lets me shelter away from that which wishes to harm me.

The world isn’t out to get you, after all. The only mantra I can remember clearer than the burning gazes of reflected disdain directed towards me. Are the shattered mirrors that try to piece my reality together warped from the heat of myself or others? I think I know who ignited me, but I would rather let the coals die away as I wish for myself. I envy the carbon lumps sitting in the sludge pooled at my feet.

I am one of the ants that get burned alive under a child’s magnifying glass. I can still feel the heat enveloping me, and can taste the smoke as it hangs around my throat in a familiar noose. I welcome it, even. Why else would letting the smog from burning leaves powder kisses of slime and tar across my lungs? I relish the taste I’m left with. It is impure.

Impurity is the only state I know. Disgrace and dissidence is the only way for me to view myself through the shattered lenses that have been scratched and dulled with age. I wish I could pry them out of my skull with the screwdriver that sits in the drawer on my desk. Maybe if I slipped them out of my head and gave them a good rinse, I could have a clean look at the world around me. Maybe I could be happy.

What’s to say they aren’t responsible? Holding tender orbs with a sheen of slime from the crevice they reside, smeared with the crimson shame that comes with self mutilation. I wonder if I could view myself with such an event. Could I get a good look? Could I watch myself desecrate the corpse that I walk in?

Maybe my eyes aren’t the problem. The ants nibbling behind my eyes made my sight throb, as if what I’m viewing of the world is wrong. It’s never right, though. Maybe the ants are just more noticeable when I decide to grace them with acknowledgement. But they’re not real, of course. The idea of something being out of place would require something to be wrong, which there isn’t. I know because you told me. :)

I hate writing. It’s horrible and I’m disgusted with anything I read from myself. I do not approve of the venom that drips from my lips, and yet I refuse to pull my fangs. Maybe I could shatter the rest of my teeth while I’m at it. I could run my tongue over the raw indents where the abused shards of enamel I refused to care for would be. But since when do I care about taking care of myself? I’m scared of what I write. Every word is a little sliver of the mirrors that have cracked behind my eyes. The tears that fall hold shards of the reflective glass, and lands upon the scarred hands with which I type. I’m scared that the mirrors will be gone, and I’ll be forced to see the reality of what is before me in its entirety. And yet, I’m more scared of running out of escaping sorrow.

Why would I pursue a career in writing when I don’t know of what I write? Why would I try to make money off of a skill I do not have? What’s the point of humoring the idea that I can write? The illness that lets the steady drip of sickly ichor flow through me is the only reason I can type as I do. It’s the one who puppeteers this horrid poppet of flesh bound sinew and bone. If I am not sick, then how will I write?

I cannot write. There is nothing to write about. Any of the scorch marks sitting heavy in my chest, and any of the burns lingering against my face from the reflected magnitude of the heat of the abhorrence of the mirrors others hold are from fault of my own. I am the reason I am sick, and I am the reason I refuse to get better. The feeling of the keys popping under my fingers is proof enough that I am not dead, and yet I let myself make allusions as to why I can only experience a dullness in place of stimulations.

Every time I try to sit down and write like this, I try to crack a piece off of the mirrors. They’re melted into a grotesque putty, and it’s not delicate work to try and pry shards of it apart. I can swing and shatter the mass of heathenry, but then I would have to stare into the space between the shards. The spaces where I can see.

How long can I chisel at a deformity before it is gone? Doesn’t the idea of writing to clear my mind imply that there's an end goal. That perhaps I can someday empty myself of the acid that eats away at the tissue behind my eyes. Doesn’t that mean that I’m the reason I’m ‘sick’? I don’t have the right to be upset. I know this. It’s my fault.

The way others see me is the same, even if they claimed to have shifted their realities. Is it so easy? Why haven’t I done it for myself? I know why. I am lazy and prefer the glorification of necrophagous fantasies over the reality that the only rot in me is my own. The only poison that reaches me comes from inside. The bed of soil I rest in is free from mites and grubs, and yet I wrote. The only desecration is my own.

As I write and try to put these pathetic ideas against a sickly backdrop of a fake shade of white, I can’t help but yawn., It seems to be tiring to do the most basic of tasks. Sometimes I wish that I could lay amongst the blankets marred with the imbecility of myself and not be roused. I want to slumber for the rest of time, and let the roots overtake me. Maybe as my flesh is eaten away and my bones are dissolved by a hundred rains, I could finally rest.

I wish that I could bash my head against the wall and shatter everything going on inside of me. If it was in pieces, maybe it would be easier to weep under the rug. I want to hide it from myself. I don’t have anything wrong with me, I am just a hypochondriac that has done too much research. I know seven people who could agree with me. I live with three of them. Even if stories change, the words that linger are the ones that left bruises. Lying can’t fix the purple and yellow that litters my mind.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t like this. Sometimes I wished I was loved. But why would it change anything? I would be loved and broken. I would be shattered and adored. I would be coddled and ruined. What difference would circumstances make when I’m the one who sets the table against me? I’m the reason the betting is so low. I picked the numbers, and I knew what I was doing. I’m aware of the horrible things I do, and yet I do them. I know I’m failing classes, and yet I write with blurry vision to try and alleviate a fake weight keeping me from breathing.

I don’t like school. I wish I didn’t have to go. But what else would I do with my day? I’m stupid. I’m tired of being told I’m not. I don't know the things people think I do. I only know things I can remember, and things that I care about. Neither of those apply to much. My mind’s empty enough that the few thoughts I can hold are the only thing keeping me from falling back into the static burning the edges of my subconscious.

My neck hurts.

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mushykat · 4 years ago

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been calling this the worms fic lol

I feel like I’m suffocating. I feel like every time I sit down to speak, little worms wiggle their way past my teeth and to my tongue. I feel like staring at a screen isn’t doing anything to silence you. I know what they think of me. What you think too.

But why should I be a sympathizer to those who sit with heavy hearts. What good does pity do when I have more to worry about you. You fester and sit and rot like a spoiled squash in the back of the pantry. What good does it do to throw dirt to the writhing nightcrawlers hiding behind chapped lips.

I know better than to listen. I know the sights and sounds of the fallen few are nothing but an illusion conjured up by nights long past. I know not to give in, but sleeping makes the headache of the waking world feel less sobering than it should. I understand as I sit here, letting bile rise and heartbeats sit unsteady.

I understand what’s being said. I know the words falling to the ground, shattering like flakes of glass. What good would it do if I walked into the carnage that I sit through? Would they crunch under my bare feet like the first crystals of a new snow? Or would I walk on bloodied soles to the next bout of maggots.

I can feel them under my skin. Sitting heavy like pebbles worked under the layers of fattened flesh, sticking against the supple meat below like cloves of garlic. What higher being would feel the need to let me rot away to skin and bones when I could stay plump like a tomato picked too late from the garden. Flipping over a fruit to watch the crop worms wriggling through the corruption they fueled.

But am I the fruit? What sweet words tumble from the lips of a viper, sitting on a throne of warmth caused by the burning of a wrecked heart. Am I the mindless colony worms? Do I let myself scrounge around and drown myself in what’s long rotted away just for a semblance of joy in my fleeting life? Or perhaps the gardener, as I sit and stare into the torment of something I buried hours into. But how can one farm when only ashes fall from fingertips?

Maggots turn to flies. At what point will I shed the prisoner of rubber restriction for a new form? What good can being the fly be when only the wretched let me feed? Why do they only sing for a butterfly, whose poison is displayed as colors and light. Flies are much more plentiful. Maybe there's too many. They do swarm to the rot, making people face what they’ve done.

What am I but a bloated corpse of a mindless deer, sitting at the edge of the road. Maggots make my stomach churn as the buzzing of flies in my ears makes my brain melt into nothing more than a slop of wet proteins that collapsed into themself. But even the deer was one to run and prance. Falling sweet to death’s gentle dance.

What’s the point of sitting here? Do I listen to teachers? I listen and hear words that soon drop from my mind, like raindrops sunken with lead. Do I know what they teach? But do they know what they are to teach me? Letting my mind rot before I ever decided where to connect it seems to be my downfall. Letting little droplets of information slip past cold lips. The worm writhing on the back of my tongue won’t let me swallow. Is it my fault for letting them eat out my tongue like a parasite?

Do poetic allusions make me a poet? Do artistic scriptures make me an artist? Do creative writings make me creative? What are adjectives if they bounce off of my skin like hot coals, leaving nothing behind but a residual burn and the pitiful smear of soot against my skin. What makes a man? Is it what a man makes? What can I make if I can’t make myself a man?

I see them sometimes. Little shadows at the edge of my vision. I don’t give them the time of day. Tricks of the eyes dancing like worms on a barbed hook. I know that I’m probably imagining it. For what would be imagination if you could make them stop? Imagination is the only reality that can sit with me anymore.

I slumber and yet wake into a dream. I drink water and yet sit and dry away. I eat and yet I feel so starved. What does this prison demand of me? Chemicals my brain won’t make shouldn’t control whether or not I get to have a day in the world of the living. Shambling as a corpse because I broke addictions that a younger body grew with.

I know I should be thankful. I have much. I type on a computer of my own, I write on a phone of my own. I sit and fester in a room of my own. I sit in a house warmed by gas, fueled by money given away. Yet I open a window and let the night consume me as I sleep. The smell of the chilled air helped to quell whatever heat of the day that stabs into my skin like pins.

Can I even complain about the pricking of pins laid in my own cactus patch? Can I worry about where I sleep when I’m the one to fill the sheets with needles? What is a needle but a tool of bloodletting? Syrup running down my fingers and clearing my mind and heart. And yet the burning also seems to cut the euphoria.

What’s the point of cutting what I sit in when I can harm it in other ways? Bloated and heavy I can rot, like a waterlogged tree trunk sitting at the bottom of a bog. For what parasites burrow into my pores and eat away at me, I do not know.

Will I read this? Will you? What are my words to one who doesn’t see the world through the shattered lenses I bestow over it. You don’t know what rattles around my skull, bouncing off and leaving nicks in the bone. Maybe the stinging in from the fragments sinking themselves deep into the mass of proteins and slime that controls this hunk of tissues and mold.

I have the pictures sitting behind my eyes, dancing like reeds in a spring’s gentle breeze. Who am I to carve them out and splash them against a canvas like the crude oil they stem from. Why paint a picture out of slime when I could carve words out of broken bits of bone like sick little coins. What’s the point of words if the ones reading them don’t understand how they truly sit behind my skin.

I try to draw them out, to show the world what sits heavy on my mind. Digging the stones out of my skull with blunt pencils and dull pens never seems to leave me satisfied, letting the memory of attempts rolling down like sticky tears crafted from discarded crimson. Does digging with nail bitten fingers do any better? I dig and tear, yet the only reward is marred flesh that stared back at me like a defiled corpse.

I don’t know why I write. I don’t know why I’m sick. I don’t know why I’m mean. I don’t know why I’m scared. I don’t know why I’m sad. I don’t know why I’m mad. I don’t know why I sit and rot away while I watch the seeds buried around me burst from the soil like the sun blessing those above the horizon. Why do I let seeds dry away to a hunk of droughted dirt? What would watering do if only to prolonged the rate of which my negligence would hurt those around me.

Do they know what I think of them? Spitting words as effortlessly as puppets marionetted by those who've seen the worst of man and walked through. Am I simply a puppet with strings cut? Why must I sit and replay the memories of those who hurt me behind my eyes. Why do I let them hurt me when I’ve suffered enough? Is it because my pity for my own downfall never burned the same as guilt of survival?

Maybe I would be better if I drained my mind, and let the oils carrying the droplets of tears roll down the drain. Would emptying my stomach have the same effect? The weightlessness that follows the act of desecration of my own pride always seemed to clear my head. The burning of a stomach sitting on only old fears and whatever I couldn’t dig out with my bare hands. Maybe if I had longer fingers, I could pull the worms that slipped down my throat out.

Are they even really parasites if I invite them to stay? Letting the cancerous venom sink into my flesh all because I thought it would quell the burning in my head. The cries of pain bashing against the inside of my mind. What did I do to deserve this self-made hell? Why do I let myself stay in a pit of embers and broiling maggots only to let the illusion of familiarity keep me on my ass?

Maybe if I had been better, then I wouldn’t let myself earn the title of a broken husk. Am I really a husk if I’m not fully emptied? If I don’t allow myself to wither away, can I truly be more than a corpse walking with a broken mind. I let them in and I burned down the trees as my feet. Any disgust thrown at the steps of a false throne are nothing but my own.

Why do I write? I try to let these words out on paper, to craft gentle shapes and divine figures to convey the emptiness that consumes my waking moments. I never find the right angles to convey the type of madness that plagues my existence. Why can’t I just silence them? Why does the screaming of those burrowed into my skull like plump bot flies only serve to fuel my apathy?

Maybe they’re right. I should empty my throat and hands of the oil keeping my rusted gear turning. But wouldn’t that be a waste of whatever fluids I let myself run off of? Testosterone isn’t cheap. Fighting to achieve a goal only to let the reality of it crumble around me like shattered terracotta does sound like me. Maybe if I could listen to the birds singing in the night, I wouldn’t let the rats in the walls whisper their sweet promises of endlessness hang over my heart.

I stare at a screen, and let my eyes burn. Is it from the tears that refuse to fall? I sit at a screen and let myself pound away at a sheet of plastic set over a motherboard. Such complex code and mechanism to go into the vile sludge that I let fall past my lips. Anything held within is only allowed out once it’s festered enough to burn the nightcrawlers in my throat.

Who do I write to? What goals do I hold? Why do I let these words leave me when it never sates the feeling of emptiness that hangs over me like a cloud of gnats. I can blink the bugs out of my eyes, and I can shut my mouth. But what is to stop the infectious little pets from crawling through my ears and directly into my mind. To die from suffocation and rot away. Everything else in my head rots.

Is this how I want to live my life? Letting the sands of worn stone slip through my fingers as I hope to catch a shard? I don’t want to grow old. I don’t want to grow. Competing for light in the world of a dying sun sounds like something of insanity. But isn’t insanity all I have to make my claim? School isn’t enough for me to care. Skills and talents elude me. Communication is faulty. The only constant I have to sit with seems to be the maggots that like to chew holds in the veil I have hanging over my world.

Who am I? Do I know the answer anymore? Am I a husk full of rotting mealworms digging away through the sawdust that sit heavy in my chest? Am I a corpse walking as the worms squeeze themselves between my bones as I shuffle towards my next objective? Am I a bloated log full of parasites and moss that can’t see through the muck blocking the lukewarm water I sit at the bottom of?

What could I possibly do to fix myself when I don’t know what’s broken? I’m not a doctor. They tell me falsehoods and deceitful lies meant to make me seem normal. Why is clinging to the decay of myself the only sure hood I have left to my name? Why am I broken? Others burn and beat and thirst to the brink of death. I’ve never known true fear except for that of which I’ve conjured to my own forefront.

Is the fear true or is it another illusion meant to make the pity outweigh the disgust sitting heavy in my mind? Can I truly fix myself when I let myself believe the lies I whisper to myself in the dark of the night? Why do I let myself decay if I’m disgusted by the mold creeping over my skin. Why do I push them away if I’m upset when I end up alone with my thoughts?

Do I have a future? Or did I ruin that, too?

#trauma vent #dysphoria #mental ill health #creative writing #poetry #is actually poetry???#wtf counts as poetry #im failing english idk what poetry is :(#angst #vent fic #love me some worms lmao #idk how tumblr fucking works but buckle the fuck up bc im on it now

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