sadowlswriting

[sadowlswriting]

You ever realise how one day we'll die and everything around us will be somebody else's?

We'll end up being nothing.

There'll be just black.

Just darkness.

and the place we called home will become somebody's place to call home

and maybe they'll have kids.

Maybe there'll be marks left of pen lines on the wall from tracking their child's height, or maybe something will break and it'll never be fixed, then maybe they'll move and this'll become someone's childhood home as it becomes yet another's home.

Maybe one day no one will touch this place, and it'll become abandoned, left with stories to tell, but no one to listen. Maybe they'll be a box of old belongings left behind that someone might find.

Or maybe someone else will move in and own a bunch of cats. Maybe there'll be chipped paint and scratch marks. Maybe even little paw imprints on the wall or floor. Maybe a few stray strands of fur.

Maybe people will take photos as memories, and someone else will be like, "Oh, i know that place. That was my childhood home." and maybe they'll get to know each other better, bonding through stories they made in this place, and maybe they'll realise they love each other.

History remains even when we don't, even if it's just through pictures or a person whose memory still exists of you and they speak about you to others.

I guess you never really die til your name is no longer spoken and there's nothing left. I guess immortality is really just leaving a big enough imprint that makes it hard to forget and i'm not talking about an imprint like changing the world, but doing things that remind people in the stupidest of ways.

I'm reminded of an old friend because they nicknamed me 'mouse', and i remember them every time i hear it.

A man in the store once played a guitar behind his back when i was waiting for my mother to finish her shift; both me, her, and her co-worker remember him because it was so unexpected and funny, yet impressive.

I have a bean bag thing my favourite teacher gave me ten years ago, i remember him every time i see it.

I remember a man learning how to play the flute on the street, and no, he wasn't good at all, but i remember him, and i wonder if he kept up with it.

My mother worked in a carehome years ago, she still speaks of residents she looked after even though they're no longer here.

A heavily tattooed man once told me that his tattoos were not to appear "tough," but they were all dedicated to people he'd lost, like his grandmother, mother, friends, an unspoken lover. He said its to keep them permanent, to keep them alive, that they live through him. He tells their stories still and said they die when he does, but that is not true, because now i know them too.

We still exist.

They still exist.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

Drew this while my friends were being too loud in the VC

[sadowlswriting]

I like to call myself an owl, or at least a night owl, but even owls start to settle down when the sun rises. Maybe we're not so alike after all.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

I have gnawed at my fingernails past the skin.

I can see the line where they should be and yet

they are not.

I change my ways and then slip again like running on tiles with socked feet.

I am always reaching for something that seems so close,

yet feels too far.

The stretch and pull is too much for these weak muscles and shaky bones blanketed by thin flesh.

People speak words of advice and suggestions and it replays in my head like a checklist;

one that I tick, repeating the words

"Failed",

"Gave up.",

"impossible".

I was born with my veins spelling out the word 'disappointment' in cursive and my heart is the thing that keeps the red blood cells of my suppressed rage pumping through this body.

This act that I do and this nonsense that I spew is an outlet for all the things deemed unacceptable and unsavory;

It is an attempt at ridding myself of the sins that keep my soul grasped in its hands.

An attempt at keeping myself sane, keeping something to remember what I can of myself

because the hands of time keep moving forward

and each tick only sends me further back into a pit of darkness with starved beasts, who lick their cracked lips at the just the scent of me,

at just the knowledge that I may fall

and they may feast.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

Walking the block, the way I do when I’ve got nothing better to do, just a shuffle through the Florida streets, the kind of streets where you know what everyone’s paycheck looks like without asking. Modest houses, tired lawns. The air was thick with heat, the kind that clings to you like regret. Then, out of nowhere, a smell hit me—just for a moment.

It was gravy. Not just gravy. Her gravy. My mother’s.

It stopped me cold. I could see her in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, stirring like her life depended on it. She never measured a thing. Pinches and handfuls, a splash here, a stir there, and out came magic. Smooth, creamy, like it had no right to be that good. It went on everything—potatoes, meat, whatever we had. And the potatoes, oh man, the potatoes. She turned those into art. Mashed, roasted, fried, didn’t matter. Always perfect. Always hers.

I stood there on the sidewalk, the smell fading, and felt something gnawing at me. I never told her how much I loved it, her cooking. The way she made those plain meals taste like something special, something worth sitting down for. I watched her sometimes, just a kid, leaning on the counter, and she never looked like she was trying hard. Like it was nothing, just another day.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was love, I think. In the way she stirred, in the way she smiled when we asked for seconds. It was love, and I didn’t know it then.

I walked on, that smell gone now, replaced by the usual—a mix of hot pavement and someone’s dryer vent. I kept walking, but I was already somewhere else, back in a little kitchen that probably doesn’t exist anymore, with her standing there, stirring. Always stirring.

[sadowlswriting]

In this house, we keep the curtains closed,

then wonder why the sunlight hurts our eyes.

In this house, the door is knocked

and no ones home.

We forget to water plants,

then cry when they wither.

Mix the white clothes in with everything,

then wonder why they turned grey or pink.

I have spent hours in silence

using fingernails to pick at my skin

till the flesh is red and raw.

What time is it?

In this house, we only speak of happy things,

then wonder why words are often a thing not spoken?

In this house, silence is broken with mumbled words from the TV,

and fingers on screens, cars outside, or kids playing next door.

We fail and laugh. We fall and smile. We jump and miss.

In this house, we cry behind closed doors and under covers,

then wonder why it's rained inside.

The bedroom walls have witnessed more emotion from me

than a human ever could.

The walls have hugged me when my body shook

from tears that didn't stop

till my brain tried escaping from my skull

and my teeth felt like they were threatening to end their relationship with my gums.

In this house, honesty is built on lies.

Trust is a mirror, but it's two way glass.

It's Lego that I am yet to clean up from the 7 year old version of me.

They're still hoping I remember them.

I don't.

In this house, we are here,

but not really.

Lights on,

curtains closed,

doors locked.

Knock knock?

....

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

My teeth are not completely white.

There's marks and stains,

Plaque, and a tint of pale yellow.

I eat and chew the skin of my cheeks.

My dad always said, "You'll chew through them and leave holes in your skin."

There's hair untrimmed,

Hair matted and tangled.

I comb through it and work at the knots alone,

By myself,

As salty tears soak my chewed cheeks and sting my strained eyes.

I tell myself, "We're okay. Everything is fine. Just stay calm, it'll all be over soon. Stay patient."

When I reach a part that's too knotted, or it hurts

And my arms burn for being lifted for so long.

My body has become weak,

Joints are stiff,

Bones crack and pop,

From making my bed into my home.

I can not tell you the last time I saw outside the front door.

Or the last time I put clothes on that weren't considered pajamas.

Or the last time my scalp wasn't itchy, hair wasn't greasy, fingernails weren't dirty.

Or the last time my voice was louder than a whisper, or a mutter, a mumble.

Stuck in my head, stuck in the clouds,

Stuck under blankets that replace the warmth I lack inside.

I wish this was seasonal,

Wish this was a onetime state,

But this state is a loyal pet, like an outdoor cat who comes for food and love, then retreats to the outdoors again.

Except it clings to my back and it's not a cat.

It's not fluffy and cute and I don't wanna pet it,

And when it leaves I'm relieved, but anxious for it's return.

People say, "You're so brave. You're so strong. You've got this. I believe in you." And whatever else they say.

But I don't wanna be brave,

Or strong.

I wanna be comforted.

I wanna rest.

I want a break.

I wanna be looked after,

Hugged,

Cuddled,

Wrapped up in blankets, like a burrito, and become a warm, wiggly, little worm.

But hey,

We're okay.

Everything is fine.

Just stay calm, it'll all be over soon.

Stay patient.

Stay patient.

We're okay.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

There is still

piles of empty wrappers,

And bottles,

And packets,

In my room;

On the table,

On the floor.

There is still

piles of laundry,

Unwashed,

Unfolded,

Creased,

and wrinkled.

I have been here for a while now.

And I wish to leave in any which way.

Could you love me like this?

Would you love me?

Please, love me.

Love me, because I will not,

Because, I fail to do so, myself.

Please, love me if you can.

Please.....

...

Please...

...

Don't waste your time.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

I always thought my hands could speak better than my mouth could;

Always thought they had learnt how to understand everything better when my tongue failed to do so.

Maybe I was wrong.

Because.....my hands and fingers have been more silent these days than my mouth.

I used to be uncomfortable speaking when I was a kid,

Only speaking few words at a time and in a barely audible voice.

I had people who were the ones I only chose to be a little more talkative around,

And even now,

It's still a little similar.

I was called shy,

But no....

That's just the anxiety cover up, isn't it?

When parents don't want to face the truth,

because "kids don't know anything about anxiety" and "they're too young for that".

I was called a loner, a weirdo, a person no one wanted to willingly speak to unless made to.

And yeah,

I was the loner, the weird kid, the kid who sat in the corner of the classroom, the one who never had a partner for classwork or discussions.

And,

It's still the same.

No longer in school, but just as

Lonely and depressed and weird, never picked as number one, but rather picked when remembered, if at all.

I accepted who I was and the fact that

I was the kid who could disappear, and it wouldn't be noticed.

I mean, someone had to be, right?

I accepted who I was,

But that's the key word there: was.

I've grown and changed and each time I change I fucking fail.

And I can't stand looking at the kid version of me,

The kid in pictures and videos, because I look at them and I want to cry.

It was my job to fix them, to help them, to protect them, and instead....

I took everything they held tightly and I destroyed it.

I destroyed everything.

Now, they cling to me for there's nothing left for them to hold on to.

When I say that I am a sinner, that I am a bad person,

I mean it in the ways of that to myself.

I am bad to myself.

I have sinned to myself.

I have failed all the past versions and current version of myself and I will fail the future ones too.

I have lost motivation for everything, and it's all been flipped over.

It's ƨbɿɒwʞɔɒd.

I sleep all day, breakfast at is at midnight, snacks throughout at then main meal at 8 am.

I stay awake till my head pounds and I can't bare the pain to stay awake for longer.

I don't drink till it hurts to swallow and, yet again, my head protests, like the same way it does for food.

I know I am sabotaging, I am destructing, I am self harming, I am neglecting.

I know.

I just can't break the cycle.

I always thought my hands could speak better than my mouth could;

Always thought they had learnt how to understand everything better when my tongue failed to do so.

Maybe I was wrong.

(Do not love me; I am frustrating; If I could abandon this body, I would.)

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

All my days are blurring and fading.

Never mind last week,

What did I do yesterday?

What did I speak?

Do I remember myself?

Or have I faded too?

I have disappeared from the all people I love.

There's piles of empty wrappers,

And bottles,

And packets,

In my room;

On the table,

On the floor.

There's piles of laundry,

Unwashed,

Unfolded,

Creased,

and wrinkled.

My acknowledgement of keeping up appearances has gone away with the leaves in the wind.

I sweat out my worries, regrets and mistakes under the blankets at night.

A bed is supposed to be a comfort,

A place to sleep,

To rest,

To regain energy.

But......

What if it's the thing I struggle to get out of....

Because the rest is not enough,

Because the exhaustion is not physical,

The fatigue is not visible?

How do I rid the ache in my bones, my joints and muscles....

When it is not from the bones, joints and muscles themselves,

But from something deeper within?

I am told, that I am supposed to know these things,

That I am old enough to figure things out,

But I'm tired.

I'm bored.

I'm stuck.

I've stepped in glue and I thought I had more time before it dried, but now I deal with the consequences of my ignorance and.....

And...

I just want a hug.

Let the world disappear for a moment.

Feel the warmth, that's not from artifical fire,

or blankets,

or a hot cup of tea.

I want safety

And comfort,

I want to be seen

And heard.

And I want something else.....

That I haven't yet quite figured out.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

[sadowlswriting]

My body can not carry the weight of my bones, no more.

It can not carry the weight of my flesh or the organs that sit inside me.

It can not carry the weight of my sins, of my regret, my guilt, and my unnecessary worries.

My teeth have become a pale yellow and my body has paled,

blue veins under transparent skin.

I am see-through now.

Can you see through me and is my lack of self care visible?

Can you see my heart, struggling to beat the blood around my weakened body?

And yes,....I know this is wrong.

I know this is bad. I know I should change.

Try and fix things.

Fix this.

But I need a break. And I'm too tired to get up and find or make a solution. So,

let me rest for a while.

Let me gain my energy. Let me get close to the end and become frustrated and angry.

Let me use my hatred for myself to fix what I've become. But for now,......

please.....

just let me rest.

(I have two feet, and in time, I will stand back up on them again.

I always do.

I must.

We must.

Come.

Get back up with me.)

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

Why do you stay?

Because I don't know what happens if I don't.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

The days are flying by,

And yes,

I do know why.

The times that I awake,

Are getting later and later.

My body falls into slumber,

When the sun has fully risen.

I awake long after the sun has set,

And I am greeted by the moon.

I say, 'goodnight' to the sun,

I say, 'good mornin'' to the moon.

I had a calender,

Lined with dates,

And holidays.

Yet, the pages stayed blank,

For I had nothing to add.

The blank boxes remained empty,

Not even a cross was added,

After the day had gone.

Now the calenders out of date,

Not even half filled,

It's purpose uncompleted.

I had a watch,

And its home is not sat upon my wrist.

Instead,

It is in a box,

And the hands tick away for every second,

That it remains there.

It'll gain dust,

It'll stop ticking one day,

And I won't notice.

Maybe I should wear it.

Then I'll see how much time I'm wasting,

How much time I have left.

One day,

The watch may stop ticking,

And when I come to replace the batteries,

The hands still won't move.

And once again,

Just like the calendar,

It's purpose uncompleted.

But I guess,

That's something me and these objects have in common.

I buy them,

Use them,

Till they're half empty,

And they dry up of all they have left.

These objects are never completely fulfilled,

Because I am unfulfilled.

They are incomplete,

Because I am incomplete.

The days are flying by,

And yes,

.....

I do know why.

-Owl

[sadowlswriting]

My fingers have become familiar with words, more than my tongue has.

I can type and write faster than I can speak.

My tongue can't form the words properly and they tumble, stumble and fall from my lips. They drop out of my mouth, like the spit that accompanies them.

I have more emotion in the way my fingers speak than the way my tongue does, than the way my face does.

It's easier to speak with ink or the buttons on a keyboard than it is to speak with lips, tongue and teeth.

It's easier to think, too.

And I think if it were ever possible or acceptable,

I'd lock my lips shut,

like we're kids telling each other secrets.

Pull the zipper across my lips and glue it shut,

lock it shut and throw away the key.

I'd let my fingers and hands make friends with pens,

pencils,

and keyboards,

and they'd learn to speak for me.

But would you take the time to listen to me?

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

I used to believe I could protect her,

That I could save her,

Keep her safe,

And warm.

Till something happened,

And I realised,

I can't protect her from herself.

I can't protect her from the things that haunt her at night,

From the memories that reply in her head,

The thoughts that run round her mind,

The shadow of regrets that cling to her back.

And that realisation,

hurt me,

It made my heart sting in a way I've never felt before,

Felt like my blood went cold,

And my mouth went dry.

I used to believe I could protect her.

We hardly speak anymore.

I don't think, I know her like I used to.

I can't save her.

I failed.

-Owl.

[sadowlswriting]

I say, I'm mature.

I say, I'm grown up now.

I say, I know what I'm doing.

I say, I'm not a kid anymore.

Yet I still make childish mistakes, childish promises that are sealed with a touch of the thumb. I've never known the words to patty cake. I'm a kid, dressed in the clothes of an adult, playing pretend, while they sip from their tiny tea cups with imaginary tea in.

I am a failed being, a failed project, a failed experiment.

Born incomplete.

Will die, incomplete.

-Owl.