Me, in tears, halfway through writing a 300 word essay: I can’t do this anymore
Person on A03 who’s writing for fun:
Inconvenient Truth: these are the same person
Yeah, well, I can’t stretch out that review of 16th century economics by adding a gratuitous hand job.
However many years have passed,
I still reel at the sights
Of a school yard.
I have never enjoyed the yelling,
An endless barrage of colours and smells.
But I was supposed to be a woman, you see
No peeps, no discomfort decrees.
Those were not the best years of my life -
I doubt they could even be found.
I carve my soul in a sandy dune,
And leave my footprints in shallow waters.
How I wish they could have seen my soul for what it was.
Instead I had suffered,
And then it just became worse.
In the unity of our bodies,
I have found a loving God.
In the sweat dripping down your thighs,
In your blasphemous mouth.
No strings attached, in the blessings of your tongue.
No baptizing vestments,
No holy water.
But your keening breath against mine.
Do all things with eyes
Do birds mourn the passing of summer?
Do the howls of wolves hold steady,
against torrents of grief?
The eyes of the aspens follow me,
On my journey home.
Will they bleed sap,
Or will their gaze wash over me,
Like everyone else did?
When I used to be younger, dumber
I would abscond
Wearing undergarments to church -
My small, insignificant, rebellion.
I have made peace with myself years ago,
And stopped cursing the sky for humanities misdeeds.
There is nothing wrong with the pews in churches,
But the people at the pulpit,
And the ones eager,
To receive communion.
Men wax poetics about the weeks preceding love -
Expectation and uncertainty are well and good,
In books of fiction.
There’s nothing more satisfying than
The aspens have eyes,
And they watch me.
Are they the gaze of an uncaring god,
Or oblivious voyeurs?
I’m surprised they have never called The Snake
A temptress, rising from beyond the oceans of sulphur,
Protecting guileless women from ignorance.
Maybe Lilith had taken her revenge when Eve bit into the apple,
Maybe a snake was just a snake.
I’m surprised biblical scholars,
Had not seen,
To blame women again.
It’s always felt strange,
Updating your suicide note,
Year after year after year.
The reasons stay the same,
The guilty parties never change,
But it’s polite to re-contextualize the pain.
My first one was at 12, written in glittery pink,
My last one will be written in neat cursive, maybe today, maybe tomorrow.
What is a school
But a tool
For those that need workers and slaves?
They receive misshaped lumps,
And press them,
Into a more appealing shape.
It is not a cloister of knowledge,
But teachers, and bullies
And opaque windows to truth.
“Why do you want to die?” is a fairly strange question to ask, in my opinion.
Do we ask the trees, whether they want their leaves to fall?
Their bark to harden?
Their fruit to rot?
It’s the inevitability,
The passage of time.
I’ve long accepted that I will die,
It is strange that you didn’t do it too.
There’s something to be said about the plight of ignorance,
In condemnation and defense.
I asked a woman on the street about the poor, the sick, the forgotten;
I wanted to condemn her, that day,
but now I forgive her.
Ivory towers are cold and cruel things,
Maybe she learnt that caring was not an option,
If you wanted to stay within them.
There are many creatures trapped in ivory towers,
Willful or accidental.
Burning them won’t do any good,
Neither will building ladders.
Sometimes all you can do,
Is wait for Rapunzel,
To save herself.
Pain is, mostly, a quiet thing.
No bruises can talk,
And hearts learn to beat steady.
Neglect is a quiet thing too,
It slides like a snake between
Nobody asked me
Whether I loved my mother,
That maybe, in another world,
I’d ask for another.
Being forgotten is strange -
A furniture-less hotel room,
Booked years in advance.
I’ve chased the high of Snow White,
With the crushing guilt of being.
You’d be surprised, how nothing can take the edge off -
Drugs become boring,
Sex is mundane,
And someone once told me that gluttony was a deadly sin.
Like a masochist,
I’ve learnt to take pleasure in pain.
The flashing screen, taunt concerned faces
Are my personal troop of clowns.
Maybe I’ve been a devil in a life past,
Maybe the world has broken me a long time ago,
there goes another bomb.
Why are babies born screaming, you ask.
If you’ve woken up from the sacred sleep,
Into an unending nightmare?
There are many things I have seen, reflected in my mother’s eyes -
I parsed that light,
Placed them through a prism,
And the largest wavelength,
I’ve seen you
Through the darkness of sleep,
Under layers of water,
Between the blink of an eye.
Have I become an unwilling subject of the most divine,
Or have you finally,
There’s beauty in chaos
A wild symphony,
A conductor leading an empty orchestra.
The instruments play discordant notes,
An artistry gone unappreciated.
Some may see a bomb and pray for God’s forgiveness,
I see the skin of the drum taught under pressure.
The violent strings of the violent, shrieking in displeasure,
Have been heard across many gilded halls, unmeasured.
I wish to silence the instruments,
I have been told
That setting fire to the concert hall is not something that can be done.
Can existence come without guilt?
I hope I apologized to my mother for tearing through her body on my way out.
I hope the sustenance I consume had not given an elderly woman a ticket to hell.
I hope my lungs won’t blacked from my own greed.
I hope the cleaning fees
In the wake of my death,
Won’t be too steep.
When do children bury their dreams?
When do they come out of the fog?
The lies spun in the childhood bed,
Start tasting like acrid smoke.
I had dreams of being a pirate,
I wake up everyday to darkness,
I go back to sleep at dawn.
They used to bless ships
Before a maiden voyage.
But why would they extend the same honour
There’s a child somewhere,
Covered in dust and grime,
Building a plastic homunculus,
As some perversion of freedom.
I seek anger,
Heroin straight to the heart.
It’s heady, addicting, divine,
Burns and builds alike.
I have channeled it into passion,
And fuel my efforts to light.
The staccato drop of bullets,
Like raindrops on the grass.
The sight of a young man,
Who breathed his last.
There was nobody right in this conflict,
And the dead did not speak their truth.
Walking past throngs of false prophets,
Demanding vengeance for the soul-less,
From bone-weary angels.
I asked my question,
But failed to get an answer.
Why do you desire motherhood?
Do you dream of a love unsullied and pure?
They wail that when nappies are dirty.
They have violent tantrums upon being fed.
They abscond your beliefs when their older.
Maybe they won’t even see you when you are dead.
I’ve never loved my mother,
I have never seen her as divine.
She’s done nothing wrong but,
Bank for affection from someone that wouldn’t provide.
gifted kid burnout things that no one seems to talk about:
- the raw panic of hearing about your potential, positive or negative
- a weird brand of imposter syndrome where you genuinely think you’ve fluked your way through every success and you’re gonna be Exposed as a Fraud
- never having learned how to study and having no idea where to start now that you need to
- reading college level books as a kid but being basically illiterate now
- dismissing your struggles as irrelevant because other people have it harder and i should be smart enough to handle this
- feeling like you’ve lost all control over your life (maybe manifesting into depression, anxiety and disordered eating in a grasp for control over something)
- being unable to decide on a career path because you could have had everything, only to watch those opportunities disappear as you fail to commit
- Peaking early and feeling like an eternal failure ever since
- Remembering what it felt like to be motivated and at the top of your game and you could do ten things at once and cared so much, but now it’s a struggle to keep up with anything
- ~functional depression~ so you feel like you are faking it
- Holding a mediocre job and feeling unfulfilled but feeling like you aren’t good enough to do anything else
- Being book smart but struggles with social skills and communication with others.
- Feeling like you are the worst person on earth for making a mistake or not knowing something
I was staring down the barrel,
The first time I opened my eyes.
I see the glint of metal, from time to time -
On the streets, on the road,
In the attic of my house.
My mother’s medicine cabinet had stored forbidden treats,
Mine just stores empty promises of relief.