Relentless Pursuit of the Times

Broken Toy

“You are so destructive!” my mother would often remind me as a child, it became a part of my identity after only hearing it a few times. Her exasperated tone expressed further distress at the way that I was, the way that I still am.

It defines me as a person. Sometimes I wonder if my subconscious is careless and casually violent on purpose. I identify as broken, and I want everything around me to reflect that somehow. To feel less broken I find others like myself, who also seem convinced that they are damaged. If I cannot find enough damage around me, I make some.

So, when accidents happen, regret and guilt swim my blood like they have always lived there. Cannot help but ask myself, was it *really* an accident? Why would I be so careless? What’s wrong with me?

What’s wrong with you? A question my mother asked me often during my developing years. She would be downright suspicious of me, even though I never gave her a reason to be. Perhaps the villain I see in myself are just echoes from the past.

It is still hard to ignore.

Winter Coats

The world swims, as if I see it through a large body of water. Buildings in the distance waiver against the story horizon. Gravity pulls me down the steep road, so I stretch my arms out to each side and let it take me. BBbbrbrrrrrrrrrrr nnnnnnnnneeeerrrrrrrrr, I make airplane noises as I zigzag my way to the bottom. Hands are ice and I have left my company behind.

I have left everything behind as I embrace my drunken inner child.

Thorns and Roses

Minds that can breathe fire are a hazard and a virtue. Fire burns me down and raises me up. Though I writhe at its touch, I cannot deny that what drives me away, has the power to retrieve me with the same force. Crushed by the weight of my own turbulence, the trigger snaps the door shut.


Instead of breaking, falling apart, something in me springs to life. To rebel against the crushing waves that push me into the deep. To drive away all threats. A show of power in a desperate moment.


How many times have I watched the sun slowly begin it’s crawl across the sky? How many times has the darkest night turned into a hopeful day?

Turn Signals

It smacks me like a dead, slimy, wet fish to the face. The understanding causes only more anxiety to rise in my belly. Every attempt to steady shaky breaths seems weaker than the last, but I still try. Finally, I reach a place where I can recognize that I do not want to be angry. The answers are always within, even if the problems lie outside of ourselves; I have a firm belief in this. Powerful minds we have been given, for just such a task.

Pushing aside that I feel invaded upon by the rumbling bass from the neighbor’s entertainment system. Completely detaching myself from any past experiences with neighbors or sounds, outside of the context of this place; couch, room, apartment, building. Here I find the core of my trouble.

I can’t help but remember, I cannot manipulate these emotions, instead they shove me to the ground. Waking up in the hospital was terrifying, it was like a nightmare except it started when I woke up. How weak my legs were, I couldn’t even walk. How sick my stomach was. How my heart kind of sputtered like a dying engine.

I am safe. There is nothing to be scared of. Feel the soft bed under your body, take in a breath and smell the familiar smells of your room. Breathe steady. Center yourself. Let the memories and pain wash over you. Let it all wash itself away into the depths of the ocean. Soon the panic subsides, and I can realign myself with reality.

I feel like I’ve just stepped inside after being out in a cold rain. The warmth kind of stings at first, but soon my body adjusts to normalcy again. Every time I am faced with this memory and it breaks me, afterward, I feel a little lighter.

It’s the Devil I love.

Turn my eyes to the floor so I don’t have to see the news on the way out of the gym at 4am. The state of the world has me already barely holding on, to overdose on it would be unwise, I know. Loathing fills me as I see from the corner of my eye screens filled with people who hate me, people who would rather I die, people filled with hate, people who make the big decisions, people who terrify me. Government officials.

It seems like so many I care about ride the same ride with me, we hold hands and look over the edge of a cliff together. Doing our best to pull each other from the grips of gravity, to not let anyone fall in the ravine beyond the living.

I’ve heard it called selfish. For me, my suicidal thoughts are just the opposite, they tell me that living is the selfish choice. That I stay alive because it is easier. Thoughts that come to me every single day of my waking life.

w a k i n g

Tear open my eyes, free myself from the nightmare. My limbs feel heavy, tired from running along the scare scape. Being held down, locked up, tackled, and drugged. The hazy, unformed oppression that hounded my dreams hangs with me as I struggle to find clothing in the dark, feeling along the floor with half numb fingers. Shaky breaths remind me that I’m free now. As free as one gets in this world.

I remember to look up and catch my gaze in the sun streaked mirror. Green, curious eyes stare at me, it takes a breath before I realize it’s me, and not a stranger. At least I’m awake now.

Saline drip

Stumble over my own sock feet as the kettle screams with a rising pitch. “Yes, yes, I’m here,” flip the whistle up and turn the fire down. Everything is a blur through thick curtains of tears, a nearly continuous, salty stream. Pour the water, watch it change colors as it passes through tea bags, watch the stream rise in hefty clouds that quickly dwindle to nothing.

Heart quickens thrusting fire into my blood and tears down my face. Shuffle back to the couch to stare blankly at the brightly lit screen. Worthless, waste of space, incredibly naive. You have no value, fucking burden you are. Look at yourself, bastard lump of shit. My body shudders at the stream of consciousness I cannot escape. Fundamentally damaged is an understatement. When was the last time you even tried to contribute? Oh yeah? Your body is rocked with pain? What about all the times it isn’t? Ha! Worthless garbage.

The way clouds cover the sun and dull it to a golden coin barely glinting, I am cut off from any memory of joy. Struggle to remind myself that the fire is not real, that my heart is not slowly catching. Calm lasts less than half a breath before I choke and fall again under the spell of darkness.

Look at how they scrambled to save you, just to watch you further drown. Pluck you from the waves, but only enough to evoke fear and guilt. Then let you sink once more. 

The wall I built to protect me, is exactly what holds me under.

31 Flavors

“I like fucking powerful men,” my friend once told me, I found the statement inefficient at best. The warm water around me is fogged with soap as it sloshes gently against my body. The word, power, rocks back and forth, paces the boundaries of my mind. Splashing water on my face, even with eyes closed the word stares me down. What’s the context? Individual situations are sensitive to various stimuli depending on context and variables within. I watch steam crawl from the bath one tendril at a time as I formulate a way to describe power to myself. At times manipulating and influencing another being is a form of power. Although most often power is synonymous with money, it can purchase loyalty, an opinion, safety, and even love.

Not so lost in thought that I overlook her entrance into the dimly lit bathroom. “I kind of want to get in with you,” her voice sounds quiet against the heart of the city pulsing outside the window.

“Hop in,” I drain some water as she undresses and eases a foot in. I start gently dragging my already soapy washcloth over her shoulder and down her arm. Goosebumps speckle her skin as I lather the washcloth once more.

She averts her eyes but allows me to take her hand. I can’t stop the corners of my mouth from upturning into a smirk as I gently wash her hand. Slowly working my way up her arm.

Power. A new set of goosebumps rise on her neck as I carefully smear soap across the delicate skin. This is power given. I take her other hand, she still gazes awkwardly away from me.

Each of us decide what power is to us. It changes depending upon which has grasped our gaze. We give each other power, we take power from each other. To empower someone is not the same as surrendering your own power.

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