(message from a survivor).
Like Shula, I think about cutting the ribbon sometimes. I imagine the oppression of life and then I remember that it’s real, that it’s really happening to me. Maybe the world wouldn’t be better off without me, but maybe I would be better off without the world. I thought it would get better but that is the deceit of hoping. I believe I deserve better and everybody tells me I do, but it never happens. There has never been a day when I haven’t been trying and yet I have attained nothing.
I don’t blame individuals anymore. They are characters in one great story of brokenness and pain. Now that I’m 27, I wonder if it is worth continuing. I couldn’t write anything better than the tale that has already been told about me. I’d like to rest please. What I am is no surprise – I was always destined for disappointment. It’s in my nature to want a certain thing that I would never be able to achieve. It was in my childhood and my abuse and the deaths. It was already laid out: and now I’m just lost in the unfolding. I’d rather be a shell, brain dead, deceased, anywhere frankly, but here, trapped in this body, in this world, with this mind and heart and all the passion. It is impossible. I am entirely impossible here. And I have no hope anymore, not a drop.
Take my money. Take my brain. Take my spirit. Take my connections. Take anything of any value to me, for it is worthless to me where I long to be.
As happy as a puppy taking a piss.
That kind of sex gets into your head and into your body, makes it difficult to think or move.
Lord, give him to me.
The one hiding behind your cross.
You know it’s only a matter of time before his nature betrays him.
I’ll look after him.
Won’t try to control him or keep him.
I’ll let him be everything you made him scared to be.
Nothing’s going to happen to him.
We rise to electric music. Heart disturbed, before the eyes. We know something is waiting. The day, as bright and empty as when Adam began. We seek out the sun, always rising on the wrong side of the house. Shrouded in down, we wonder if it would be easier to remain in our damp grave. Heart settles. Mouth smiles. Lazarus rises.
We’re so far apart. Me, right there and you, right here. Like a dead mother, you never existed. And…everything doesn’t have to be so heavy, because as soon as you return we’ll smile. At our wicked ways, we’ll cry tears of laughter. That is if you return otherwise the illusion will live on. That is if I return otherwise the illusion will die. Nothing so far has changed you, not fire, not water, not pain. Twin statues we stand apart staring into the unknown of each other’s eyes. We are not dead. We are not alive. We are muntu.
The word muntu makes “no special difference between living people, dead people, children not yet born, and gods” (The Poisonwood Bible).
Said the pen: I can’t reach the page
If you don’t come back soon I’m going to kill our dream. Before you’ve even fully envisioned it I’m going to cut it out black from that colouring book we loved. Why won’t you comply? Why won’t you be complicit in my illusion? Completely. I allude to you, only you, all the time. It’s harrowing. We’re the opposite of a rainbow. I don’t even know who you are whilst knowing everything in your little little mind. That’s what I…i…i…
Saying goodbye to everything for the last time.
Goodbye light as I switch you off.
Goodbye life I used to know.
It’s time to hear the news.
I’ve got my wine and you’ve got your weed
Back in the day we were never worried about the answers because we were never asked the questions. Now our lips quiver along with their dicks. Nothing is convincing anymore, not even the womb. Complete, we are in need of nothing and so complete, we desire it all.
Profoundly confused, profoundly uncertain, profoundly brave, profoundly human.
I hope my life gets better. I hope I remain alive. I hope I stop crying. I hope I accept who I am. I hope I stop hoping.