when people ask how i'm feeling and i start to speak, it's never the full horror of my emotions. its always a diluted hymn that i force out to make you feel like you know. it maybe selfish, me keeping the truth to myself. it may be a defense mechanism too, the inner parts of me always proving they know me better than the rest of me does; shielding me from spilling what i never intended to tell in the first place. the world will never know. but it may get a hint when it becomes a spectator to me making eye contact with the headlights of a vehicle sliding too fast; catching me by surprise but not with disappointment. staring in suspense as i stand in place, waiting to see if the intruder will halt or answer my prayers. and when i slip a little deeper beneath cold bathwater. and when i no longer place an amen over dinner, because god isn't paying attention to me anyway. i make my suicidal endeavors most entertaining.
i find myself becoming enraged at the fact that my mental monstrosities aren't as beautiful as i depict them to be. i use beautiful rather loosely here, so spare me for the lack of the usage of a better adjective — maybe your unpleasant case of catastrophic simplicity instead? anyway. its always a rude awakening when i realize my mental breakdowns never consist of that twisted beauty i want; as a tear falls a plum crescendo increases, maybe a ballerina stands delicately atop fierce toes. but instead it's really just me forcing myself to be as silent as possible as my mind unravels itself repeatedly and the saltiest tears soak into the leather of my couch. wendy williams laughs heartily on my television at 4 am raving to an audience about the weeks' hot topics- or from the last few weeks, it's always a rerun. her voice pops in my head telling me not to rub my tears because they cause wrinkles. she says to just let them fall.
i cant stand the weight atop my cheeks after i finish, so i never listen. i just wait for the headache and keep my eyes shut.
