I feel like there is this excessively heavy weight on my chest, pulling me down, back stooping. I sigh to attempt to alleviate this, but to no avail. I want to curl up someplace dark and quiet, and just cool enough to keep me awake, at least for a little while. I want to be the small child, sneaking away and hiding in the corner of the closet to get away from the household disagreements, to hide with the monster instead of hiding from it.
What am I now. A creature who fears her own kind, an awkward doe who doesn’t know feet from sky. A milky thing with fearful eyes and quiet, infrequent breath. I am stunning and horrible. I am nothing.
I cannot believe the things she is saying. I never wanted her to recover. I wanted her to stay down in the dark with me, tasting dirt under her fingernails. I wanted the darkness to curl under our ribs and tickle our shrinking hearts. I wanted to spill moonbeams down her chest, lap them up with greed. I wanted to cry into her hair. Every spotty scar a kiss from our disease. Ours. Our disease. The only thing we truly shared. And now it is gone in favor of Confidence is Beauty.
It’s so much easier to let yourself go in a place with bars, with fences. Easier to lose yourself in a cage Where your only fear is losing Television privileges. Easy To let go of inhibitions when they can only Lock you away With Yourself.
Dead Bodies Everywhere is playing in the background, and it makes me remember, the frayed, drawn on denim, the hard cement steps under us, the knife, the blood, the kisses that smeared it, the shared cd player with a scratched up copy of “Follow the Leader” inside it, spinning like us, out of control.
The hard wood floor under my knees, knife at the corner of my mouth, skin tearing, blood again. I can brush the scars with my tongue, can’t see but feel them there, burning at his presence again. [x] is back, and I can’t control the memories. The broken glass embedded in our hands. The manic grins. The midnight calls, with cold breath and colder eyes. Things I can’t tell anyone about. The hundred dollar long distance bill.
She touches you in the places you’re ashamed of, prodding and pulling at the fat that still covers bone.
“Why can’t you just listen to me, sweetheart? I told you not to eat that. Now look where that got you.”
She sits down near you, pulls your hands into her cold, pale, bony ones, and stares into you. She knows what you’re afraid of, more than anyone ever could. She soothes your fears. But most of all, she understands better than anyone ever could. She sees it when you reach for sweets and taps your hand, shaking her head.
“No no no, remember what I said? Please, don’t do this to us. To me. Toyourself. You know he won’t love you anymore if you do that. Stay with me, be lovely and light as air.”
It is the most beautiful emotion I’ve ever experienced. It’s not the one I enjoy the most, but it’s certainly the prettiest. I don’t think many people actually feel melancholy, seeing as it’s so widely misinterpreted. Melancholy is NOT sadness.(Sames as depression is not sadness, it’s a long period of emotions related to sadness) Melancholy is related to sadness, but it shares equal similarities with emotions like peacefulness. And there’s something indescribable about melancholy. If an artist can convey melancholy effectively in their work I gain tremendous respect for that artist. Things dirty windows and cobwebs all seem connected to melancholy and I have no idea why. Melancholy is an echo.