Am I Sure I Want To Shut Down

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Parts of me are shutting down.

I’m not yet strong enough to wear my empty spaces like I do my lipstick.

Last week, I took a blade to my wrist for the first time in two years. I was crying. Not because I couldn’t stop, but because I no longer have anything sharp enough. I threw three pairs of scissors across the room; I retrieved one and sawed until I saw the blood beading on my wrist

I no longer feel disgusted that sometimes, the only thing that makes me feel better is the burning of open wounds. I don’t feel sick or ill, there is nothing slimy and shameful growing under my skin or at the base of my neck. I am as I am, with every dark, dank part of me that no one wants out in the open.

Maybe, at thirteen and sixteen, M could let go of grief through tears. At twenty, it’s not about grief or guilt. It’s about not wanting to inhabit the sack of skin into which this mind has been poured. It’s about this heart being wrapped too tightly in meat to breathe. It’s about blood and bone and sinew that form a prison for dark things that have no place in the sun’s light because no one wants to try and see or smile at them. It’s about these dark things wanting to know how the air tastes, and they will wreck everything to get out.

It’s about not wanting to be this woman, this person typing everything that you’re reading and wondering if you will smile. I slide lipstick over the empty spaces; I feel them growing as more pieces crumble within the structure. Sometimes I dream about everything under my skin simply winking out of existence. Those are the loveliest nights.

I paint a pretty smile on, the sun lights up my eyes, I kiss with a heart that screams my love, and I type and type, when I should have stopped at

h  e  l  p

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Think-Stream

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I had a teacher once, who said that even if I couldn’t think of anything to write about, I should just put my pen to paper and write. He said it didn’t matter even if I wrote the same sentence ten times; perhaps the eleventh sentence would be different.

He taught me just for a year, during my eleventh grade. I missed him a lot the next year. I wish he’d stayed. He was 22 years old; he was the only adult with whom I felt comfortable sharing my poems. We would sit in school after he’d read them, and he’d point things out to me, cool things I’d never noticed I’d done with words; he’d nudge words into better order, so the poem wasn’t lopsided. By the time we were done, it looked like it was proud of itself.
Many people had told me that I could write well; he was the first person to show me how to write better.

I have a friend whose descriptive writing I prefer to Amitav Ghosh. Her story about cancer ripped into me, but I kept reading it because of the sheer skill it took to put those layers of words and story together.

I think about my third grade class teacher who hurt me so much, and I want to meet her again and tell her about it. I don’t know if I can forgive her; maybe it won’t be necessary, maybe she won’t even want to be forgiven.

I have a friend who is incredibly attractive to me because he’s intelligent and confident and mature and a lot of fun. I don’t know if I’m attracted to him. I’m usually not, though; it’s just sometimes.

Honestly, though, the person I love the most in the world is myself, at the moment. I think that after so many years, it’s time I started believing that I’m worthy of being my most important person.

She Is

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Eyes like glass, eyes like the wind.

The words chase each other, never quite catching up, tearing through the walls and flimsy compartments in her brain. They’re everywhere; she sees them blow in on a sigh of hot wind through barred windows; they float, glittering mica flecks and more poisonous, in her water bottles. They bubble up at the back of her throat, blocking her breath so that her vision flickers white and grey and specks of black, blocking her breath so that she can hardly breathe for shortness of breath and pain and words and she loves them when they come at the right time but this is too much and she can’t keep up and why can’t they just leave her alone?

It’s like she sees everything as a construction of the words that her own mind seems to be made up of. She’s more than the words she writes, I’m more than my words, I’m more than a set of letters strung together to make sense, I’m more than the things I say.

She loves writing. Fingers flying across the keyboard, black Sheaffer ink traced and pressed across white sheet, ink-smeared fingers and black under the nails, she loves writing, yes, she does. But she dances and she plays, she laughs and she sings horribly off-key, she talks and she runs and fights and cries, cries, cries; she lives and loves, and she is not just words across paper and cross-outs and people who don’t exist.

So when words try to define her, when they overwhelm her, when they tell her we are all that you are, she turns her head away, ignores them, makes them go away at least for a while, instead of taking them in and fashioning something beautiful out of them, as she should.

Is it cowardice, she wonders?