the art of being alone

 

Tablo reader up chevron

Introduction

dedicated to the people who left

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

trauma; now available on vhs and dvd

You once told me that the more times you see something,

the more you grow used to it,

we did this as kids and watched horror movies over and over and over on repeat until the blood splatters and B+ acting became the lines on the back of our hands,

so when I laid down in my bed I tried it out again-

I imagined his lips crashing into mine and the snags of his teeth catching on to the holes in my mouth, tearing me down to the core,

his fingertips burning his identity into my pores until I sweat out his name,

I imagined his eyes and how they burned like grecian fire,

and nothing happened.

My bones were still broken and I still ached when I moved,

when he smacked me it didnt hurt any less.

childlike techniques were lost on me,

and I was left with second rate movie hands and a script with no ending.

Now, im a collection of cuts and holes and when I move

I cant remember the actors of the movies we watched

or the ending credits that we rehearsed

I only remember how we laid against each other,

how when I was scared your breath would tickle my ear and wrapped around me and you would say, “it's almost over now, just one more scene to go,

dont you remember?”

I dont.

 

You once told me the more times you see something,

the more you grow used to it;

i'm used to the angry red and waring purple on my body,

and the double edged blade of his love is no new foe to me,

but i'm not used to the touch of your skin, or how when I fall asleep in your bed all these years later, I still feel safe.

No matter how many times I watch you from my bed,

i'm not used to the safety of your body, or the warmth of your breath.

I think you were wrong, all those years ago.

I can be in the farthest reaches of space, swimming in the dying gasps of stars and galaxies,

and the sight of you would still leave me breathless

 

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

family tree

 

Theres this theory going around, saying that people have a habit of picking apart their skins to find the bad part of themselves,

like they're looking for an excuse for the hate bubbling in their belly.

Now if this is true, then I must be a defect,

because the only part of my life that was ever obvious was the reasons why I deserve to hate myself,

and the reasons why I deserve to die.

Maybe its in the blood;

my mother only feels in control when hes yells at hurts and twists words in like nails in your hands and feet,

only feels satisfied and like she won if theres no one left standing but herself and her loneliness.

My fathers fists hold a catalog of his children's screams,

I think his knuckles heard more from his wife than his heart ever did,

he likes to feel the leash around his palm and the tug of the person on the other end,

it makes him feel like he can control something.

I used to hate these things about my parents but now I only hate them about myself.

I feel like im watching myself burn out of control and te only things I can see are the singed corners of the people close to me,

and the smoldering remains of my parents,

who werent lucky enough to have a fire extinguisher close enough to reach.

Maybe its right that humans love to see the bad parts of ourselves,

but normally they have to go looking- for me I dont need a mirror or a razor to see the reasons why I should die,

I taste it when I wake up and I see it on the back of my eyelids when I lay down to sleep.

Sometimes its not a surprise anymore

like my migraines when I get sick or the tightness in my belly when a man yells.

It just is.

I cant control how worthless I am,

how I have my fathers fists and my mothers lungs,

just how the earth cant control how it turns,

or how a baby cant control if it is born into this world or not.

It scares me how im one of the statistics of victims becoming abusers,

though if I look close enough I guess I can see the numbers written in my veins.

I dont want to leave marks on my kids that arent lipstick stains,

and I dont want to keep leaving burn marks on people wherever I go.

Loneliness scares me but i've learned that the trick is to remember that it's better than hurting other people.

I dont want pity anymore.

I want people to give me the pills to let me die because no one's done that before.

I want to feel accepted and be told that I tried my best and its okay to slit my throat and start over

but no one ever does that.

Maybe because it makes them feel better that they saved a life,

but maybe they should fill that sick urge by helping other people instead,

people who deserve to live, who deserve the help.

I know I dont

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

christian names

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...
~

You might like Taylor Antonacci's other books...