I want someone to look at me with all my horrible flaws and say that it’s alright, I’ll always love you. I want someone to see all the hurt in my mind, in my heart and say it’s alright, I’ll take care of you. I want someone to listen to me, whether they understand or not, and then hug me and say they’ll always be there for me. I don’t want to suffer alone anymore, collapsed against the side of my bed, crying in irregular intervals as I try to breath through my congested nose and then crying even more because of how pitiful I seem. I don’t want to keep it all bottled up until I ruin the milk-white skin of my arms and maybe my legs because it’s been kept inside that tiny, fragile bottle for too long and that bottle finally grew too heavy and dropped and broke. I don’t want a Pandora’s box inside, destroying me little by little, until I’m completely ruined and broken and I’ve shattered into a zillion little grimy glass shards that no one could or would ever want to touch.
I want a lot of things, but the ones that I really, truly want, I won’t ever get……..
This is something I wrote in response to this prompt. Hope you enjoy it.
When I’m out with my closest friends, just a few of us, when I’m with the people who I can be myself, I don’t want that moment to end. That moment. The picture perfect moment when we’re all smiling and laughing at a subtle joke one of us has made, and our genuine grins stretch wide across our faces and the sound of laughter tinkles in the air like Christmas bells; I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to stop smiling, I don’t want to stop laughing, I don’t want to go home and reminiscence in the memory that will one day fade and nothing but a vague blur of colours and the impression of smiles will remain. I don’t want to move on to the next day and relinquish my happiness to the cold frontiers of mere aquaintences at school, where I can’t smile forar of showing ugly teeth, or laugh for fear of sounding disgusting, or voice out a sarcastic joke that every so often passes through my mind for fear of not being heard and feeling like the idiot that I fear I am.
So I can only watch helplessly as the seconds tick into minutes, and minutes tock into hours, and hours merge to form the completion of the day that I never wanted to end.
Sometimes, I just feel so empty. I feel like there’s nothing in this world that could make me feel something again. I can’t feel sorrow, or joy, or excitement. It’s like I’m dead. It’s like I’ve become a zombie, but I’m still breathing and I still eat human food and my heart is still beating and my brain is still functioning, but I just can’t feel. I can feel pain well enough, which is funny, because even though that’s really the only thing I can feel, I don’t feel the motivation to hurt myself. So I just feel empty. Like there’s a hole inside me and anything that might cause a reaction just gets sucked in. It’s like a black hole, like the ones you find in outer space. The ones that when something goes in, it never comes back out again and it’s bottomless and nobody knows what happens inside it.
When I feel dead, I can’t sense the time. It goes so fast, yet goes so slow, and nothing ever seems to happen. Everything feels monotonous. I used to see in colours. Vivid colours that paint my feelings into events and I remember them in those colours. Except now, I see in greys and blackws and sometimes white. Everything’s grey and black and white. No, not even black and white; just grey. Just plain, colourless grey like the flesh of those zombies that I resemble. Fitting, huh? But I just wish I could feel again…
What would it be like if our hearts were worn on our sleeves for all to see? Would the heartbreakers be sorry or just take advantage of the fact that they can see and relish in the pain they cause when they shatter a heart into a thousand tiny fragments whose sharp edges make it hard for anyone to pick up the pieces and fix it? Would we think before we spoke, or still let the hearts bleed when our words sharp like jagged-edged knifes slash at the raw, tender flesh? Would stick and stones still break our bones, but words cut the rest of us up? Would love be found, or lost; betrayed, or revealed and shunned when no one wants it to exist? Would we try to hide the bleeding cuts and stitch them up with amateur sutures that that leave nasty infections that are hard to heal, and lifelong scars if they ever heal at all? Would we try to freeze the heart that feels to easily, hurts too much, and has no shield but paper-thin skin and muscle against the barrage of emotions like machine-gun fire that it faces in the battle of life? Or would we burn it, because the physical pain is better still than the dull heartache that slowly drives us insane? Would we try to heal another heart’s cuts and bruises and try to hold it together with trembling fingers that fear the possibility of crushing what it holds, or would jealousy rule us and have us smash another heart just so we aren’t suffering alone? If we wore our hearts on our sleeves, would the knowledge and sight of the effects of our actions stop us in the tracks of hurting someone else? …or would it only have us lead ourselves to our own demise?