empyrea-blog1
TOSKA
TOSKA. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning.
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Woman
women are so beautiful. i want to kiss them. i want to hold them. i want to press my lips on their fingers and promise to make them happy like no one else can, i want them to be the repository of my secrets, my strength, my faith
women. a church for other women, special, different, ethereal
women. my mother. a pain. agony. someone who’s hurt me so much that i feel her scarred into my soul. i know my behaviors. i know my thoughts. she is the root. she is the cruel spring from which i burst forth, and i wish i didn’t
not all women are created equal.
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tears
crying feels like a release
sometimes, i drink and i cry
the hot liquid splashes down my face, down my throat, down my heart, and i feel the burns where it touches me
alcohol makes me heart sing. crying makes my angel wings come out. i feel away from everyone when i do both. i feel freedom. i feel better than anyone else can make me feel.
the burns can’t hurt me. the burns are real. the burns are my choice, my decision, my freedom, my rebellion against you
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liar
My head is a liar. It’s a bitch. It’s a fucking cunt. My head tells me things and I know they’re wrong, because my head also knows the truth.
But at least I know I lie.
I wish the world (you) knew that you’re a fucking liar too.
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anger
Anger is my shield and armor. It protects me. When I am angry, I cannot be hurt. I cannot be wounded. I burn too hot. I am the sun. Everything that approaches me burns under my fire.
Let them burn. Let it all burn. I hate you. I hate myself. If everything is anger and pain, then nothing matters and I can exist.
If you are angry, then the poison words are ash. If you are angry, then you have nothing else in you to give. If you are angry, then you are a warrior, always ready to fight.
Fight. Fight. FIGHT. It’s better than the other option. Fight until everyone is as hurt as you are. Fight until you leave everything bloody. If you can’t be left in peace, then no one can. Twist the knife in deeper. They were the first one to strike, so this is just back payment.
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sometimes im so claustrophobic that i want to rip out my skin, my bones, my soul, until im away from everyone, everything, until i can be allowed to exist in peace
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anxiety
hey
hi
hello
(god, please tell me if im bothering you)
im confident, eloquent, powerful
(its fake, its not real, im lying everyday)
i have friends
(do i?)
i like pople
(do i?)
i know myself
(do i?)
that’s all a lie
are we friends? am i bothering you? please tell me if i am. i care about you so much. i want to be your friend so much. and sometimes i feel inadequate and small and little and dumb and unworthy. i think we’re friends, right? you said we are.but my head says that you’re lying. sometimes i wonder if you don’t care about me and that everything you said was just a lie. i wonder if you only want me for what i give you and nothing else. would you care if i was there? would you care if you could hear my heartbeat, touch my lashes, smell my hair? are we friends? i want to ask. i need to ask.
i can’t ask.
im a coward. im a failure. im afraid o being left behind and im afraid of my own little voices reminding me of my fuck ups.
i drown my own voice. i tell myself no, bc that is the only way. i lie to myself about myself about you about everyone. its the little poison in my head, destroying everything around me. i must stifle it. i must silence it. i must destroy it. i cannot speak. i cannot.
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Vomit
Vomit. Words. Emotions. Thoughts. Vomit through your eyes, your throat, taste the bitter salt and bile. Slam your hands down on the keyboard and scream.
Fear fear feafear feat fea ffengbksjdbvjbludjksI HATE YOU, I HATE THIS I AHEETE IT AHTE LEAVE MEAOLONE GO AWYA I HATE IATE SOTSTO FNESJ
Do you feel better now?
No.
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Phone Call
The phone rings. Look at the familiar number, feel the drip of dread within, cringe away - power button will silence that ring. Close your eyes, look somewhere, it is gone.
Hey. Hey. Hey.
The world wants you. Calls you. Claws for you.
Where are you?
Not here. Please. leave.
Come here.
I don’t want to. No, no, don’t make me. Please, let me live, please, leave me. Hearing you makes me want tot die.
Come on. It’s not hard. Come on over, we can help.
LEAVE ME ALONE.
Ungrateful piece of shit.
How easily words flip. How easily the perspective changes. I know what I am.
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4am
crying at 4am in bed
sudden claustrophobia - the sky is falling on me. it breaks my bones. it shatters my body. i am nothing.
i am a star. exploding. burning. inside and out, inside and out, the blackhole devours me.
stop it. stop me. stop it. stop it. don’t look at me. don’t listen to me. don’t. stop. no. please. leave me alone.
leave me alone. let me be in peace. let me think alone. let me have silence. go away go away go away.
1am. 2am. 3am. 4am. 5am. 6am. 7am.
silence. quiet. alone. solitude. the hours of my life where i unfurl, a butterfly, a flower, open up and let myself flow out. morning. day. evening. hard shell, outer cover, teeth out. leave me be.
let me fall.
let me die.
go away.
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Logical Lover
Intro. Body. Conclusion. Step one, two, three. Simple, sensible, logical. The world makes sense. Take one thread, apply it to another. Each permutation is different but you can pick them out through their colors. They wear a thousand faces, equally loved.
Constant evolution. Constant change. It’s a canvas of color of a thousand degrees. You know it. It knows you.
Words are tools. They dance. See the syllable, scent the phrase. They lope over your tongue, curl around your arms, and their breath is technicolor. This word loves that word, these words make the sky alive, the page pulses with the heartbeat of the word army. They put the hard world into sense. The real world is unknowable - the people are unsearchable. But on the page, you can taste their souls. Wrap the strings around your knuckles, and pull it into the plane where all things are mapped out.
Fall in. Embrace them. The words will hold you when no one else can.
Language is alive, and you love it.
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Surgery
surgery to remove the ugly
siphon out the fat, slice away the flaw, remake and remold the unsatisfactory
remake me
unmake me
scoop out the blue vines around my lungs, uproot their faithless stems and thorns, destroy it all in fire and let the smoke dissipate. take your steel and put it to my skin, gut me and let it all bubble out, boil out, steam out, each string of muscle, each sliver of bone, the pink wetness of the weak heart
cut my mouth into a smile, peel my eyes open, pull back my chest, open and open and open, each rib creaking free
and let me breathe again
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Antimony
chemical element that is a silver-white, poisonous metal. It is hard but easily broken and is used to make other metals harder and stronger.
Antimony bones. I plummet, and I break, and I am remade, and
and
and
I don’t know what happens next.
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Opposite
Hands, shaking.
Shoulders, cold.
Head, empty.
Throat, choking.
Hold me. Let me go. Stay with me. Leave me. Screaming. Silent. Harmony. Discordant.
Opposition, meeting.
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The Math
I love you.
I hate you.
Two flips of a coin, one side, another side, either way.
Easy. Easy. What is the mathematical probability of each side? I don’t know – I hate math. Give it to Oliver, I’m sure he can calculate it for you. Each point of data is my inhale-exhale, each point of data is the morning I wake up again and know I will want to die when the sun does.
The equation is easy. I figured it out. I know the answer behind my eyes.
Take a pint of tears. They need to be bitter and unhappy. They need to be tasted by the corners of your lips, they need to be silent and cold, they need to be so well practiced that you know how to breathe past them. An amateur crier isn’t good enough. Take an expert, someone who’s put in their ten thousand hours.
Then you need an ounce of blood. Not too much, no no. Just the blood taken out of scratches and cuts and bloodied noses. If you’re not bleeding that much, it can’t be that bad, right? Only a little blood, don’t whine so much. Some people’s parents kill theirs, be happy you’re alive.
Next – a metric ton of emotion. It can’t be too precise. It needs to be knotted and tangled, and angry. Angry must taint each ball of you. Fury must choke you. You need to be a pincushion, bristling with the needles others stabbed into you. Bare your teeth, hate the world, kindness doesn’t exist. You hate everyone, but you hate yourself more. That’s good. You are stronger for it.
Then, just a pinch of lost trust. Just a pinch, not more. It’s imprecise, but don’t tell anyone, shhhh. This needs to contain all the little talks you know no one cares about. All the slights and petty brushes that stick with you. So unimportant – why do you care so much? Stop holding onto them, you’re so petty, you’re so childish, who cares if they are the bricks upon your house of fear is built?
Alright. Here is my mathematical equation. Or is it a recipe? There are variables. You have to balance it out. Like a chemical equation, each side needs to be equal. Then you get your perfect answer, the roadmap to the process that’s been tattooed into my bones and breath. It’s easy, isn’t it?
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Fossil
Depression. You need help.
Autism. Suspected.
Introvert, awkward, sociopathic behavior – you’re a freak.
I am merely I.
You’re alone. No, you’re not. You’re angry. Don’t be. You’re a freak. Conform, please.
This is teenage behavior. Stop it. Stop being a child. The world needs an adult from you, stop being special, stop being odd, put that away and down because the only special the world wants is the kind that is beautiful. Gross freakery is not to be loved here – be the beautiful butterfly, you fuck up.
Use the purple silk words to describe love. Be in love. Why don’t you love anyone? Why are you so freakish?
Use the purple silk words to make something beautiful. Be beautiful. Lose weight, be feminine, be soft and nice and open. Let the world in to you, let the world see you, let them all know your beautiful pain unless your pain is ugly and selfish and you can’t cry prettily. Be the brave little soldier who will go against the odds because EVERYONE LOVES THE UNDERDOG.
You want to be alone and away from things and float above the black and white world away from it all, but we are your chains, to tether you, to ground you, so that when the lightning strikes from above, it will leave you and sink into the earth. To us. It is for your safety. For you. To preserve you.
Cut out the hair. Cut it all off, show that you don’t care for them or theirs.
Cut out the skin. Bleed. Leave scars. You are not their canvas of exemplitude.
Cut out the tongue. Your words are not their glass baubles.
Cut out the eyes. See not them, show them nothing. Eyes are windows to the soul, fucking shatter it.
Cut it out. Cut it all out. Cut it all off and away, unmake and unravel and tear it all away away away until you are nothing. Let the world end and stop. Let it all fall out. Let it all go until you are timeless and immortal and dead and cold and alone.
No one loves the person until they are dead. When memories are all that is left, the memories are beautiful. Insects are always ugly unless you put them in amber. Gold and light and frozen, perfectly motionless, lacking disappointment. The flaws are now fractures of humanity – and each remembrance is another varnish of glory until you shine and shine and shine because they do not know you. They do not remember you. You are dead but your gloried corpse of lovely things remain in their rotted memories. Leave. Depart. Fossil and amber is always more precious than the reality.
I don’t want this. I don’t want this. Pull me out, pull me away, from the black tar of my own head. Slay my dragons for me. Strangle the wolves before they eat my heart. Winter wind is in my bones and they are cold and brittle and numb but I want to live, I want shine, I want to blaze my own way.
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