Bare

 There is pain inside me which feels so real, more real than what I will ever be. In the depth of nothingness, it stems from tiny affirmations of my will to live; my will to exist. I cannot be this figure of condemnation for me, and yet I am. I lie and lie and lie, to myself, to people I love (barely) that this pain means something, while in reality it smothers me every night as I stand in the middle of the room with lights as bright as the sun in my crumpled dress with no awake human at sight. I lie that I am okay, I smile, I laugh, because I cannot do anything else. 

It’s a different kind of pain-inability. It is toxic; it is mundane. A fear of letting go subsides in me as I think of all the things I want to do, this hope of being a human character who feels deeply is taking my life away, and I am suffocated in it. It feels like standing on the beach nude basking in the sun letting people peek at your vulnerability. The exposed skin of my conscience which burns in the sunrise keeps doing it because the world loves the nudity of the skin. This denial, this cry of vulnerable feelings and torn sketches of my own skin made to feel something, how could you ever convince me that sandy beaches would make it alright? In hopes of a reality where I am genuinely, truly happy, what makes you think that that could ever be a choice? I am running towards a reality that doesn’t exist. I am a ghost in my own shell, and no matter how hard I try, in the nights when people sleep, I dream of all the nightmares the world has given me, and I cannot fathom how I have been going on so long. 

I am not a sad person, you know. I am absurd, maybe cruel, but not sad. Sadness is no longer a state to me; it is everything. Sadness is my home; it’s where my deepest needs are met. In the lies and crusades of my distilled choices and affirmations, of my feelings and emotions that no longer seem to matter or have a distinct purpose, sadness exists. It’s a reality, it’s a space. It inhabits me, gives me home and every single visual of a car passing by me, of the drips of coffee stained blood in my notepads, of overdosed pills and the scars that terrify me because they speak to me about my cowardice, I stand, nude and ugly, because I would rather to laughed at when I exist. I would rather like the voices of heinous laughter of people mocking my existence than the silence I feel at night when I can’t sleep. 


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