I lay my head on my silk pillows and rest my hands on my stomach, one on top of the other. My legs are stretched out straight with both my feet perpendicular to the mattress - toes and all. Every single muscle in my body is relaxed, still as the air in the room. My breaths are now shallow and soft as I try to be acquaintances with the lonely night. I close my eyes. Everything disappears. If seen from above, I look like a lifeless corpse ready to be put to eternal rest inside an overpriced coffin made to make the undead feel good about themselves at funerals. I might as well be one already, especially with this gorgeous vintage Valentino dress I have on. I can feel the delicate sharpness of each sequin overlapping another with my fingertips. That reminds me, I bought a packet of razor blades too just now — 4 in a single pack, half-off at Walmart. Too late.
I’m still here.
This isn’t working. The people on that pathetic forum said that ten pills should do the trick, but I feel like I just downed a handful of Skittles instead. Fuck. I paid good money for this. I wonder if they take refunds. Maybe I can replace the missing pills with some breath mints or something. Or Xanax. I’ll just scrape off the wordings. Those clowns won’t know the difference.
I open my eyes, and everything still looks the same. The fan above me is still rotating counterclockwise, and I’m still alive. The wall light to the right of my room still flickers annoyingly every few seconds, and I’m still alive. That gecko on the wall near the window has been eyeing me from the minute I closed my eyes, and it’s still there now. Still shit green in colour and I’m still fucking alive. One sleeping pill should make you drowsy, but I took ten and, wait, I feel a yawn coming — no, false alarm. This is not a yawn. And now I find myself face to face with what my ass says hello to every damn day. It feels like I’m breathing out fire. My throat is burning and going on overdrive — stomach acid is a bitch. Great, now my teeth are going to rot. Dr. Roberts is going to be so angry at me, I just had veneers done a month ago at his clinic. All of his hard work, gone to waste. So much for dying beautiful. Now I’m going to have to live ugly like the rest of them.
Wait a minute, I forgot I still have those razor blades. I lift my head from the toilet bowl and turn my head slightly to the right. But it’s so shiny and clean. I didn’t realise Miss Rosa came by this morning and waxed the marbles of the bathtub.
I wonder how hard it is to get bloodstains off of a marble surface.
He's been a part of my life ever since I was, what, eight years old? But I never really knew him back then. He's always been around, but he's never said hi or anything. Took me ten years to finally realise he existed. But ever since that moment, everything changed. He has never left my side, day or night. No matter where I was or what I was doing, he was always there to keep me company - from the time I won't go to bed without my stuffed teddy bear all the way to when I went to my senior prom with my then-boyfriend. Johnny didn't mind it though, and neither did I. I wanted him there, and he wanted to be there. I mean, it wasn't like three's a company or anything.
He was my best friend, and I loved him. And the best part is - he loves me too.
But, things change. And do you know what I want right now?
I want Johnny dead.
I want him to take a vein in my body and wrap it around his lumpy little neck, and end himself. I want him to choke on red and leave my existence. I want him to lose his way in the midst of travelling my body. I want him to grow bigger and bigger until he no longer fits my body so that he'll finally let me go. I want him to get pricked by a needle on every surface of his goddamn body and understand that he doesn't belong with me. I want him gone. I want him, gone.
But he never listened. Instead, it was my hair that left my body, strand by strand. It was my skin that dulled out and turned grey like those movies back in the 1920s. It was my figure that started disappearing into thin air. But he, he wouldn't move an inch. He has created a home in my misery where my happiness used to live. He has created feasts where my insides used to be. He has found shelter where my soul used to linger.
I've tried to get rid of him, believe me, I have tried. I've put myself through hell just to get rid of the Devil himself. But he loves me. He loves me so much that he will never leave me. That is, until I leave myself. And maybe even then, he'd still be following me.
I've embraced him until my arms grew weak. I've carried him until my legs went numb. I've kissed him until my lips went dry.
Suffocated by the secondhand smoke snorkelling through the air, like microscopic serpents crawling into the cavities of my body. The floor vibrating - a 6.5 on the Richter scale, causing massive damages to my insides. I look up, and I see blue lights flashing, quickly switching to pink, and then green, and then blue once more, and then more blue, and then more blue, and then more blue.
And flash, and flash, and flash, flash flash.
Until the stage becomes the sky and each sound morphs into a blurry cloud, surrounding every inch of my fingers all the way down to my toes, sending shivers through every strand of hair flowing like a waterfall off my lightly-tanned scalp.
I feel it in my bones, and in my bones; it makes its home. euthanasia
Wednesday, October 9, 2013, 10:36 PM
A year it has been.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day of every week of every month of that year was spent breathing. I would say all that time was spent being alive, but then that would be a blatant lie. I was breathing, yes. My heart was pumping blood, rushing through my veins like a river running wild, every inhale carried oxygen into my lungs where it then seeps into my bloodstream and travels all over the continent that is my body - every pant and gasp and huff and puff courtesy of sleepless, sweaty nights and lonely, lethargic mornings. Converting oxygen into carbon dioxide like it's my full-time job, compensated by the very fact that I am still alive to live another day.
Was I existing? Yes. If only I was of existence.
Seconds turn into hours, hours turn into days, days go by like the tears running down the structures of my cheeks. My face was a map and my tears paved a one-way road taken every day for as long as my heart was still pumping red. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this hollow. I was aware of every single thing that was happening around me but it was of no significance to me in every way possible. I could hear every heartbeat, every breath, every step, every accidental teeth grinding; and to think that it should've driven me (at least close) to insanity but to my surprise, it didn't. It has made me desolated more than anything else.
Empty, I was.
Not lonely, or angry; just hollow, from my toes to my skull. He left me lying askew on my apartment floor for days, wondering - racking my brain - for exactly what it is that made him walk away. I can't even remember when was the last time I felt his fingertips grazing against my skin, or the last time he looked right into my eyes when I uttered something. I can feel his stare scanning my face, but never did it once make direct contact with my eyes, which have now turned into two pools of melancholia, filled up to the brim waiting to spill. And I told him.
I told him exactly how I felt. I told him - between the short gasps for air and the persistent weeping - that I just felt lost and undefined. My life was a labyrinth and everything was an obstacle in my path. He seemed like an obstacle to my then clouded judgment. I was selfish, unstable, and emotional. He was sick, tired and bored of my 'antics'. I knew it, but I refuse to let my stubborn self believe in the fact that the one person I thought would be able to read my mind cannot even make a tiny dent on this impenetrable wall I have built around me. I was experiencing a blizzard of thoughts and emotions but all I felt was... empty.
Little did he know that to me, 'empty' was just another word for 'open'. por favor
Tuesday, September 24, 2013, 11:12 PM
like wheat in a paddy field.
Tints of gold,
only when light
Some move left,
some go right,
some defy gravity,
curls like Australian waves.
Flyaways stay up
like the Summer sun,
by the wind of Fall;
rooted in Honduras. over and under