Shots

When every shot that you take goes straight through this faintly beating heart, but I have to smile and pretend that I am a wall. 

When every thread you pull does a little more than fray. When each button that you press goes just a little further than self destruct.

When words are actually hollow bodies who carry their meanings, overflowing, but beneath the surface and can launch a thousand knives with a single syllable.

When the numbers don’t add up the way they taught you in school. When the wires do more and so much worse than simply cross, but end up in some kind of beautifully garish tangle within the neon glow of a gaslit mind.

Makes it hard to read the “how to assemble, maintain, and operate” instructions without some kind of tarnished and well-worn bias. Meanings change when viewed beneath different lights. 

Damian wore glasses, I suddenly remember. Not out of need, really, but because it helped him remember. His mother tongue, his home. Before he’d been banished. Maybe they did help him see more clearly – just not in the way they were intended.

I need to find my glasses. Square lenses, purple frames. Bring things back into perspective… before I start crying and it causes a tidal wave or something of equal proportion and destructive capabilities. 😉 Words, again. Laden with a meaning only a sparse few would ever understand.

“When I killed myself last time, it was an accident,”  she told him, ducking her head slightly.

He eyed her, equal parts scepticism and guarded disbelief. “Really.” Wondered for a fleeting moment of she was merely baiting him. Just to get a rise. Some sort of a reaction to validate whichever thought happened to cross her mind moments ago. “Why should I believe you?” he asked, finally. Carefully.

She smiled wryly. “Because there was no note.” 

“No note?”

She nodded. “You know, famous last words or whatever.”

He stated at her, and then she grinned – almost a laugh. “You know me. Over dramatic and poetic and melancholy to the extreme.”

To anybody who reads my entries: they are 90% metaphor with bits and pieces of reality and actual events cut and paste in between sharp imagery.

This is not a diary or a journal to me, I don’t usually record a play by play of events with accompanying colour commentary.  I write. 

I suffer from different mental illnesses and while it’s true that the majority of what comes out is negative, it’s a helpful form of therapy for me, to get the darkness out. It’s free form poetry and I’m sure a lot of it offends or concerns people, but I do not apologize for what I write because it’s better for me to try some form of constructive expression, versus destructive which is the alternative.

I don’t control the words that come out, the metaphors or the depth of feeling. I simply attempt to describe either the frame of mind I am in at the moment or one that I recall in ways that work for me, because it is still difficult for me to come to grips with. 

I haven’t read all the comments yet, but for those of you who feel inclined to offer a sermon: don’t. I’m sure it’s well intentioned but it is still unappreciated. Nobody is forcing you to read my entries and I have enough struggles that I deal with on a regular basis without you adding another anxiety onto my mental plate. Words can plague and frustrate, especially when what I write is not only metaphorical and therefore up for interpretation — mis interpretation — but also when nobody actually knows my specific history or experiences.

Much thanks and if anybody continues reading, thanks for joining me on this journey.

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