bury me in existence

July 11, 2011

Feeling like death.

Am in the state where I’d like to slit myself open from the top of my ribs to the bottom and reach in and pull out my lungs. And then the rest of my intestines, and my heart, and my liver and my kidneys and tear out all the rest of the organs that try to hide inside the cover of my skin, scoop it all out, flesh and muscle and blood and bone like pudding from a shell. Hollow me out and then light a fire on the inside, like they do with trees to make canoes, until I’m a empty and scraped clean and hollowed out and beautiful.

A perfect thing and oh, ever so peaceful. Ever so still. To be empty would be lovely. I would die to resonate when you knocked on my skin.

Maybe you could build a boat out of my body and ride me somewhere nice, somewhere far away from here. Far away from this.

Right now, I don’t really like being conscious, or being me. But there’s only so much I can sleep and I think I’ve done a lot of it today, hours through daylight although the sky was yawningly, perfectly blue. I want to rip the inside of me open, though, so staying asleep for as long as possible is probably my best option.

I would much rather not be existing. It is one of those days. Weeks. Moments. I stopped being suicidal years ago but man, I certainly wish I never existed, sometimes. To just- not. Be. To escape. To be undone. But I can’t ever be free from myself and right now I hate that.  Trapped being me. Never endingly this. I would love to be inanimate. I would die to resonate inside when you knocked on my skin, a statue, a clay figurine in glass. Galatea. Backwards. Backwards. Turn me into stone again and release me from breathing.

God, let me go.

(and if you let me go, maybe it ends. maybe it’ll all end and I might not be stuck in this endless, voiceless, draining inability to- be anything. to be anything, yours, or theirs, or mine. and maybe if I never existed, I’d never be unable to serve you or reach you or be- yours, not properly. And maybe if you let me go, I won’t have to try so hard to try at all, and never get there because I can’t do it, in the end. And maybe I could let go. And maybe I could let go, and drift, and turn into snow or stone or- anything that doesn’t think, or breathe, or have a mind to know it’s never going to reach you and can’t. And oh God, help me, because I’m like this again and I don’t think it ever stops- and I don’t think you ever stop it- and my own passivity when it comes to you kills me, and maybe if you let me go I won’t need to feel guilty that I’m not, that I can’t, try- if you condemn me, maybe I can stop– )

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