Nails Bitten Black I

PART I: anger at what shouldn't be.

in a fetal position, i call out to my mother. i am scared and vulnerable, i convulse and stray from where all is calm, where my thoughts do not overlap nor overproduce. self destruction is a clinical satisfaction. it is the willingness to push the boundaries like children scraping their knees before knowing some things cannot be done without getting hurt. the walls, the sharp edges of everything i can trace my skin upon and shards of broken glass and blades are my friends and also my worst enemies. i had nothing to be ashamed of, until i fell in love and gave myself reasons to change this. i am a parallel soul to the one in love, the one that takes the brunt of words like "i do not believe you", just like the day a creature from the darkest cracks of this world who took and took but never gave turned to the whitest fractions of my soul, of my virginity and branded me a deceiving piece of meat, used and reused, a blatant mockery of the purity i had to offer. it took and took and took but never gave until i gave in to a fictional sin and believed the worst of myself that was once never there.

i found it at last, the poor quivering, frail leftovers of my soul, under the demon's foot as it sat back gloriously on a throne of abuse, and scraped the ragged, crumbles of what was left of my life out of its reach for good. i have never wept much when thrown upon physical pain, but the pain that churns a thousand seas from the tundra of my eye is the pain that you feel long after the bruises have healed and the scars have settled.

the past shakes me, like the earth does a bridge when it moves a muscle.

i have spoken about this demon i once thought was a man many times. but the fear of what i felt never goes away, and i wonder if i will eventually find some logic in these occurrences of my mind, like the way morticians will look at a cadaver and understand. 

i feel physically and mentally ill from all the time i waste reminiscing of these horrible nightmares that i wished were only nightmares. i begin to read The Bell Jar in this mind state and know i will not forgive myself for the end result. how do i expect to feel more than this when i so willingly feed myself only the negatives of what is meant to be full of colour? i feel like i have lived a thousand years with all the memories repeated and compiled like a loop on a tape. i believe i am as old as the holy tree in my childhood Sri Lankan temple, as old as the mantras i meditate when i yearn for clarity in the centre of all that churns and yanks at my subconscious. i do not feel the way i should. i feel ungrateful, undeserving and meaningless. 

the days fall like grey snow, cold and uninviting. i find myself in a mind state of complete and utter spacial void. i am immersed into blank air where everything is discoloured and unexposed, like the first cellular form of life 560 million years ago. 

like the bottom of a deep, sleeping sea.

i sit and stare at the wall staring back blank and absent-minded. am i too busy being insane to leave space for anything or anyone else? am i, despite all my efforts to be open to everybody and everything, completely self-indulgent? i spend drawn out hours tapping on windows and flicking the light switches on and off like they can provide meaning to something i am looking for. i am heavy like the cigarette smoke lurking in the bare spaces of the bedroom as the words that do not sound like mine form shapes on my mouth, open and moving silently. i am at the peak of being totally and wholly shattered. physically i can feel the words tugging at every nerve of my body, and it hurts to move away from this, so i twitch. i twitch and sit perfectly slumped. i look like i do not fit in this world, and i try not to puke.

this is one of those down days when you are sure every bodily part connect, because my guts and mind are screaming harmoniously.

times like these, i would rather sit at home and speak to nobody. i know that beyond the loud, creaking front door, are genuine people who unknowingly put me through the torture of being asked if i am doing fine, and it gets awkward after a while because i am sick of lying in such honest situations. i'd like to say, no, i am not fine. i am not fine because sometimes, i am scared of everyone. sometimes i am scared of the streets, scared of gender, scared of race, scared of voices, scared of living things, scared of inanimate objects that are higher than me, scared of cracks on the pavement, scared of moving shadows, scared of my genitals, scared of human nature, scared of myself for feeling such fear ever since my body was thrust upon selfish, unimaginative, undeserving souls that are many in this world. it is a truth that is black and harsh like charcoal, haunting the deepest corners of my jagged, stark mind.

so i would rather sit back and wait until i feel fine. then i try to connect. i touch people in different ways; sometimes i touch with a fear of being returned the favour. i have touched and plunged headfirst and wide-eyed into the unknown, too, uncaring of the hurt or happiness that will dawn on me eventually for trust is naive, like a child's dream. i am a walking hypocrisy, dwelling deep within the calm of colours and supernatural energies, yet entertaining the sly watch of disturbances, until i find myself going on tangents that wind me physically and freeze my senses. it is not a healthy mind i own, but i am glad it is not stagnant like mosquito-infected waters and puddles of dead rain.

i wear myself out, but at least i never break, like my father's favourite shoes, like my lover's red bulb.