i sink in one foot at a time with the same anticipation i would have while stepping into the shadow of your naked body if you were standing in front of me
i submerge myself in the depths of lonely night water hot with the scent of your breath if you were breathing on me instead of the steam that pricks my skin and rises like your face above mine would if you were here.
i lay back slowly letting it run through my hair as your fingers would if you were here and it rises past my shoulders drowning them in streams of heat as you would with your tongue if you were here
it encircles my breasts where your tongue would paint me swallows my nipples where your lips would embrace me fills my navel and pours over my waist sending pools down between my lips where you would part me if you werent apart from me
i let the water hit me where you are missing let it bead up on my skin and gush inside me the space you would fill with your electricity heat and fire if you were here
i arc back in dream and pulse sending waves through this flooded vessel moving forth with moonlight-speed inertia illuminating my body with candle glow as you would with your gift of nirvana your love shooting through me with the power of ocean tide tumbling tsunami if you were here
water displaces never replaces energy is neither destroyed nor created but is moved through me with molecular mobility where you will someday sail in and embark on my shore displacing the water that i need no more
I'll pull a line with chalk and if one emotion ever dares to walk over it again I'll cut it into pieces and glue it onto paper and call it collage number three.Yeah , this is how it goes. I have learned to convert feelings into art before they even show my mind what could be wrong with me. Before they even try to change the way that I perceive this world because because emotions are better when thrown into cans of paint and swirled around with a thick brush size 20 or something . Just large enough to make it drown inside the colours. And now come on I do not .. want to hear any worried exclaims from the mother of emotions : love. Because I have handled that one quite well , just a few weeks ago. See my gallery ? here is love. Crucified behind glass. Kept safely on the wall with several nails. Sadness? Just around the corner you see that painting with the thick black border?that is sadness so as you see do not stress yourself it is so so easy to manage emotions I of course call it devotion when infact the act of creating art for me is to trap the emotions safely in controlled shapes So that they cannot break out anymore those glass shards on the floor? are nothing no,no.Everything is alright. You see my life life is art. But I am not the right battleground for the feelings to play around with shrieking sounds so I create artificial ones where my own feelings become the feelings of the viewer and isn't that.. isn't that the easier way? I give the emotions away and let them stray around in someone else so that I do not have to feel them Isn't that the easier way? I'll give everything a shape a shape to every little thing
to every little thing even if I am afraid at night in my bed when shapeless somethings float around my eyes and I cannot grasp them I cannot ask them for a short description. Just some details so I can atleast imagine. They like to play with my unability to see to really see. Because the truth is I have never learned seeing. I claim that I am dreaming breathing feeling through my eyes but most of the time I have them sleeping inside my skull. Sometimes when guests are around I wake them up and say sh stop your slumber for a moment and act as if you observe flower petals real closely And of course they don't know me. they don't know me so they will place their hands upon their chest and says oh you live life to the fullest my dear you really do Someone like you must have absolutely no fear from what is next because you'll watch even your own death with loving eyes , like meeting the shadow that followed you in sunny childhood days.. after years. The truth is .. I do fear death. I tried to trap it on that canvas you see two steps away but something went wrong something went wrong the canvas remained purely white I placed my eye upon it and tried to see something but but.. I am sure there is an easy explanation if not I'll paint one All these years given away to create a name that will be living for decades after me in book pages upon your shelves in the news
In everyone else
but not me
Too much "me" is not healthy for anyone , no? so why not reduce it to nothing ? why not hide it all behind images that are screaming, crying, laughing out emotions While the inside of me remains a dried out ocean from which the world collects shells as souvenirs and marvels of pearls
Some months ago I .. started having the feeling that writing about my emotions was just a way to keep them from really having an effect on me before I even experienced a feeling truly in a way .. that it got me and overwhelmed me I already caught it on paper, film or canvas. not giving it any chance to come in the shape it wants. to come in a self made shape.
This is however not really written completely out of my position. I imagined being in the skin of an artist who uses art in fact as a try to control what normally cannot be controlled and imagined further on what confessions his tongue might make in moments where nobody watches.
I always said from the start no one could save me. Not my parents, not the doctors, not myself. I didn’t really want to be saved. Four o clock in the morning, found lying on the floor of my bedroom, a breath away from death, with a bottle of pills scattered across the floor. So I had everything, or so it seemed to others. I just wanted to get away. It wasn’t hard to take the pills. All I had to do was think of everything that made me cry, everything they did to hurt me. No one would have missed me if I were gone.. Sometimes hell seems more inviting than life. Maybe life is hell
They got the phone and dialled. Flashing lights and oxygen masks. My life dangling on a string. They fucking got me.
I woke up to the stench of disinfectant, and white reflective hospital walls. The room spun, and the walls closed in on me. I screamed and cried, no one came. I couldn’t believe I was awake; I didn’t want to think that it had happened, I had failed the biggest test of my life. I never could do anything right.
Why couldn’t they have just fucking left me there!?
I took in my new surroundings with a sick sense of amusement. No curtains or blinds with ropes to hang off, and no long power cords to use as a noose. Nurses watched me take my pills everyday, and checked under my tongue to make sure I swallowed. They always knew when I was pretending. The shower was detachable and I wasn’t allowed to shower my face, in case I tried to drown myself. No sharp objects, not even the forks had a point. I laughed every time I thought about it. Maybe I was unstable, but I wasn’t stupid enough to try anything when help was a hairs breath away. There was still some rational thought left in me, I had the rest of my life to plan my next attempt out, thanks to these people.
The nurses all dressed in white, as if they thought they were angels. They scurried in and out regular as clockwork, like mice, never stopping to chat. As if death was contagious and I was trying to reel them in. The doctors prodded me, made diagnoses and decided my future, and my chances. Seemed like a waste of time to me.. I wasn’t going anywhere. I was just an empty body, devoid of all thought and emotion. But I was like that long before I arrived there.
The hospital room became a cell; I even had a barred window to stop me trying to jump. All words were spoken softly, as if they were scared I would break if they raised their voices. I wanted them to yell, to tell me I wasn’t worth it, to say it would have been better if I were dead. I wanted them to lay on the floor having convulsions, begging me to stay alive, begging me to save myself. Any reaction other than calmness and indifference. But they never did, every move, every footstep was rhythmic, and calculated.
A lady came to talk to me. She told me she wanted to be my friend; she wanted to know about me. She wanted me to play her stupid game. She could ask me three questions and I had to answer honestly. The first to were easy, how old was I, what did I like doing in my spare time. The third question was what stopped me in my tracks.
”Why did you want to throw everything away.”
I gave her the coldest, hardest stare I could, dug up right from the bottom of my rotting heart. I didn’t like her games; she just wanted to get inside my head. She thought the same as everyone else - I had done it for attention, to see what everyone would think of me. To see who really cared. Funny, I already knew the answer to that.
She spent her time helping other people; she was always needed to make them better. She wouldn’t understand what it was like to never be good enough, to be constantly in the shadows, and reminded what she could be. I was nothing, I had been told that. I was too fat, too lazy, to stupid, to ugly. I couldn’t help anybody, I didn’t make anybody happy, I was an oxygen waster. I knew what that felt like. Instead of cuddles I got hit, or if I was really lucky, black eyes. Bruises and scars adorned my body. From their fists, harsh words from their mouths. No matter who held the blade, “they” were behind each cut, each severed vein. Every time I lay bleeding on the floor, I made them happy. And a little part of me died.
She couldn’t even contemplate how much it means to be cast off by the people you love the most. The ones who are supposed to support you through everything, and anything. And love you until the day you died. I figured they didn’t love me when I was alive; maybe they would love me if I weren’t there. They’d be grateful I made their lives easier. I just wanted them to love me..
But some things just aren’t meant to be.
Time fades into nothing when nothing is all you have. Rainy days, drifting away as I sat by myself looking out the window, watching people walk by, free and alive. They had everything I never could. They had someone to come home to and tell about their day, someone to hold them when they were scared. They had someone who loved them. I screamed, I screamed at nothing, I screamed to get me out of this place, get me out of my head. I guess it was reasonable they thought I was crazy. I wasn’t crazy, I was just mad. I needed to do what I needed to do, and all I wanted was to end everyone’s suffering. I was lonely, and I was alone.
Everyone wanted me to be fine, but no one really cared if I lived or died. At least they could say they tried. Written off as a hopeless case, she never really stood a chance anyway. The posters would be taken from my walls, the furniture burned, the paint recoated, until all traces of me were gone forever.
And people would cry, watch as my body burned, as my ashes were thrown into the sea. The photos would be put away, in a box for safe keeping way in the attic, and in time, they would forget. I would just be that girl, who did a stupid thing, and didn’t really give herself a chance.
That girl who wasted her life on a bottle of pills, just to see what would happen. No one would really give a fuck why she did it.
Sasuke paced back and forth in front of a large, wilting tree that stodd in it's place outside the Ninja Academy. He held in his hands a broken kunai. A kunai that Hinata had lent him. Hinata's kunai that he had broken.
He felt bad.
It was only a kunai, he thought. But then again, Hinata was so sensitive that Sasuke feared she might burst into tears if he told her he'd broken her kunai.
She was kind, and he was thankful for that. He had chosed quite the wrong day to forget his kunai pouch, as Kakashi had planned a surprise training assault for them. She was a damn sight nicer than Naruto, though, who refused to share anything in his legal possession. And he hadn't asked Sakura because he was afraid she'd start worshipping the "kunai that Sasuke-kun touched".
But what to do know?
"Just give it back," he told himself. "She's nice, she'll probably just forgive you. It was an accident after all."
The kunai (which was supposed to be strong and unbreakable) had simply snapped when Sasuke had hurled it at the wall he was practicing his aim on.
"Well, maybe there's a way I can repay her," he thought, and a thought flashed through his mind.
And then a brilliant smile darted across his face.
The Hyuuga stared at the handsome approaching figure of Sasuke.
"Oh, Sasuke-kun... d-did you come to return my kunai?"
"You-you can keep it, if you want. I don't really need it back."
"Well, Hinata, actually... I broke it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. It just kind of snapped."
"That's alright, Sasuke... r-really."
"No, I need to repay you somehow."
"But it's not that important. I don't mind." She gave a nervous giggle.
Sasuke shook his head slightly, cupping Hinata's chin in his fingers. He pressed his lips to her in a gentle kiss, watching appreciatively as she turned crimson.
"Sasuke-kun... what are you doing?"
"Repaying you." He smiled.
"Sasuke... I have more kunai... if you need something to break."
He stared at her blushing face, and leaned forward again.
You'll learn it like their mighty catechism, before you ever know it like the back of your hand and you'll study it like a famous painting but it may never take life in your weak eyes.
The things they teach in school, never will ever touch you where this does.
If a word is a whisper, then an action is screamed at you. A promise is hollow, and trust is a precious gem (fucking poetic now, aren't we?) and both can be broken, snapped in half, crushed. Impale yourself in the seas of "fucked" clench your fists and prepare to bleed. What if this all = nothing, and that goddamned tripping caterpillar was right?
So what IS greater than God, and more evil than the devil...?