Memories

Memory.

It haunts you worse than ghosts ever could;

It sneaks into your mind in the middle of the night,

Plaguing your consciousness with nightmares

Riddled with the past.

It contains every good thought and 

Terrible event you’ve ever had,

And you can never escape it.

Your memory is your own,

Each is unique,

Some can be warped and changed,

Until you start believing it was different,

But in the end, it all comes back

To you.

You created these memories,

These thoughts and emotions that run through your mind.

It was all you.

Somewhere deep inside your mind,

Your memories hide in the dark,

Waiting for you to feel something

You haven’t felt in a long time;

And when that feeling emerges,

So does every memory you have that shares the same

Emotion.

Memory.

I Know How Hard

I know how hard it is to be with someone who is sad all the time, while you’re happy. It feels like you’re cheating, and like you’re stealing something away from them.

Most of all, it feels like you’re not trying hard enough. It feels as though you’re not giving it your all, and they are trying so hard to be happy but you see the smile fade from their lips and you know they are thinking about it again.

I know how hard it is to be there for someone whose problems you can’t comprehend. It makes your life seem insignificant, all your worries like happy little thoughts that could have crossed their mind on a good day; because they are still sad, and their sad is stronger than your sad. 

And that’s sad.

I know how hard it is to look at them and see that they don’t recognize your hurt, because they can’t see past theirs. It hurts to feel for them and it hurts that they can’t feel for you, that their mind is so full of sad thoughts and feelings that nothing you feel can reach them.

And how hard it is to tell them you can’t do it anymore, to tell them you’re not happy anymore, and to still not see them want to try to keep you, to win you back; they still can’t see past their sadness to recognize that you’ve been sad too.

And that’s sad.

I know how sad it is. I know how difficult and frustrating and disheartening it is to feel unable to make someone happy. And I never want to make someone feel like that. I never want to wake up one day and realize someone I care very deeply for thought I couldn’t care less about them if I tried. I never want to make them feel bad for being happy when I’m still sad, or make them bottle up their feelings so they don’t make my life harder.

I never want that.

But

I do that.

 

The Blame

It’s not that I’ve loved too hard,

Or lost too much.

It’s not that I’ve been betrayed,

Or had my heart broken.

It’s not that I always feel too strongly,

Or that I don’t feel at all.

It’s not that I don’t trust anyone,

Or that I’ve been hurt in the past.

 

It’s that the bully is myself,

And she likes to inflict pain.

It’s that I don’t trust her,

And she is apart of me.

It’s that I can’t tell what I’m feeling,

And it’s too hard to sort it out.

It’s that I’ve broken myself,

And no one can fix it.

 

There was never anything special,

Or unique about my life.

There were no great traumas,

Or shocking betrayals.

There were only my mistakes,

And the pain they brought me.

There were only my problems,

And no one else saw them.

 

So who’s to blame?

So what’s to blame?

It’s Raining

3AM.

The clock is ticking in the halls, and sleep is miles away from you right now. 

It’s raining outside; April rain, melting the snow and bringing the green back into the world. Your window is slightly open, so you can hear the soothing pat pat of the rain on the roof and the road; smell the cold, damp air drifting in through the cracks.

3:17AM.

Fuck it. 

You throw off your covers, clad in an old pair of undies and an even older t-shirt, throw your feet off your bed and stand up. Thoughts plague your head and stress consumes your mind, and you need something else to focus on.

You take your weapon and open your bedroom door, tiptoeing down the hall and towards the front door. Slowly, slowly, you inch open the door, trying not to wake anyone up with your psychotic adventure.

It’s pouring rain outside, and a little windy. You tuck your weapon in your underwear and turn on that song you’ve been listening to on repeat all night, and step out off the front steps and into the storm.

Icy rain runs down your hair and face, onto the back of your t-shirt and your chest; your feet start to go numb as you walk through the damp gravel driveway and onto the road.

Deep puddles line the street as you step off your property, and the ice-cold water runs between your toes and around your heels, relieving them of all feeling. You kick at the water streaming down towards the gutter, spraying up droplets and splashing them back down.

Jumping and kicking and twirling, hands stretched out and every part of you is moving, circles and circles, endless. Water streams from the sky and it streams from the ground and it streams from your eyes, but you don’t notice that because the water has numbed you; you feel nothing at all.

But you came out here to feel, so you slip out your weapon, and you feel all you can possibly feel, while still being completely numb. The water splashes and swirls, running down your face and your legs and your arms, mixing with your feelings, running down in its mixture of numbness and water and feelings, into the gutter, where you will never feel it again.

X

This one letter, just a tiny little

X,

Has been with me forever.

When I was young, 

X

Was my favourite letter,

Because it ended my favourite number,

Six.

As I grew up,

I still loved the letter

X,

Because it was never 

A person’s name,

Never associated with anyone

I knew; it was just

X.

But now that I’m older,

Now that I’m twenty, or

XX,

It’s not such a great letter for me.

I love it more than all the others, but

X

Is in so many words now,

I can’t escape it.

X

Is in ‘sex’, as in why did I do it?

Why did I put myself down to that level?

Because now, I don’t just have

X

In the number six,

But I have 

X

In the word ‘sex’;

Most of all, 

X

Is now just itself;

Ex.

Ex-friend.

Ex-boyfriend.

Ex-boss.

Ex-partner.

There are so many of them now,

Too many to count, just

X

X

X

X

With no escape to see.

X

On my test.

X

On my paper.

X

On my skin.

Over and over and over,

Just that one letter,

It will never go away.

I need it for so many things,

Even this, even to

eXpress,

Not only my hatred and 

veXation

At it, but also my love for it.

I’ll never be fiXed.

Three Reasons

You told me to call you if anything was bad.

You told me you’d be there, no matter what time it was,

You told me you’d pick up the phone.

 

But you don’t understand that I don’t want you to.

But you don’t understand that I’m afraid to call.

But you don’t understand that what I’m afraid of is that you’ll pick up.

 

That you’ll answer right away and ask what’s wrong.

That you’ll ask me to tell you what happened.

That you’ll tell me to stop what I’m doing.

 

Because what I’m doing is wrong.

Because what I’m doing is destructive.

Because what I’m doing is fucked up.

 

I don’t want to hear that from you.

I don’t want you to even know I still do it.

I don’t want you to be even more disappointed in me.

 

I know that you would be, I’ve seen it before.

I know that you wouldn’t understand why I continue, when I can talk to you.

I know that you would be angry at me, fed-up.

 

You’ll never understand why I do it.

You’ll never be able to talk me down from it.

You’ll never be the one I talk to about this.

 

I love you for being my friend, and being there for me.

I love you for not freaking out about it when I told you.

I love you for not deserting me afterwards.

 

But I hate that it took that for you to make the effort.

But I hate that you ask about it every time we talk.

But I hate that look you give me over the computer screen.

 

Most of all, it hurts for me that you know.

Most of all, it makes me sad to know what will come next.

Most of all, it’s just painful to remember what happened.

 

There were no reasons to tell you my secret.

There were no reasons for you to tell them my secret.

There were no reasons to confide in you about them.

There were no reasons.

Not really.

But,

There kind of were.

Maybe just a few;

Just three.

 

Three reasons to tell you what happened.

Three reasons to do what I did.

Three reasons to never stop when I did it all.