A Monomaniac’s Mess

The smell of bleach is strong on my hair, on my hands, on my skin. It spills into my burning chest and bleeds methane all over my viscera, rending me apart, inside-out first. The vivid crimson, it seems, was not reserved for my dyed hair alone. It spread madly. All over my cheeks and my arms and my heart. I saw it coming. But I didn’t jump out of the way to avoid it. And now I’m falling fast. I always thought I was falling for something, but turns out, I was just…falling. Everywhere. Somewhere. Nowhere.

My head is in a new kind of hell right now.

Scratch that actually, since it’s more of a purgatory. An in-between of a restless plague. I don’t fucking know what it is. I really want to be happy for them—please trust me when I say that I sincerely am—and my toothy grin and rather frenetic disposition spells out h-a-p-p-y in capital letters, but my heavily-breathing chest hurts in ways that gravity couldn’t even begin to imagine, and I feel so physically sick of myself that I’ve found myself stumbling to the bathroom and violently rejecting the contents of my stomach more than once. I feel sorry. I feel excited. I feel peaceful. I feel guilty. I feel both paradise and inferno. All that in a span of five seconds before it cycles back up again and screws me up. I’d honestly rather be in hell, because at least I’ll know what to feel there. But in this perdition? It’s an endless stretch of grey. The point where everything and nothing meets. The middle of the middle.

The food is tasteless. The air is coldly warm. Even the music feels somehow numb now.

Why am I even experiencing this? How dare I have even the frayed-out nerve to feel betrayed, when the traitor doesn’t even know my name exists? I’m all fucked up. It’s all fucked up. Fuckin’ A. I don’t deserve this. And I don’t mean that in an “I’m innocent, I haven’t done anything wrong!” kind of fashion, no. I literally don’t deserve to have these emotions. They’re not mine. They were never mine to have, never mine to keep, never even mine to give in the first place, and somewhere at the back of my bluntly-logical mind I always knew that. But I somehow chose the cheap seats upfront and foolishly deluded myself to believe ever so fervently in a phantom’s ludicrous lie. Sooner or later, the ghosts would have to fade away. Everyone would have to laugh at the final act. Someone would have to reveal the deceitful trick to the gullible fool. And now I weep. And now I suffer. And now I fucking hurt. As if it was mine. Selfish, selfish human being.

I would rather be heartless than a poet, because at least I don’t have to wrench out every melodramatic word and verse from either severe tragedy or comedy. At least I don’t have to think and overthink, analysing every single thing like it would even matter at all in the end. At least I don’t have to feel pain just to feel pain. Just so I could write something, because I’ll never be capable of having normal sentiments without intensifying them a million times until it starts to hurt; until I could clearly pick it out from the thousands of other wretched demons indistinctly squirming around in the cesspool of my mind and dance with it for countless infinities until my body burns away. And I really fucking wish that I have absolutely nothing to do with love. The word. The concept of it. The meaning of it. The triteness of it. The very goddamn feeling of it. Somehow, it’s the only kind of pain in the world that’s socially and universally acceptable. Why? Because it keeps our species alive and well, of course. And destroys the rest of us along with it.

I fucking hate it. I fucking hate that I’m a constant victim to it. And I fucking hate that I keep crawling back to it so mindlessly and desperately, bruises and broken bones and wartime wounds and all. It makes me feel bad. It makes me want to feel bad. But what I hate the most is that I don’t want to forget it—to ever forget any of it. I just want to forget myself. Even for just a while. Can I please do that? Please?

Just break away from your brain. Cut all the ties loose and break away from it, like you always do when every repressed problem comes back up to fill the anxious void in those momentarily interludes of emptiness. Just…break away from yourself.

But this time, don’t come back from it.

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