terça-feira, 25 de julho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°63: The middle

How can I explain? I don't make pretty things. My hands are full of weeds and it wants to eat everything alive. The tenderness was desired, but my face smells like dry blood and wind dust because I'm always on run. God, I wish I special like you, like them, like that mango tree over your head. They are what they are; I'm not what I am and I'm not what I wanted to be, maybe, maybe that's okay. Close your eyes and follow the sound of my voice, hold my hand and tell me I'm pretty — I've always wished to be that — tell me to write about love again. I hate orders, but you're under my skin, I can't refuse.

Walk through a street alongside me and, if you pay attention (nobody does), you can see that I only have half of my body; as if I'm wandering half in this world and half in the void. The me in the void is long gone and my head doubts if it even existed in first place. Don't get distracted, pay attention to the hole in my chest sucking the life out of me. It turns into a hurricane so fast you barely can see the wind dirt dressing me down.

Get out of the middle and choose a side, someone yells. Well, I would if I fucking wanted, I reply. I like the hurtful and unbalanced switch, at least it's not boring. The middle is my mom and my dad bring me into this life even though they're fuck ups. I'm not a mixture, I got stuck in the strains of heads on the wall and cultures that don't accept me. The middle is needing labels because I don't know how I am supposed to act in this existence. The middle is my skin being hated, and hating my skin, but not expressing myself about it because I'm not really there. The middle is my friends making plans — I hate plans and promises and people who give up easily — because my imagination doesn't go that far. The middle is me being a mediocre person, I was more in my head, I did everything there. The middle is wanting to hold a hand forever and then 30 seconds later rushing back to my room to isolate myself for 6 months. The middle is wanting to die so, so much, but there's people making noise. The middle is wanting to smash someone's head into a wall, but being terrified when people start raising their voices during an argument. The middle is wanting to say so many cruel things to the people I love for they don't live up to their versions in my head; I hold back, I wanted them to read my mind so I don't have to speak about it. The middle is running away from everything that could have an ending coming soon. The middle is me, with 14 years, trying to kill myself for the first time, but hoping if something extraordinary could happen and erase the bad things from my head. Instead, I keep forgetting, bit by bit. The middle is laughing while your brain displays a compilation of solid points about why you should die as soon as possible. The middle is talking about how I didn't want to be broken then hearing every week every time that I can change that if I really really want. I don't. The middle is from where I can see you and the wonderful, painful, joyful life you'll have. I won't.

Somewhere from where I am a memory, I hope I'm a good one. Keep following the sound of my voice and don't look back, I've already turned into a clock. Tick tock, tick tock, keep measuring, keep counting, keep walking and then silence. The silence will cut through your throat, but it'll be alright, darling. My dry blood thrives, even though I'm a cardboard cut out, the velvet overwhelms this room. Don't open your eyes, just tell me I'm pretty anyways.