The Depression Diaries, n°70 - Non omnis moriar

Your hands never touched me, and oddly it was something you were always proud of. I didn't get to know the weight of your strength in my skin, and sometimes — in a really fucked up way — I wish I did. But what isn't fucked up about me, right? The congratulations are for you. At least I could've fight back; the only thing I've learned how to do, but don't forget you were the one that threw me into the jungle. Although it isn't always loud, I can tackle a few people in a couple of seconds, but that's not the major point; my survival got so quiet that even I wouldn't notice I was there. Sometimes I wondered if I stopped existing for a while, if I got sucked into another universe for a certain time. If you had threw me on the ground and kicked me in the face, I'd be sure to spit blood on you, that's what you've made of me — red hands and red arms, it could've been yours. Thinking clearly now, I should've displayed how close I was to let the monster you put inside myself break itself free. You should've had a front seat, it'd be a beautiful doomsday. This game of pushing and pulling didn't make me cruel though, but you don't get credit for that; you're the one who turned me into the beast that haunts kids' nightmares of how bad they could end up in the future. Look both ways, turn yourself into a gun, you never can be sure, just grow up, quickly, to be able to protect those you love; that was me, powerless and now, too powerful. 

Contrary to popular belief, I do understand how forgiveness works and in a few times I manage to deliver it, but don't get too chimmy. This isn't what I intend for you. Forgiveness is me pulling, bare flesh and all, the knife off of my chest and sewing the skin back together. I can leave in the deepness of mind a lot of times people I love have wounded me; even if it wasn't a scratch, even if it was a gunshot deep down spilling my guts. That way comes with forcing myself into swallowing hollowness; I'm a haunted house in ruins, collecting my own corpses shouldn't be something to be taken aback by. What I meant to say accurately about forgiveness is that such thing is an enchanted flower in a vast and crowded forest in a summer night, I can't pinpoint it's exactly location; men speak, gods speak, this commotion means nothing to me if you allow me to be this mannerless. There's no such thing as being lost in this stream, it's my excuse — I have a billion of them, do you want some? You were never good at it — to say that not even in the very brink of perpetual extinction of the universe, I'll never get over the fact that I could be a completely different person if you just had considered that I'm someone you should've protected; instead you threw me to the wolves. You forgot — you always did — that I'm a lion, you forgot because you've never seen one even when you spotted my claws full of dirt, of  dry blood; you forgot because that's what we do when we don't want to confront something. It's not my shame, it's yours. I ate people like you for breakfast and this hierarchy is certainly a universe's joke that I ended up with a prey I can't devour.

For a certain time I thought I'd care, in the long run, about the fact that you had he audacity of dissipate on thin air; I waited for tears that never came, just as you never came back. I'm glad you didn't, because out of all the stupid people I've met so far, you were the worst, and the killing part is that I couldn't voice it out. But I bet you're not surprised with my hatred, it has always been here; did you think that the growing of my limbs would erase your painful writings on my walls? Every time I have to hear that there's a resemblance of your existence in my face I want tear my skin apart, I don't want to be like you, a concrete wall of stubbornness and dumbness that is everything that lead me to self destruction. I didn't know who I should be (am I the heroine, am I the villain?), but in the end I didn't have the pleasure of disembowel every piece of you like I wanted to. Red is the blood we share, and it's still red when I break my skin apart in order to have less of you inside me. It's red and I feel like an usurper, these violent memories feel stolen, but I was there, you know that. Life has a non-conventional way of making things clear in the most random moments; you left and I released the breath I was holding for years. There is no forgiveness, my mind burns you in this house we've met for the first time, but I'm unburnt, and you don't, you deserve that. Judgement comes with all the shit I've been through and I don't care about being the bigger person; I hope it fucking haunts you for the entire eternity that you loved me in all the wrong ways, in all the wrong moments; you're not here, but my shadow is your shadow — I raise my voice and I feel you take over me like supernatural possession; you're far from that shit though, you made me a monster and left, you didn't even had the decency of waiting for me to die first, cry me a fucking river. Be aware that I don't believe in anything, I didn't get to build a bridge to get over it because I've been kicking and being kicked since birth; dropped and forgotten and bruised without repair, but I'm tough, they say, I never cried. Miserably suffering in the darkness of my room was thing I thought I should do, the right thing to do to escape from weakness, and that's on you. Ghosts everywhere, all the possibilities float around me but I never reach any of them, shit, I'm scared; I am the youngest that had to be the oldest in a blink of an eye, in the little things and in the vast pressure of being responsible for someone because that was what I had to do, I couldn't let them become like me. Someone has to thrive from this shit show, and it's not gonna be me. In those nights everything feels like it's all about the way my teeth has always been too sharp to resemble someone who needed protection, it's my fucking fault I get it, so the pack sent me out there to die. I am no wolf, I said and I said, I said; never quite understood why they were surprised with the carnage. Bring the glasses full of alcohol, you succeed in creating a disaster waiting to happen. It's ridiculous, you're not even a wolf; in my memories you've always been a low being in the food chain, I could swallow you in a blink of an eye if I wanted to. You should've seen my butchery, you should've felt miserable. Don't forget that at all costs you wanted me a wolf, so instead I became a lion just to smile watching your disappointment when I declined the throne. I wish you were still here so I could chain your weak body to this golden chair that mattered so much, the thorns drilling through your skin would be a masterpiece I could stare til the end of the days. This crown is meaningless; I've always hated elitism, and I'm still the beast with blood — my own blood — in my hands.

This blood in me is also the blood that has been shed through entire centuries, and yet I feel like the usurper. There's a road I've been walking my entire life, it doesn't matter much that nowadays I'm crawling in order to keep others on their feet, except for the fact that it has put me as a mediator of every single thing I've been involved; my greatness was overshadowed by my own body in order to allow others to shine. My brain keeps telling me I should stop walking, I'm not that great anyway, but it's still beautiful. Even in my hatred there's a beauty hidden by the storm. Even in you, there was a beauty in the genes you gave me; I'm proud of where I came from even if they don't recognize me as such. I wanted it all, you know. Books, music, stories; the background about myself that would help me build a proper self, someone I could actually describe when I'm asked who I am. You took that away from me too. The distance you thought was enough to keep your shield up and running, and it's almost comical that you stopped walking your road and your hands are no longer capable of reaching me even if you wanted to. We're alike, right? So you must be with popcorn in hands watching me rot. All those lies about how great I was, I am, meant nothing when I just wanted to be like everybody else, to like and think and act like most of people do. I wanted not to want great things; to be mediocre like you, to be stupid like you. I restrained myself to see the greatness in many things, but I keep founding them even in the hateful mirror I face every morning. It's a stranger, at least it's not you; but it still feels like there's a world inside me that wants to get out and I don't know how to help it. You took your hands with you when you were gone, but you still left me here. The thing is that your hands are my hands and let's not fool ourselves, we were made to break things. I'm tired of containing myself, and terribly afraid of the day I'll lose my abitlity to refrain my rage; there will be no coming back from that and this battlefield is endless and fucking pointless, that's all what men do; letting go of myself is the best option. Congratulations, this is your perfect final act.