Right To the Point
untitled
I always used to cut to stop crying. My focus would become narrower and narrower, focussing on something clinical and silent, in a house with no privacy. Sobs are loud, and messy, and in this paper-thin room I cannot hide them. The clean, deliberate point was like counting. One, two, three, four or the first red line, the first drop or well of blood, then the next letter, and the next, spelling in frail capital letters FAILURE and ALONE, until I had quieted. Somewhere, in the needle-silence, I lost the ability to scream. Now, I quiet myself instinctively, without benefit of counting, numbered or unnumbered.
I take my hysterics, and fit them into my skull, the magician's infinite and expanding handkerchief, wadded and stuffed, forcing open my jaw because there is no room. I want to cut into my skull, and pull out the bright-coloured squares. People say that when you're depressed, everything fades to gray. Everything here is so vibrant that it hurts me. I am cut with a red, lacerated by orange, and I want to be torn to ribbons. Tear me.
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Growing up, I always had privacy of some sort. For me, mourning or grieving was a matter of simply making it into the bathroom or away from siblings before breaking down and crying. When it turned to anger, I'd wail on a punching bag or I'd mulch some plant in the yard with a machete. Used that punching bag a lot when my dad came back from jail. Of course, the night he told us he was leaving left the massive aloe vera plant a horrible mess. I still feel kinda bad for that plant.
Out here, there's nothing. I end up screaming and beating the walls of port-a-potties while I feel my life falling apart. Thank god things are smoothing out, but now I'm just left without direction.
Forgot to mention, more specifically, about the piece. I like the ending, about the ... vibrancy? of it all. But the orange is a little awkward. It's probably more personal and definitely deserves a place in their, but its presentation could be better suited to the ... mood? The appearance? The ... feeling of the piece.