Cement
It
is filling my lungs as I sit on a leather couch and let my throat bleed all the
razors that rested in the flesh. Met with the bored eyes of an over-paid woman
who lets her pen scribble the same words over and over again, prescribing me
pills spiked with poison. I explain that I’m scared as boys promise to love me
then leave bruises carefully on the bones that jut from my skin. With an
instant snap, she explains that I must forget it, erase all the indents he left
in my brain, dissolve all the sickening memories of suffocating while my face
was shoved into a pillow to mute my screams. For two whole years, my cheeks
were permanently streaked with canals built for tears. Shakily I tell her that
my dreams are racked with nightmares and when I wake up, all my veins are
tangled and I am not solid. I want to scream or I might just take a whole
bottle of pills and follow up with a bottle of vodka. I am not okay. I am not
okay. F**k, just make it go away. I want
to tell her that I have built up my armor prepared for a war, but the heavy
weight of impenetrable metal has weighed me down to my knees and my demons are
no longer using blades, they are dumping acid on my skin. I growl to the skies
that I am not weak, that I can hold on to my sanity. But God does not throw
lightning bolts to dead beings that have no more room for energy when the
darkness finally swallows their existence.