A little taste of something

Hate

This comes the easiest to me. I know it like an old friend.

One that never left despite the many arguments. It festers inside of me growing in the places that love was never able to reach. Still, this is not the easiest for me to admit. I do not like feeling this way no matter how much it comforts me in the end. I think it is because it focuses me.

I am not alone when I am in pain.

If I share it with others there is a chance it will go away.

I have been accused of wallowing in my own self pity

I guess that is based on some truth.

I do not want it to end…it can’t.

I can tell them I hate them though it may take me some time to do so. I love the feeling of disgust. I love how my blood boils when I see them. Hearing their name gives me such a delicious feeling and I am not sure if I want it to stop.

Hate

I know this feeling like a long lost friend.

It is something that stood by my side when everything else had gone. Even now I sit in it. Letting it fester inside of me, reminding me of things best left in the past. I need it to survive because without it…I might as well be dead.

Joyful Motherhood

I don’t know how to tell my mother I love her. For that, I guess I should be grateful. How can I say such things when I really do not understand the meaning, the feeling, of these simple words. If it were up to me I would shout them from the heavens. I would tell her all the ways I appreciate her and the things she has done. How proud of her with how far she has come. I guess that is love and yet I am confused. These words, so overly spoken, only have meaning because I give them such. So what if she hears my shouted words and hears something other then love? Does that make what I said false?

Should I give up?

See, the word love has always confused me. It is a subjective response to something. What I may confuse as love others may believe it to be anything but…but would that be my fault?

Maybe because I do not understand this I can not accurately predict the way which is best to express it. What if my mother needs gifts, simple actions, wishes of more? Of course, for a friend it would be different, for my daughter even more so.

How can I unpack the various ways to show love and accurately pinpoint which ones works best with which person without going through the motions of stress.

I guess this is a lot to think about because, honestly, none of it really matters in the grand scheme of things. See life is unpredictable, at least it is to me. Something so simple as love and expression, trust and affection, will not look the same for everyone I meet. But intention! Yes, see intention, is sometimes all that matters.

I do not know a lot about love but I wish for my mother to know how much I care. I want her to know that I appreciate the courage it has taken her to bring her children to this point. I have a daughter, my own precious little one, and my mother has given me all of her skills, the good and the bad in raising her. I may not know how to properly show this love but I feel my intent, with every attempt, is enough.

I was told

I was told a story about something painful. As if death is anything but.

There are times when hearing about a person dying does nothing for me. I have watched gory videos and laughed over creepypasta post while drinking my herbal tea. I have sliced my wrist and burned sins into my skin in hopes that it would all go away. Honestly, death is nothing but a friend.

Yet, there are times when I find myself crying over it. I do not understand how my greater craving can be my nightmare. Death astounds me with its grace and yet, here I am suffering.

A loved one has passed away and I do not know what to do. I do not know how to feel….

I am just numb to it all.

But everything I write suggest otherwise. I cant concentrate on school cause I begin to think about him. I begin to miss a man I haven’t seen in years. A man broken by a war I wasn’t alive to witness. So much so little kids had to stay silent in his presence. I miss him and I do not know why. He was the kindest man but I can’t remember a damn thing he did. I barely remember his voice and yet I miss him.

I regret the fact that no one trusted me enough to love him.

Because I can’t say I love a person I wasn’t given a chance to know. I hate myself for never reaching out. But how could I when every sound I made took him right back to the battle field.

I miss him all the same.

I wish to be normal

Have I ever told you that there are days where I can not leave my room. I start to panic at the though of getting out of bed. That something underneath it will grab me or sometime horrible will happen if I sit out in the living room. Time and time again I have to convince myself that no one ia going to bust through my apartment door to shoot me. That every time I hear a car pull up it isn’t someone coming up to harm my daughter and I. It gets worse at night because I can hear and see everything. Someone is always watching. I can feel them breathing as I fall asleep. Some days, if I am not careful, they will even start to crawl there way up my body. During those times I find that I am unable to move. I can not make no sounds. It hurts so bad that I am often to afraid to to to sleep.

Through all of this I can not leave my home without talking myself into it first. There are days when I can walk out just fine and others when I can not even bring myself to unlock the door. I constantly make excuses not to leave, waiting until the very last moment before I go shopping. Even then, I will only go when I have someone else to take me.

I want to be normal. I hate fighting my mind for the privilege to be sane. Some days I feel as though I can do pretty much anything. Crowds don’t bother me as much though I still panic if I get to much attention. The other days I suffer and I am afraid to tell anyone about it. Instead I pretend to be normal. I make up excuses to why I can not leave. I joke with friends about how I am such a spazz and that is why I need them to take me to the store. I will spends hundreds on fast food because, while I can open the door, stepping outside if a different matter.

I want to be normal so much that I do not acknowledge the diagnosis my doctor gave me. I ignore the symptoms and play it off as me being a young mom. I lie and tell people I go places when I do not. I do not want them to worry. But they do it anyways.

I am far from normal and it hurts me every fucking day.

Screaming

I am afraid to vent

Cause you’ll grab a gun and your brain will splatter

And right in the same matter you’ll write

And repent

And ask me what I meant

As though it isn’t already to late

I lost a bet and you choice the date

To fuck it all up but blame me for the mistake

Because it is

A mistake

One that I am unable to accept as anything but my own

Cause your gone now

No one is home

All because I couldn’t vent

Couldn’t tell you what it all meant

When I would sign in pillow

Lie a little when you asked

grabbed a baseball bat to pass the time

As though all would be all right with a little fucking excessive exercise

It is my fault my mistakes my lost fate

That gave you a reason to choose that fucking date

Did you lose focus before you felt the beed to bleed

Leave me to grieve for things I can not see

I was already in pain so why the fuck did you leave

Did you think it will fix everything?

A repetition to the same problem

Now what am I suppose to do?

I can’t vent

Tell the world what I meant

Make them understand this mistake

For your sake

I am hope you are happy in that new place

Time is art

At the time, dying sounded like a good time. I had it all planned out. Every last detail to the minute to the hour. Everything was to be beautiful.

What I didn’t have planned was the sound of my daughter crying. Her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Pieces I wasn’t there to pick up. My death was supposed to be beautiful. No one was suppose to feel sad just joy.

I wanted the world to be better. I didn’t account for the fact that my mother would lose the ability to speak. I figured she would be ok. But for the first time in her life I see her speechless with no sight of it returning.

My death, so lovingly planned. Everything perfect. Yet, my father, I have never heard him scream so loud. So long had I wanted to see some emotion but now I fear the sound will never end. His screams reach me in my coffin. I believe I will never forget the sound of my father bawling.