Do you ever watch something and you get the feeling that you’ve watched it before yet have no recollection whatsoever of doing so?
I’m so many things. Labels.
Yet I fail at all of them. Badly. Constantly. Unstoppably.
Because beneath the what requires a who.
Only there is no who.
I’m no who.
It’s just empty.
I’m just empty.
So fucking empty.
The emptiness is so fucking exhausting.
I try and fill it, ignore it.
Swallowing books and binging on series after series on Netflix. All day. Every day. As if in some numb trance. Only when you blinker out everything from reality can you check out of it. Out of the agonising effort of pretending to be someone. Out of trying to feel something; anything.
The panic and rage that surfaces, explodes uncontrollably, when you resurface and you’re forced to respond and react like you’re someone.
And you know. You know what you should be feeling. What you’re supposed to feel. How you’re supposed to react.
And it’s hard to know which is more destroying.
The fact that you feel nothing.
Or that the few things you do feel you can’t translate nor express adequately; or even at all.
Or the fact that they can’t see it.
Then there’s that fear that maybe
One day they will.
I heard the fireworks at midnight.
And I cried.
In the darkness of my bedroom that I’ve been in for hours.
With the glow of Netflix on my Chromebook.
And the soft sleeping sighs of my beautiful 3 three year old.
Who battled for three hours with me at bedtime. Making me so fucking angry. Because anger is one of the few things I do feel and can express. Mostly when I don’t even want to. It just…. Engulfs everything.
And now she’s sleeping.
And oblivious to my thousand whispered apologies to her.
Isn’t a cavern that needs to be filled
That beg to be discovered
It’s the penny wish at the bottom of the well.
It’s the moth in the dark
Who’s envy of the light
Stinks of desperation
It’s the speck of confetti
From a carnival you never went to
Now stuck to the sole of your shoe
In-between the mud and dog shit.
It’s the language you can’t decipher
Spoken behind you on the bus
That you tune out.
It’s the hidden message in the cracking
Of an untuned TV channel
It’s the stubby lipstick
In a dark drawer
You forgot you had.
I’m a little bit squiffy 😉
Well colour me invalidated.
Yet I take the dull radiating ache of this
Over the terrifying alternative
I can’t remember the last time I had a spoken meaningful conversation with someone I don’t live with.
I neither jest nor exaggerate when I proclaim I have not one friend outside the confines of my handheld internet.
I haven’t had the touch, laughter, words nor silences of in the flesh friendship for nearly 15 years.
I have long ago lost the ability to interact with any semblance of normality with life. With people.
My existence is awkward. Painful. Stuttered.
I am a ghost.
Full of unspoken words
A dessert of them
On my tongue
A million grains of words.
“cuz it’s always raining in my head”
And still Empty.