Days 14-19: PTSD

I originally published this on my tumblr first, but I’d figure I’d drop it here too.

the first step is always acceptance and I accepted that these terrible things happen rather they be random acts of violence or forces beyond my control but I still have these flashbacks and my mind makes up these scenarios and I really

I don’t know I just end crying when the night visits me, always without fail and unless I’m reading or talking to someone or watching something I can’t feel at ease, ever and there’s only so much you can write about because your vocabulary has a finish line and you’ve crossed it, you’ve crossed it so many times, these words mean absolutely nothing, they’re redundant, probably get annoying because the rhythm gets repetitive and you’ve heard it all already

it gets to the point where these thoughts become broken records, they loop, playing over and over and over and over

The needle is too fucking heavy and I literally can’t make it stop, I’ve tried, I really have, you can’t say I haven’t

And that’s probably why I can’t even sleep, you know

Over

Because it happens

Over

Breaks out

Over

Interrupts over

Doesn’t matter how much cute shit I read or watch over and over

I’m not over it

Over and over and over again

13 of 365: Reference

I’d marry the night if it didn’t mean swimming in total darkness with you.

My light snuffed out when you breathed me in, and I thought, so this is love–cold, dark, and gruesome, like in the movies.

I followed you into the dark but I lost you there; when the sharks pulled my arm you never looked back.

My daddy was a sailor, I don’t think I ever told you that, so he made me learn how to swim good, above water and away from sharpened teeth and obsidian eyes.

I had wings when I learned how to ignite my own flame, and then I saw you–

hunched over, lost, mouth rabid; I knew you were dangerous because you didn’t know what you wanted

But I never said that, I said, Jesus Christ, that’s a pretty face. I touched the skin like I touch fine China, softly, delicately with the sole intention of admiring the art.

There was a crack in your design, a flaw, but I showed you my scar, the bites on my arm–“Baby, we all gotta go sometime.”

You were afraid, and I didn’t understand because we were there already–you took my hand, my whole life too.

Why’d you let the muck in this fish bowl confuse you?


Songs Used:

“Marry the Night” by Lady Gaga

“So This is Love” by Ilene Woods

“I Will Follow You Into the Dark” by Death Cab For Cutie

“My Daddy Was a Sailor” by Marina and the Diamonds

“Swim Good” by Frank Ocean

“Seraphim” by For Today

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” by U2

“Jesus Christ” by Brand New

“The Great Gig in the Sky” by Pink Floyd

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley

“Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd

10 of 365: Twenties

One of the first things you’re going to do is buy yourself a good old-fashioned piggy bank, the kind that you can’t open without a hammer because you actually want to save up for that trip next summer.

The next thing is update your wardrobe, pass the graphic tees and patterned jeans over to your grandparents for them to hand down, wondering what possessed you to ever think those were cool enough to wear out in public.

You start looking for jobs, because on top of saving up for travel, you want to be able to afford some new clothes.

Your taste in music doesn’t really change, but you seek out other things to listen to, just because it shouldn’t try out things you aren’t use to.

You treat food the same way, and build a tolerance for spicy food and discover that you’re, unfortunately, lactose intolerant. You eat stuff you shouldn’t eat anyway, because it tastes good and who are you to not enjoy things?

There are some people you stop talking to. It doesn’t make you sad, because you start talking to other people and learn even more about yourself, things you wouldn’t have ever known if you stuck yourself with people who stopped growing.

You keep some others though, because you can’t decide if what’s keeping you together is loyalty or mutual adoration, but you don’t rush the revelation, just try to enjoy the little time you spend together.

Life is too short to be half-assed about anything anymore.

You start getting along with your parents and siblings. You tell them you love them as often as you remember to, and take your siblings out to the movies to see the only film the could ever seem to talk about.

You try out a new hobby, and grow a plant by your window.

You read the plant a different chapter from that new book you bought every day.

You realize that life is short, life is long, life is not enough for everything you want.

6 of 365: Macaron

Life allows us small luxuries when our clothes start to hang off our bodies, tired and ragged after the frustration of not being good enough long enough. At times, the luxury appears in the form of a petite french pastry, or of a friend’s laugh, warming up our insides like sunshine. The experience is ephemeral, but it isn’t about the brevity of something good–instead it’s of savoring the stage.

Keep your hands out of your pockets and pull the clouds away from the sun. Let the light make love to your skin. Let its warmth remind you of the reason you breathe.

Do you need a reason to not enjoy the good things?

3 of 365: Summersault

I haven’t done one since I was eight. I remember, because when I was nine my mother placed me in an after-school program called Little Shepard. The program arranged a number of trips. That summer we visited a gymnasium where I tried to perform a summersault for the first time in a while. I felt a strain in my neck, and stopped out of fear.

A boy whose sleeves spilled onto the mat offered to help, but I jumped up and politely refused.

“One more time!”

It’s eleven years later. I’ve been pushing myself for a while, pushing my feet against the mat, watching the drops of sweat that slide down my jaw, but my breath isn’t heavy with my new stamina. My shoulder aches after constantly hitting the ground sideways, but it doesn’t stop me. I want to do this.

“Come on!” I boom. My mother gives me a wary look before approaching.

“This is the last time,” she says.

I’ve been afraid of doing this since I was nine, fearing the strain in my neck. The fear solidified over the years, worse due to the extent of my experiences. My neck manages my paralysis and nightmares; it manages how high I hold up my head, how I breathe with or without someone’s hands wrapped around them. My neck collects clusters of stress. No one can kiss the anxiety away, but I don’t need them to.

I can handle it.

“Okay.” I inhale sharply and throw myself back. She helps with a push.

I roll, I crouch, I’m on my feet. My grin seems to blind her.

“I knew that time you’d be able to do it,” she praises, and walks off.

1 of 365: Dance

You reach for the dips of her curves but an alarm rings in your mind, shrieking of the new year’s incunabula, warning you these moments define all the rest. Your fingers instead dash into her sides, digging in, spider-legs running up and down baby pink cashmere, feeling along her ribs and pushing against the force of her jump because she wasn’t expecting this. Her laughter is a scarf; it infinitely wraps around your neck and stays there. You familiarize yourself with its warmth because this is as far as you go. You pull back, hold your hands up in surrender because there is a line you don’t cross. Her giggles come in short breaths. She pushes you, playfully, before messing up her own hair, the locks cascading around her face, hugging her neck.

She places a hand on your stomach, and you feel the beginnings of a slow burn at the pit of it. You hide the arousal with a confused look.

Dance is a carnal aphrodisiac, had always angered spectators with its intimacy and movement. But the dance between two people who must measure the distance at which they stand draws half-lidded gazes and gaping mouths. Your feet think it best to add more distance, because the more you look at her, the more you don’t know what to do about the hair on her lip, or the soft skin of her jaw.

Familiarity is daunting. Closeness worse. She is bold and you are not.

Your clock croaks, reminds you that everything is set, timed–everything croaks. You smile and say nothing. You think it’s better to just leave it there. Leave it there like words unsaid. Her fingers will place the strand, someone will stroke her cheek, and this dance will end soon.