Empty Spaces

There is a hole in my soul

Where you cannot see

It bleeds and it aches

It hurts and it burns

I do not want this hole in my soul

But if it stops existing, so do I

Two Knives

This story prominently features somewhat graphic mentions of suicide and murder, so if you are triggered by either, please proceed with caution, or avoid this tale entirely.

*~*~*~*

She could go either way.  She had a plan for either contingency.

In the first, she was in the bathroom, with the light on and the door closed, maybe with the shower raining down over her.  The wrists were too sketchy, too uncertain, the inside of each elbow was a much better shot, a much better chance, especially if she went one, two, and got both.  She'd have enough muscle control for that, as long as she moved quickly, and she could.

She'd leave her cellphone on the sink, set to her memos, with a note detailing where to go to find her post-death instructions, and apologies to whoever found her, apologies for the mess, for the waste of water, for the smell, whatever needed apologizing for.

On her laptop, exactly where she said in her memo the information would be, she would have a detailed list of information, what she wanted to happen, who she wanted to notify.

The second plan was a lot riskier, involved waiting for him to fall asleep, and praying she got the cut just right, so he didn't struggle and make a bigger mess than was necessary.  The other woman, not her, but his wife, she wasn't the most attentive, and if she'd had a long day, she'd never notice.

No, night was better, wait until they were asleep, together, and again, one, two, taking off before anyone found them, living high on their hogs until she could get away.  Far away.  Never to return.  Probably would end in a jail sentence, but it wasn't like her life couldn't benefit from three meals a day and a consistent place to sleep.

She sighed, looking at the knives, sharp, if a bit small, and put them in the knife block where they belonged, shaking off morbid fantasies for the reality of emptying the dishwasher, shaking water from clean dishes and putting them where they belonged, moving dirty dishes from the sink to the dishwasher.

She wouldn't do anything, she knew that, but sometimes, the fantasy kept her sane, for just one more day, gave her something to think about that wasn't what she was already worried about.  It continued to be enough.

The Fighter

In the dark of night he comes

A victimizer cloaked in black

To whisper secret sufferings in your ear

And teach you your strengths are what you lack

Every night and every day

You must fight him off, fight him away

And though you try to escape his grasp

You'll soon again feel his painful wrath

But you keep fighting and working

You've no better choice

Because if you surrender and fall

You'll leave others alone with his voice

But there are others

Few and far between

You only know some

By the sounds of their screams

You find each other

By effort and careful planning

You flee when he drops into the middle

Disrupting your cautious scanning

But you try and try and try

And then you try again

And before you know what's happened

You've made yourself a friend

And together you both fight

Sometimes together you fall

But when they are strong and you are weak

They'll often answer your call

For help and support

A little bit of praise

Someone who knows the fight

And how difficult the malaise

You are never permanently victorious

There is no such thing as ultimate win

But every once in a while

You feel purged clean of all sin

Morning Conversations

Trigger warnings for depression, discussion of suicide, and bullying, if the voice in your head counts as a bully.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I am weak

I am afraid

And I know it.

You claim you know so that you don’t have to admit

That you’re powerless

Hopeless

And no one wants to help you.

People love me.

They want what you can do.

People care about me.

You’re a nuisance.

Don’t bother them.

Don’t tell them how tempting it is

To look over the fence

And into the abyss.

They’ll be sad if I die.

They’ll judge you if you survive.

I have homework to do.

What’s the point of that?

You can’t do it right.

It doesn’t help you with anything

You’ll never get a job on your degree

And you’re going to fail this class.

I haven’t failed before.

You mean you haven’t failed yet.

I am strong.

You just said you were weak.

What a hypocrite.

I can be weak and strong at the same time.

In different ways.

Lying liar!

Hypocrite!

False!

Fat!

Ugly!

Forever alone mouthbreather.

That’s why no one likes you.

I don’t have to listen to you.

I can wait until you will.

When your roleplaying partner rejects spending time with you

And no one is posting on Tumblr

And you have three neglected assignments that will each be five hours of work and ten percent of your grade looming over your head.

I can wait until then.

I can wait until the winter comes

When it’s dark

And you’re low

And you can’t even bring yourself to get out of bed

Much less shower and dress for school.

But you have to go to class

So you go unwashed

And avoid sitting too close to anyone

And pretend not to notice the smell of unwashed ass that wafts from your chair when you stand.

I can wait until then.

I can wait until you haven’t eaten more than a thousand calories a day for four days

And you’ve only had three hours of sleep a night for five

And you feel like you’re going to pass out every time you stand

And you don’t QUITE sleep through all of your classes

And your fingers are stupid with exhaustion and cold from hunger

And you really should be doing homework, but you have an hour before work and you’re so TIRED.

I can wait until then.

I hate you.

I am you.

I hate me.

To Live

Retail work is hard.

Let's just put that on the table, where everyone can see it.  Take a good long look at that for me, ok?  Think about that really hard.  Now think about any worker at every grocery store, corner store, supercenter, clothing boutique, or other place where you can buy shit.

Depending on the size of the store, these people spend all day on their feet, moving things, lifting things, shifting things, bending, crouching, sweeping, mopping, walking, putting things on racks, inviting people to buy this thing or that thing, but mostly doing the annoying, monotonous work of making the store not look like shit.

And they do it all for minimum wage.

That could just be Meijer, where I work, that people are putting in that much effort, but I suspect it's pretty ubiquitous.

And it's HARD.

This is backbreaking, agonizing work, and even if you nearly kill yourself working, you still bring home a check that's barely worth looking at.  I'm not even including fast food and restaurant workers, because they have their OWN unique pile of shit to deal with that I can't even begin to address, because I've never done that work.

It saps the life out of you, though.  I feel disposable, used, and utterly interchangeable.  Because I am.  They don't need ME.  They just need someone, a body in the uniform to do the work and take the tests and move the thing and lift the thing.

I'm so tired of feeling like shit.  I ache, in a bone deep way.

I realized, the other day, that all of my fiction, as well as most of my poetry, it has the common theme of escaping, running away, and that's all I really want to do.  I want to get out, go away.  I always feel like I'm asking too much because I want consistent food, consistent ability to pay my bills, consistent shelter, but I know I'm really not.

And it's not like this shit gets better as you get older, it just gets harder and more frustrating, and that's so disheartening.  I even know that my depression's flaring up right now because I'm hungry, and that hunger and slight malnutrition contribute to the way my body is aching right now, but I know that's not the fullness of it, that is not the long and short of it all.

Why do we have to make it so hard to just fucking live?

Floating On

I hate

Being overstimulated

I hate

My mind flying

Farther and faster

Than my body can keep up

To the point my body

Just gives up

Doesn't try at all

While my mind

Flies off

Into oblivion

Independent of me

My wants

My needs

My any indication

Of caring

Wanting

Anything

Fuck this

I hate

The need

To stare at something

Repetitive and monotonous

So that while my mind

Is busy fucking off

My body

Doesn't suffer for it

I hate

The way the void

Opens up

I don't hate the void

I hate

That I can never access it

When

I

Want

It

When I need it

When I could use

A little fucking inner peace

And quiet

I hate

The

Floating

Balloon

Feeling

Like I'm not really real

Like I'm not really here

Like I really could float away

Be free

But I'm not free

I'm stuck

Trapped

This is

My eternity

My life

I don't want it

But I haven't got

A

N

Y

T

H

I

N

G

Left

The Road Home

You are too old for this

I am too young

We both have reasons

This shouldn't be happening

Life shouldn't be like this

Things should be different

Better

More

But they are not

This is the hand

We've been dealt

This is the life we lead

No matter what we want

What we wish

What we hope could be

Though I would take it all away

If I could

I can't

I'm tired

I must help myself first

I pity you

Envy you your departure

Your hope

Your road out of this mess

But your road is not mine

And mine is not yours

They must be walked separately

By each woman alone

While I pity

Your sleepless nights

I must have pity

For my own helpless tears

Fare thee well friend

May the day find you home

And mayhaps someday

Find mine as well.