It’s July 1st.

     I realized this morning, reading a tweet or something insignificant. Regardless, I was scared, but at least a friend was with me. Disaster avoided. 

     Just reminded on Facebook. Now I’m scared shitless, I’m terrified. I feel like doomsday is approaching, not the date of my late birth. I feel like the world’s ending, collapsing, and I’m at the center past the event's horizon.

      Help me survive the bottom—or the center...

Monroe Makes Thirteen

     For a few years I’ve considered getting a monroe piercing. Holding me back was the worry that my face would appear too “cluttered” because of how many facial piercings I already had (snakebites, nose, tongue).

     The other day I took a photo and I couldn’t help but think that it would look so much better if I had a monroe piercing in it. I asked a few friends their opinions and got thumbs up all around, so I went ahead and got it done yesterday afternoon by a friend (who happens to be a professional piercer).

     My friend doing the procedure made the experience much more pleasant than any other. The comfort of my room, my music, and someone I trust doing the piercing was a completely relaxed environment. I can say with much assurance that getting my monroe was the least painful piercing I have ever gotten, and I believe it largely has to do with what I just described.

     If you’re curious as to what all I have done now, here’s a list—

1.) 2 lobe  2.) 4 cartilage (one left, three right) 3.) 1 industrial (left) 4.) 2 lip (snakebites) 5.) 1 nostril (left) 6.) 1 tongue 7.) 1 monroe (right side, which might even be called something else by some, but I’m not sure)

     This leaves me with a grand total of thirteen, if you count the industrial as two (which I do, considering it took 45 minutes and bled like crazy).

This is the desolate unsharable instead by fours...

     Imagine the discredit I’d charge.
     Project the unbelievable and ultimate betrayal to the biggest thing I’ve ever known onto me on the personal, intellectual level of the preeminent masochist.
     I’d drown in the debt.

     When I jump you jump with me and we collide together again, my antilover. I’d have to break my human laws to escape you, you’d annihilate me if I didn’t protect my body and everybody with me. In that event resisting the horizon, what’s bigger and better for me? You, or the mistress of my thievery?
     I feel as if I’m wronging you, but what if you meet the love of your life and you’re already aboard a ship? Are you supposed to just let them pass you by without cannon blasts of your amour? I’m hurtling through, gazing with wonder and amazement, but… all I have is you.

     Loathing will grow, boredom will mount. Do you want me to be disgusted by you like I already am of so much of the spectrum, not system? I care too much, but, I do love you… I just love you in another.

     I’m sorry if our affair ends. I’m sorry for us, not me or not you. We’ve had a great run and who’s to say the finish line is going to be the break in our tightrope?

     Do not shed a tear and you will not become the tear.

The Self of the Sadist

     I hate not knowing what’s next. It’s the stem of my anxiety, blossoming into countless beautiful irrationalities to the sadist. Someone reigning over the rain I’m left under to wade through the unknown. It’s not the abyss nor the galaxy, it’s the absolute unknown. Someday, I might just collide into another, and then? One day this human descent into annihilation? Who knows, it’s all a piece of the feared unknown.

     I’m trying to grip myself, decapitating the condescending fears. I’m afraid of sharks/tornadoes/the unknown, they had become virtues when their result respected vices.

     In the words of one winged creature to another unbeknown:

if you can hear this, don’t assume…

For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.

     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was “ME, for man is BVT A WORM.”

 

The Observant Love Song of the Future

“I’m seventeen and I’m crazy. My uncle says the two always go together. When people ask your age, he said, always say seventeen and insane. . . .” – Clarisse McClellan, Fahrenheit 451

     It’s a little frightening when I consider that in three months I will be eighteen. Did anyone else ever feel this way, or does everyone feel this way? … A child trapped in hardly a woman’s body, with what has proven to be a man by her side. There are so many things that will change and so many things that possibly could. I am at the brink of the rest of my life. … And in short, I am afraid.

The Offer & The Received

Rough draft written on 28 March 2010

     It’s difficult for me to trust people, especially people I instinctually feel I should—family. Undressing before a twisted grin and hours of lost darkness with my great grandfather is my youngest memory.

     At a point, three more individuals began to take turns at my body. A short time later my birth mother figured it out, on several occasions witnessing my captors leading their prisoner to Hell. All the while she said and did nothing. She picked at me for it then and calls me a liar today, yet has an immense curiosity in what all lies I have spread.

     What sick & sane person would wish to hear such horrendous lies evidently in accusation of themselves? Or perhaps, and the truth is grave-ridden here, she seeks what truths I have told that she has attempted desperately to cleverly disguise as lies so that she may better cloak the rest of what I haven’t yet told the world in invisibility. Hardly.

     Aside from trust, holding on to self-worth from my obvious (re)collection of reduction to the V is a prominent difficulty. The one I felt by a subconsciously assumed mutual instinct should care for me most, harbors a malicious desire to constantly belittle and subsequently dispatch me in finite time. She wouldn’t protect my then-virgin body of all the things she could’ve, how could I gravitationally take pride in myself without an outside force? My body has always been the prison from the very first particle of dark matter I know exists but cannot see.

     This is the inescapable womb of a black hole that has swallowed me ad infinitum. Someone’s going to have to push me out, and maybe it’s me. We don’t know what triggers labor. All I’m sure of is my inescapability of responsibility for what I hope was this unplanned pregnancy. I wish someone had protected me from the egg, because the only life I’ve ever received from you Lisa Marie Kaufmann is your mitochondria.

Thursday’s Thoughts - Theme: Time

     For the past few days I have been reading Stephen Hawking’s A Briefer History of Time and it has completely captivated me. (One of the reasons why not much has been posted on COSA18 lately, still!) His beautiful explanations make the wonders of physics so easily graspable. My dad keeps joking, “So are you going to go become a physicist now instead of a sociobiologist?” In reply I say, “Why would I need to? Hawking has already answered every question I’ve ever pondered about physics!”

     As if it weren’t obvious from the title, time, specifically space-time, is the central theme of the book. It’s led me to think a bit about time, and I find it most appropriate for this week’s theme.

This Week’s Theme: Time

“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.” - Albert Einstein

“There is a time for departure even when there’s no certain place to go.” - Tennessee Williams

“There is only one you for all time. Fearlessly be yourself.” - Anthony Rapp

     The final quote by Anthony Rapp made me tear up. It’s something I “needed” to hear today.

“A Tapestry” – A Poem

     It’s been nearly five years since I’ve written a poem. I stopped writing poetry around the time I started. My trash of cutting, suicide, and of my friends’ mirroring issues dramatized and resented because their poetry was better than mine was the only thing my twelve year old chute spewed. My creative outlet was limited to stories of wolves basking in the perfection of their Utopian planet, my gift to them. My father’s gift was a shot down from its reality of worldly depression.

     My love is a poet, whether or not he knows it. He is the entire definition of amazement on page 207, his first passage only the beginning. The proof is taped into celluloid from three days before I imprisoned him months ago. His bravery was one of the first things I found attractive about his being; his tongue landscaping a minute sunny maid was not a piece of his entity no matter the arousal it sprung.
     Always asking what I love of him, maybe now he’s caught a glimmer of the diamond I see when I look at him. Man is bvt a worm; Jonathan is the single diamond in the rough dirt—to me.

     Fears diminish in his presence, the range of bathing suits on the beach to comfort with my nudity is shocking news of a victim. Sexuality is my scaliest fear, those old snakes are still slithering about my island of self-deceit. With machete in tow, he cuts them away and tosses them into the forth flowing canals leading to the Lake of the Dead.
     The arrogant slayer of all my fear, then the noble shining hero of this proud damsel in distress. What Princess doesn’t fall for the Knight, what Princess doesn’t brand him her muse? Fairy tales only work in a single way.

A Tapestry

17 April 2010

Draped in your dark clothes where my comfort exists
Covering my transparent polar bear skin.
Your grey, brown, and burgundy hues collapse into me
Colliding, politely, as a unit of bursts
Rainbows—that’s what I’m thinking.

I’m guessing this is a poem of protection: by clouds
Another one of me, floating around
In love with kisses, skin, and you
And of course
Your grey, brown, and burgundy hues.

2nd House on the Wright

     I feel sick as I write this, it was something I never wanted to experience again. The hungry fear of pitfall.

     Friday afternoon, I lay studying on my bed, simultaneously hand in hand with Adam Kadmon. I read and reread Strunk & White to achieve any level of utmost perfection I could reasonably reach.

     Suddenly, the airs shifted. A sound unknown to the Valley of Death flooded its caves, choking my ears and drowning all of my senses. Victimizing myself into the vulnerability of it, I stepped a moment outside that door to where the world stood impatient to conquer me, to see it had already beaten down a chosen door of it’s own, exposing my private Duat.

     The existence of my emancipator isn’t what hurt the most.

     The fear of whether I could live or die long enough to breathe in the next moment is what grounded my wings and handicapped me into BVT A WORM. Time had ceased to exist.

     The descent had destroyed me, and yet, I lived.

     The bowels of my tallest horror had not yet swallowed me whole.

     I learned: even when weakened by life’s meticulous events, it remains my duty to stand unaffected and unafraid. I paraphrase—all events are impersonal, even if drowning against the weaklings in the Lake of the Dead.

The Tumult Centre

    I’m not doing any of this for anyone but myself, that’s what hurts us the worst.
    I can never be good enough for another person until I’m good enough for myself, plus, maybe I don’t care about you as much as who I’m really trying to impress. Until I allow myself genuine credibility, opinionated vices are dead to my world.

    I can’t hear you, below, from so high up on my tightrope. The turbulence is making it harder to balance, sometimes we wobble and we have to temporarily cut off our own arms just to survive. I’m not sure you’ll ever understand what it feels like to be faced with an entirely personal question; you would have to stand before you could run.
    Clinging to your vicarious fear may be saving you now, but I promise — not for long. Relativity will be your brown fox, you lazy dog. Take a leap-of-faith into the unknown, lest you reflect your forecast of the abyss unto the rest of us the unrest.

Crying.

(Will be formatted tomorrow into part of the "Here is My Real Head" series.)

     I hate everything about crying. Feeling hot and cold simultaneously, the pulsating headache, the gasping for every painful breath trapped inside my throat; everything is begging to break free, erupting only because I never learned a gradual release.

     I’m terrified of people hearing me cry. I don’t want people to know I’m weak, though more importantly, I don’t want people to know why I’m weak in the moment I am. Discussing the reasons later is nonchalant, but elaborating on my emotions as they course through my veins and pump my brain with irrationalities—that’s a child’s Hell House.

     I don’t want to do it alone, but I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. I don’t want to be laughed at or ridiculed, and I don’t want to be abandoned. I don’t want anyone getting the misconception I’m so weakened by my own problems that they cannot approach me with theirs.

     To this day, when I allow myself to completely sob, I feel immense amounts of guilt, shame, and embarrassment. Nothing embarrasses me more than someone hearing me cry, or knowing of my lack of self control as it occurs. I still feel as if I should cover my mouth with a rag, despite being nearly an adult.

     When I cry, I feel ugly, the ugliest I ever feel. I am worthless, unproductive, and weak by something I allow to affect me. My current number one wish is to better handle how exposed and unreal I’ve felt recently.

     I am not handling with care.

My Worth of Love & Credibility

     I wrote something last night that was entirely word-painting, -mapping, -etc... I’m not even sure what to call it, but it's a downpour of my “heart.” If anything is to wholly represent my current skill of word-painting and what I can do when creatively stricken by an unhealthy overabundance of conscience; let the following be my flying white flag.

     This is a true step towards what I want to become. I can’t get much more vulnerable than this, without cutting myself open.

Written in three intervals between the hours of 2 and 3 AM, the morning of March 1st, 2010.

Part One
    It could be said that because I’m constantly asking myself in a disgusted tone, “What the hell are you doing with yourself that’s worth anything, Alexis?” that I’m on the right track to becoming something worthy of breathing.
    No matter how what goals I meet or how loved I feel, the same question tumbles in my mind on a constant rotation of rationally assumed skewed axis. I feel sub par to what I envision I could accomplish if I just pushed myself marginally harder, and I feel unloved to the utmost degree, at certain times because I reject it. This doesn’t come from ignorance, I believe, although it very well could and might. Though, from my selfish perspective, it’s coming from the flip sides of what it means to ignore.
    Admittedly, I’m ignoring my accomplishments and ignoring what love I do receive. We accept the love we think we deserve, perhaps the two intertwine and exists as an explanation for why I feel so unworthy and unloved. It sort of makes sense, in an Alexis-going-insane-and-terrified-of-abandonment-without-a-future kind of way.

    I know I’m trying to be superwoman because I’m walking on my finely wrung tightrope. I’m not sure what to do other than be scared as hell for what might happen next. I could be annihilated, devastatingly so on my own accord. It’s just terrifying trying to keep my eyes open to the darkness with my ever-existing blind spots.

Part Two
    My drive has reached its exit, my GPS has landed, my lighter has been extinguished. My  borrowed Nabokovianism has flickered out.

    I’ve reached the point of lacking sight of purpose in writing by means of releasing the floods of emotion welled up behind my drying dams. No matter what there’s going to be a “Fuck you” scrawled on my stones, and no one’s got the time to rub them out. More importantly, no matter what I do tonight, I will sleep eventually. Maybe not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow, but eventually.
    I will wake up and it will be “okay,” relatively speaking in the sense of I will still be breathing.
    Thankfully, the world doesn't regard on whether or not I deserve to.

Part Three
    If I’m resentful of writing, why do I feel like I’m going to explode at any moment with a rainbow of metaphors?
    “What am I truly upset with?”; that's the question I should be asking myself right now. Am I bothered by my mental core, or my personified sea of red? If the latter, I’m letting it affect my psyche. It’s tearing me down and clogging my skin. I risked getting cut further open from my willing slit. Initially I meant it, presently I still love you.

    I’m scared of showing people I hurt myself over them, I’m afraid they'll assume they know what's best for me and then abandon me. I’m terrified of being left. Why does everyone believe they know what's best for me? I wonder what makes my judgment so mute.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 5

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

8. The Sound and Feel of Carpet

    Where I long to swim and the dirt I’m buried in are two entirely different earths.

     What becomes a fish is born free of their counting clock, while what disintegrates into a worm is born already dying to blast off into space.

     And I think that’s a lot like me; I’m a disrupted galaxy. My black holes are my quirks.

-~-

     For as long as I can remember, the sensation of touching carpet with my skin, or the sound of someone else’s, has always enraged me. I want to smash my own father’s face into a thousand imperfect pieces every single time he rubs his feet on the carpet, assumingly forgetting how many times I’ve told him I can’t stand it.

     Around the age of three or four, my mom came over to my house. At the time, I referred to her as my aunt Stephanie, as biologically, she is my birth mother’s sister.

     She came over to tell my birth mother that she wanted to take me to the Florida Aquarium, and I imagine she was basically asking for permission because she was so young. From what I can recall, my birth mother was reluctant, but hiding it so. I assume she was jealous, she slyly tried to convince me it wasn’t a great idea by telling me of the sharks that would be there. Knowing it was my biggest fear—aside from tornadoes, which no one knew of at the time—she had me instantly terrified. At some point during the conversation, I jumped up and ran down the hallway, where I accidently fell to my knees and skidded across the carpet into her bedroom door.

     I was left with painful rug burn at the end of the hallway, crying and terrified. I wanted to go and spend time with my aunt Stephanie at the aquarium, I just wanted to be brave enough to go, as now it was required. I was angry my birth mother ruined it for me by telling me of my horrors awaiting me there. If I went after hearing about the sharks, I was to be forced into a situation I had to be brave in, when I already had so much fear within me begging to rip free from my chest.

     Reflecting back, I think I have a pretty decent guess as to why carpet bothers me so. Though it’s important to mention first, it’s obviously another piece of my negative childhood conditioning by the rage it brews, as opposed to the various other emotions it could arouse instead.

     When I really think about the personal essence of carpet, I realize its symbolism has always meant fear, and more so, being forced into fear by an outside force. It’s an odd, and unusual situation rarely faced in regular life. Now when I fear something, I almost always have a choice to face it or turn away without any true consequences besides my own guilt which is easily dealt with. However, in the aquarium situation, I was being “punished” by not going to the aquarium if I wasn’t brave enough to conquer my fear, unfairly before ever even witnessing it.

     What bothers me most is there was no need for me to know about the sharks prior to entering the aquarium in the first place. My birth mother scared me before I even had a chance to comprehend the fear.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 4

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson

I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

7. Being Honest with My Parents

     While reluctantly listening in on a phone call, a light bulb flickered above my head. 

     Everyone's parents should know who their children really are. My parents know who I truly am, as far as they allow themselves to see. My life and emotions are an open book, there's nothing left to wonder. If there were an uncertainty, I would gladly answer any question asked with one hundred percent honestly. However, I know that they cherry-pick what I proclaim like Christians do the Bible, or Muslims do the Qur'an. At least, they have in the past.

     So to practice this new idea, I'm going to share two more things with you and my parents to air out the things that have recently been on my mind. I hope this can inspire you to be honest with your parents, and most importantly yourself about your most 'shameful' opinions of things. I have been ashamed and scared for a very long time to tell my parents things, some I am still nervous to utter. But I have forced the time to arrive for me to push through my web of fears. My words are like razor blades, but I'm not trying to cut anyone. I'm trying to cut myself open to show you my real head.

"I am so tangled in my sins that I cannot escape.
Pinch the head off, collapse me like a weed
Someone had to go this far."
- 'Man That You Fear' by Marilyn Manson

     I don't feel a pang of guilt or urge to help out around the house as much as I could go out of my way to anymore because I am sick of being the only one that does anything. My dad's girlfriend would rather rip her skin off with pliers - hmm, wonder how that feels! - instead of lift a finger over something besides a television remote, so I know if I leave something to be done my dad will be the one to do it.

     But wait, I have a brother, right? Indeed I do, and he is eleven years old. My brother has two chores that he carries through with complaints. His two chores are feeding the dogs and and doing a half-assed job of vacuuming the kitchen on a barely weekly basis. Activities such as cleaning his room or putting away clothes are very rarely done alone, and never done without a smart alec remark.

     Like I said before, I don't feel guilty anymore. I did for a long time, but not because my dad's shitty girlfriend sent me harrassing text messages telling me how lazy she thought I was for not doing every little thing around the house so my dad didn't have to. (Kettle, you could have gotten off your ass and helped him if you really wanted to. In fact, you still can! Maybe if you spent less time attempting to belittle everyone and feeling sorry for yourself, you'd find a lot of time suddenly freed up.)

     I know my dad works long days and comes home to deal with this undeniably fake household, and that sucks. I'll repeat it again - I know it sucks, really hard. But I realized that my situation isn't exactly beautiful either. His girlfriend might be under the impression that sitting at home alone all day is positively wonderful for me to experience, but I'd imagine she could only be deluded by that assumption because there are five televisions here that she'd love to be watching in the time I could be, but don't.

     I refuse to do more than I feel is necessary for me to do to avoid being classified as lazy on an unbiased scale. My brother's life is perfect compared to what my home life was at his age. I don't see the fairness in being orally raped equating to doing all of the chores my brother could be helping with, later on in life. There's not a single, plausible reason for him to not grow up. I'm not going to be another ingredient for him not to, not anymore. My only hope and point for not helping out my dad more, is that one day - my hope - he will get sick of doing all the things I don't offer to do and ask 'someone' else to do them - my point. It's nothing personal against him, but asking why my brother does nothing while I do everything has gotten me absolutely nowhere.

     This next one's shorter because it's very simple. I'm not making an effort to talk to my mom as much as I used to because I don't want to be around her. I never thought I'd arrive at a point in my life where I truly didn't want to spend time with her. Honestly, I don't want to breathe in her second hand smoke because I value my life more than she seemingly values hers. Spending large amounts of time with her isn't worth dying a premature death, and it never will be ever again for anyone. When Nietzche said we have to kill ourselves many times while still alive to become immortal, I doubt smoking our lungs out is what he meant. I'm not sure I'll ever understand why she thinks she's invincible. Truthfully I don't even care anymore because it's grown so old.

     I'm disappointed that my mom's respect for me isn't substantial enough to cause her to not smoke in my presence. I've always been told - by smokers, no less - that if I don't want to be around it, then don't be. I take carelessly tossed about comments very seriously. Sarcasm applied equals results, as a result  of not spending as much - really none at all - time with her, I'm not coughing and feeling sickly as much as I did before. Much less, absolutely disgusted by how little someone can care for themselves.

     What I've never understood though, is why infants are more important to most smokers than someone only a few years older. When did I become unimportant to my mom? What age did I turn for it to suddenly be acceptable for my mom, grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc., to assist in collectively killing me? My honest nature would love to see the looks on their faces upon delivering them truthful news of having just discovered I have lung cancer and will likely die because of their lack of self control and my stupid decision to be around them.

-----

     I ask that no one thinks for a moment this is easy to share with the World Wide Web. It's not. I feel reluctance every time I post a blog describing how I feel about specific people or situations, angry or not. I know why I feel this way more than a normal person does. It should be pretty obvious that a victim of sexual abuse feels like everything should be kept inside to protect whatever is leftover of them. But I am no longer a shell! I refuse to be a decoratively painted hermit crab. My insides are beautiful, every last bit of them, and I will never be consciously ashamed to show you no matter how scared I am.

     I have learned by writing this and thinking it over that one of the biggest fears is something I was too scared to even admit to myself until this afternoon. Now I will admit it to you, but I'm sure it has been obvious for quite a time: I am scared to be honest with my parents about my feelings.

     Fortunately I know where the roots lie.

     So now I ask - do your parents know who you truly are?

'Here is My Real Head' series Pt. 3

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 
Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation
Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships
Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust
Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

5. Worth of My Peers

     There are quite a few people in my life that I don’t think the world would mourn over if they were to die tomorrow. Also, there is a smaller number of people that I believe are better off dead. They serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever to society and are positively a waste of existence on this planet. Their consumerism is wasteful, especially if it’s constant without equal or nearly rivaling productivity. This scale loosely decides who I would annihilate or cripple tomorrow if I were playing the fictional character God’s hands.

6. Trust
     I grow irritated when people claim they have trust issues. Typically these are people that are unable to handle the aspect of a healthy relationship that involves trusting their partner enough to not constantly badger them about cheating or their whereabouts. These are weak people, and mainly self-assigned as such. They are therefore casting themselves even deeper into the well of weakness. These folks don’t usually have historical issues with trust, they’re just bitches, immature and irrational bitches.

     If you have a history of trusting relationships gone awry, you don’t have ‘trust issues’. You have a genuine problem that needs addressing, care, and attention by yourself and what may seem unfortunate, by others you have to learn to trust. I am one of these people. To have been groomed so well—and I am so well groomed I belong collared and leashed on a showroom floor—that I had to have trusted the people that brushed me to their liking. With the intense level I climaxed and plateaued at, I trusted them an awful lot.

     I don’t trust anyone entirely, but not in the typical way. I don’t have the problem of trusting people with secrets because I don’t have anything that is a secret, or won’t be a secret for long.
I wouldn’t trust anyone, not even my parents, brother, family, or closest friends with my life. It’s a wonderfully cute concept to think of your loved ones saving your life, especially in the place of theirs, but I wouldn’t trust anyone to save me from death’s grip, especially if they were in harm’s way themselves or were being forced to choose between their life or mine.
I don’t whole-heartedly believe that anyone would give their life for me when it came to the carnal reality of being faced with their own death. Like Winston in the unfortunate year of 1984, I would expect them to shout at the top of their desperate lungs, “Do it to Alexis! Do it to Julia! Not me! Alexis! I don’t care what you do to her. Tear her face off, strip her to the bones. Not me! Julia! Not me!” I wouldn’t blame them, I accept the reality of a human being not wanting to die and offering up everything imaginable to not have to prematurely.
Truthfully, I’d be flattered if someone that loved me, loved me deeply enough to think of me for last person they’d offer instead of themselves as their ultimate sacrifice. By being last, I would be the most loved and I’d be honored by their ultimate and complete betrayal.
     In that light, I wouldn’t give my life for anyone I presently know. If I had to pick someone I’d die for, I couldn’t name someone I am personally acquainted with. If I could choose to die for someone I don’t know on a personal level, it’d probably be for Marilyn Manson or Richard Dawkins because of all the things they’re still doing for the world to make it a better place for children to grow up in, and children are the most important class to me. Were they to have stopped yesterday with no intentions of restarting their revolutions, they’d be scratched off my list of possibilities without little resentment, if any at all.
     If need be, I would endure physical and mental pain and torture in place of someone’s life, heck, I might even offer a limb for someone I deeply cared for. But if it came to my untimely death as a choice against theirs, they’re the ones dying prematurely.
     I have two main reasons, the stronger of the two is that I am young and have a lot I’m going to do in my life with more time to do it than the majority of the people I care for. I don’t consciously think of the people I love as being lesser than me, but an appropriate example of how my perception of trust differs is that I do not trust anyone other than myself to create productive and positive change in the world. No one could ever convince me they would without a doubt, though if someone were able to, I would reconsider giving my life for theirs because I don’t consider myself as an entirely above the collection of people I love because I have no proof that I am or am not. I might not be the most beneficial or productive to society out of the group, but I am the only person I can trust one hundred percent.
     I have high self-worth despite my flawed learned personality traits. In any other case my proclamation of self-worth wouldn’t be frowned upon, so don’t you care hypocritically frown here.