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).

Scary in truth...

Mysteries of My Creation

    Today is your (un)lucky day—have all you’ve ever wanted if you can only reach it on your own. My money’s on: you can’t, and that’s why you pushed away what you claimed was such a great thing for you, you selfish hypothetical gene. If you genuinely believe deep down that all you deserve is the shit that you spread, that is all you will ever even be. The rewards won’t exist, you’re less than that to me. This is the time of your last feeding. I hope you’re as happy as you deserve to be.

“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.

I Regret, I Digress

    I wouldn’t doubt that if Florida had basements, that’s where it would have all begun.
    With this sole reason in tow, I am grateful for living near a coastline for one of the few times in my life. I fear that had we lived deeper within the states, I may have never escaped the basement he constructed around me with calloused hands. I don’t think my newly sprouted wings would have been enough to break.

    If Likens’ wings couldn’t break her free of her prison after having so long to grow with such grotesque nourishment, I know with complete assurance mine never would have. Our comparisons of strength are too extreme in diversity of the American crime.
    She is the high and I am the low because she is publicized and fabricated to fascination. I wasn’t hurt badly enough to be celluloid beyond recognition. Like the death of average caucasian children making C’s and D’s, once recognized by the media she was glorified far past the typical hormonal girl that lacked the suddenly bestowed qualities recommended for sainthood.
    Likens didn’t even survive, but she was not a martyr to her crime. The idea of her is the martyrdom, and with the control I hold I can go the far distance to become an idea for necessary remembrance. Vexed victims minded.

    Remaining unnoticed by the uncaring world surrounding, I revolve. I have remained a target of disgust and disbelief amongst the jeering circus crowd of ridicule and shame despite my revolutionary act. My pain is not exaggerated nor glorified for film or song, my face is not a poster child for survival, and it never will be. I must die several times alive before I become anything memorable, save killing myself completely.

    Knit stitched into my existence, the idea of killing myself has shamelessly reared its ugly head since the day I got my wings, so obviously it might as well have very well sprouted from the back of my head shrieking.
    Before everything completely destroys me to a point of being utterly useless (it’s possible, tis true), I know that now is the time to unravel the suppressive cloth from my head before I bleed out too much.

    Now is the only time left to risk pulling the axe from its Black Lodge wedged into my skull, and hope for a miracle of survival at the end of the hospital hall lined with baker dozens of reconstructive surgeries I will undoubtedly endure for the rest of my physical, personal life.
    Regression is upon us meaning me, my time to thoroughly delve within my history once and for all. This complete exploitation of all I have suffered is my final and only hope of destroying myself over and over again for a remarkable rebirth.

    With idealized suicide in mind, this is how I got my wings.

Nietzschean Love of Marilyn Manson's Toll

    It’s been a long road of speculation coming, I’ve finally arrived at my clearest interpretation of what Manson has been trying to say. His love albums aren’t about love of another, they’re about love of oneself! Surely, inspired by love, there’s little denial in that, no matter how much or how little was cut cut cut into video-shaped stars.
    Manson was correct in titling Evan Rachel Wood his muse; she’s the center of his all, the proof lies in the 150+ times he cut his face and hands trying to get a hold of her, and never being able to reach the sun. Thus, he went under!

    His face has always been his highest form of identity, he was destroying himself in every fabrication of his image. I dare say the mutilation of his reluctantly available realities was not only sincerely explicit and alarming, but somewhat flattering to his altars. We must always consider one’s bent knees to our prideful ego. Thus he went under.

    His hands hold his creation, distrusting, they amused themselves by features unbeknown to him as a reliable option of creativity, and they weren’t. He couldn’t grip his own fingers, because he waited too long. If you’re writing in blood, you have to be able to hold the cup below the drain. Thus he fell under.
    He couldn’t reach her, thus he couldn’t reach within himself to untangle his unraveling tightrope of and by cut up hands. Thus he fell under.
    What is a man to do, a mensch without his über propelling him mightily forward? Bravery can demolish the naturally weak with the ease of Castle Rock’s flying boulders, and it’s no aid that we are all naturally, relatively, weak. We are all days of the week and few of us are Saturdays— but who’s to name the strongest?
    Depending on where you are in the world, the week’s end meets an insignificant weak end. We’re spiraling Yahtzee dice; the heart, our hideously rigged red cup. This is where the heart guides the hand, don’t skip the drain.

    This is my romanticism of self; he didn’t have her utmost and outright. He can hardly love himself because he’s over any normal conception. “The death of me” shall be the birth of a new five or six star, lest I gaze gaze gaze unto the fountain of abysmal black blood. For me, there sparkles my going under.

    Like Nietzsche, I ramble rave and rabble, like Nietzsche I probably allow myself too much credit, like Nietzsche I will likely go insane. From birth or from today, there exists no dichotomy of self. My destruction will be all the same!

Monster in Particular

     Written originally on March 1st, this is as close to my Ground Zero work COSA18 will ever see. This has a child’s handful of edits, no more than five at most. It's taking everything in me to not defend this, and even more to share it publicly. As I said earlier, it’s sick love I have with what I write. If I’m going to cut myself open like God Killing Himself, I might as well show you what's inside.

-----

     What a monster that boy is. Blue jeans, blue lies, this pen is making me so very disillusionarily blue. What’s the source of this royalty, who is blue? Only Skeeter is blue, outside of the Blue Man Group. Group is a wolf pack, I know a wolf and that boy is also a blue hidden monster.

     Muse, maybe, nights like this I am most alone, beside myself with writhe, unsure exactly what I am doing with myself. I have thrown away everything, but have I thrown away anything? No, not really, I hate the falsities of “really”’s.

     Me, monster, is my truth shining into the darkness, I got what I wanted by asking for it myself and assigning it his beautiful face. No matter the span of the pan of the outcome, that boy is a my, my my my monster.

     I’ve had these Skittles since I day I met you, met you figuratively of course.

     I guess I haven’t really met you, really, I haven’t. You’re a stranger to me and I’m realizing that, especially in the breath of this moment. I’m not sure how I fell in love with a stranger, maybe that’s what they’re always talking about in the pictures. I guess I just unexplainably do undeniably love you with all my “heart,” whatever’s left over of it that I haven’t drowned in my island’s shores of self-deceit.

     Self desperation for self preservation I want to destroy you because you hurt me, but how the hell are you hurting me? You’re not, literally, I’m hurting myself and I’m taking all the blame, technically. Theoretically, I WILL. Eventually I will for real, I promise you, because I would take the blame for you, the blame of myself that I rightfully deserve. I know that we only have ourselves to blame and yet I’m wearing my grey shirt—literally—with five fingers pointing in five directions unsure of what the fuck I’m even talking about besides my desperation to not let you go and not lose myself in the process.

     It’s exploding, this room, everything in it, I AM ONLY ONE NEBULA AND MY BLACK HOLESARE SUCK SUCK SUCKING ME AWAY.

     But! I won’t let you warp into god. I can’t no matter what. I could, with right matter of fact reason, the atomic matter equipped with my carbon number of lucky 6. But! there are no bombs here unless I have gone undetected, I am a futile grenade waiting for you to explode me. So I can blame you.

     I guess when the taste-worthy rainbow has been unweaved you’ll fade too, just prove me wrong, okay? Love is science, you love me, so really, really love me if you mean it.

Ground Zero

     The greatest position of control would be using past abusings for my heART. To conquer such a deficient void, to tread at the precipice of madness without being blown, to glare with ravenous eyes into the deep-throat of the abyss and howl, “You are finished and I must be the Unkillable Monster!”
     Oh, what a frightful being I’d exist as “for” my enemies, lingering in wait for my turn of the other cheek.

     This is historyletting of the latest volume. There is nothing left to be published, nothing left to be published but me.

Playing God

    Every time I am reminded what resides outside these walls, I want to cut. Not only myself, I want to cut the walls, I want to cut bodies that aren’t my own, I want to cut animals, I want to cut civilizations, I want to cut artistic expression in all forms. I want to cut my eyes out, I want to cut my mouth farther apart. I want to cut my ears off, I want to cut my hands. I want to cut respect, disrespect, responsibilities, hatred, love and I want to cut myself entirely out of this world’s picture. We’ll start small if we have to, why I’d love to.
    Cut me out of this family, sear me to pieces and reestablish me elsewhere, somewhere desired rather than desirable. Place me in respect, truth, justice. I don’t even need art or language, your dystopia is the equivalent of my utopia. I’d exist in silence forever if it meant I didn’t have to look at the faces or witness the events I do. Everything is physically threaded lies, people are lies, events are lies, emotions are lies, vacations are fucking lies. When you provide my long anticipated vacation, I won’t want to destroy yours.

    If I could, I would destroy everything with intricate detail so there wasn’t a fragment left to be reborn in this pile of shit, ashes, whatever. Were it possible to be grafted onto a time line, I’d destroy myself first. But unfortunately it’d have to end as me playing the hateful, resentful, providing eternal favor, God.

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 1

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

 

     One of the things I’ve deemed most important for me to do is to face things I’m afraid of. It strongly ties in with the quote I assigned the year 2010, ‘Find what you are afraid of, face it, and then you won’t be afraid of it anymore.’ [Marilyn Manson, 1998]  Not that I never did before 2010, but now more than ever I’ve recognized its importance, particularly its importance in my life.
     I’m afraid of a few physical things. Sharks, tornadoes, and getting water in my eyes, to name a few. However, the majority of my fears have always upheld residency in the psychological or sociological realm. I am so well groomed still to this very day that I am frequently terrified of speaking what’s really on my mind. If not terrified, the fear persists on an unnatural scale of appropriateness.
     As a child, I used to secretly draw pictures of my dad with another family because I wasn’t brave enough to tell him that his actions led me to believe that he wanted to leave me and our ‘family’ (loosely used). Years later when he found one of the scrawlings, horrifyingly in my presence, I was deeply ashamed.

     Whenever I reflect back to those instances or ones similar, I shake my head at my childhood self. I wish I could lend her a helping hand, or some useful advice. I wish I could tell her to not fear being as brave as she really wanted to be, no matter what anyone tried to convince her with otherwise. I wish I could tell her how to escape the inevitable outside party conditioning after her own shampooing, but I don’t even have a substantial solution. I wish I could have saved myself for the child’s sake, for me then and for me now, but the lyric ‘there’s no one here to save ourselves’ [‘Man That You Fear’, Marilyn Manson] has never rung truer in my ears.

     Today I decided I wanted to list some things that are my completely honest opinions about the topic discussed. I am showing you my ‘real head’ without any reservations watering my beliefs. Fear-ladden, some. But today I am bravery stricken and bravery is self-contagious.

(This got to be nearly 2,700 words and seven pages long in Microsoft Word, so I am going to split it up into parts that have relative topics. I’ll post them in daily succession. Thank you for reading!)

1. Addiction

     I consider the title ‘addict’ the middle stepping stone of anything relating to the sorts of drugs, alcohol, cutting, sex, etc. The first stone is active participation, the second stone is claiming addiction as a state of being and existing, and the third stone is realizing you don’t necessarily have to be stuck in that mindset forever. It’s realizing NA, AA, SMA, etc. is all a form of brainwashing watered down by society into acceptability. Were these groups advocating something of a different topic, it would be a church or a cult which are equally despicable by various parties, and equally despicable by me personally.
     Not everyone can be strong enough to hop to the third stone, I am at terms with that and hold no resentment towards people that haven’t taken that leap, even if I feel they’re capable of landing safely. By no means, however, do I consider it a leap of faith. It is a reality to me, unless otherwise proved by something scientific.
     Your body is not eternally addicted to physically addictive drugs as far as I know, and you can change your mind to dispel whatever mental addiction subsides, at the least enough so that you won’t partake again. It’s a conscious choice we must make if we want to live happily without constantly being reminded of our faults and past, and I know with me personally it made me feel worse than better. Last time I checked, in any other form that’s considered dwelling, and frowned upon by the populations of major societies when it comes to any other subject like past relationships, or a poor childhood. No one wants to hear you whine or offer up the same excuses for everything, so why is it okay here? Well in my opinion it shouldn’t be, but because it keeps a majority of past ‘abusers’ under control, it’s a popular remedy.
     It’s important to remember that with the help of NA, AA, SMA, etc., you’re ultimately making the decision on whether or not to repeat your actions. The group may be offering something to your table of guilt, but are they really offering up respectable plates of reason? It’s important to come to terms with why you’re not still repeating your past behaviors. Do you genuinely not want to, or are you not because someone else is telling you to? Although the brainwashing can work, it doesn’t work forever, and it’s hardly different than the church convincing you their spiritual scriptures are what create your morals. Your genetics have and always will write your morality, as your mind will always inscribe what behaviors you do and do not participate in.

2. Self Mutilation 
     I don’t consider self mutilation in the form of cutting necessarily an addiction. I recognize that endorphins are released in the brain as a feeling of release when the act is carried through, and perhaps that does add a physical addictive attribute to the act. In my opinion, it doesn’t have as strong of a backing as drugs or alcohol. I believe that it’s favored by many, therefore allowing it the popular label of ‘addiction’ by society.

     I have experienced many mindsets when self mutilating, the most popular being dissociation without memory of the act, spur of the moment anger, rage, or sadness, and as a show of control over my physical behavior. I have upheld the last one listed within the past two weeks a single time, and I do not regret it. I wasn’t sad, and I am not sad now over the fact of my behavior. I am proud actually, proud of my control that it began and ended when and where it did, among other things.
     I don’t consider myself an addict any longer. I finally realize that I am above something that doesn’t even exist. Being an idea isn’t existence, otherwise all church or cult sermons—who can tell the difference anymore—would be true. I got caught up in believing something that wasn’t true, not all too uncommon of human beings, ha.

I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention

Power is a concept constantly flooding through the nerves and whatever else of my brain. Power stimulates my brain into the function of ‘mind’, which is then in a constant overdrive. Without exaggeration, when I’m sleep-deprived my waves are rapidly lapping at the shores with new concepts and ideas, and personally unexplainable, they are darker than the normal tidal crashes. Somehow, lack of sleep or actual sleeping beckons my most malicious demons to dance about my brain, but malicious isn't enough of a word. Masochistic seems much more appropriate for what all they do to me.

I've had nightmares for a very long time, as deep into my childhood as I can remember. I can still vividly recall childhood nightmares of the most insane, yet if sought, symbolic things. A common dream was of me climbing into the ‘family car’ at night in search of safety from the house’s activities, only to fall through the car and carport forever until I woke up in cold sweats. If you can't find symbolism in that, even if you know nothing of my personal history and detach the dream from me to do so, I don't believe you.

Another dream I had frequently involved me stepping out of my abandoned house via carport door and looking down to see fiery lava at my feet. I would look up to the same spot in the sky every time, past the trees across the road that shrouded a mysterious ditch that probably stretched for a mile, and see fire raining down (Envision the end of The Believers, that’s what it resembled). I had a hopeful feeling every time this dream occurred, I wished fervently for the fire of the volcano to engulf me whole and swallow me into its red-hot depths. Whether or not it would be painful or painless never crossed my dreaming mind, I knew outside of either speculation it would be painless because I loved volcanoes, and I knew whatever pain it caused me, it wasn't causing me. I was letting it hurt me, just like everything else in my non-dreaming life.

So, “I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention,” actually I have two I’m going to relay today. These have both been dreamt in the past two weeks but are not at all abnormal. For a while, I have wanted to post some of the dreams I’ve had so others can speculate, or just point at me like a roadside freak show dreamer. They are pretty interchangeable, after all.

I don't know the bloodcurdling degree of other people's dreams, and I haven't had the time to study sleep. Considering the frequency of my nightmares, I probably should make it a relative priority on my list of ‘me-search’.

After awakening from some of the scenarios in dream form my mind creates and plays for me on its own special film, I am often terrified. It’s not a rarity for me to wake up from some of the more severe nightmares I have and lie in bed completely still for minutes at a time, anxiety-ridden. Often, even from a relatively typical dream, I’ll be anxious the rest of the day. Neither are because the nightmarish visions I have to endure night after night are extraordinarily horrifying at this point, but simply because I don't know what caused my mind to construct them. To dream of death, torture, and what Christians would call the apocalypse* so frequently leaves me in wonder for days, weeks, months, and years. I suppose now, it has been so long I could even claim a decade for some dreams.

*Or what John would call a Brave New World.

(Warning: Some things detailed in these dreams may be disturbing to some readers.)

Dream One

            Albeit being slightly smaller, I am visually my current age of seventeen, but I feel a little younger. I’m not sure how much younger I feel. I’m not a child, but I know I’m not quite an adult either because I feel like someone should be watching me. In the midst of attempting to figure out my age, it crosses my dreaming mind that maybe I’m nothing definable, likely I’m all of me all at once, because that’s how I feel the most. I go with that, and it becomes truth. I am now an infinite being of my dreamland.

            I live in an odd complex of houses because all the households look exactly the same down to color and the cars parked outside them. I look through a hole in the tall white fence that blocks off sight of the next neighborhood. From my one eye gaze I see the neighboring complex is styled in the exact same way as the one I hold residency. Anyhow, I don’t see Kauvuo (my dog), and then I realize why I was looking through the hole in the fence in the first place. Kauvuo is gone, I’m not sure where he is. He’s gone. Ran away, stolen, hit by a car, I don’t know, I cannot recall and I’m disgusted with myself. Because I cannot remember, I am motivated further to find him and provide him safety once again.

            Suddenly I’m warped through dreamland and I am now at my childhood preschool, its original housing on a ranch-style property being upheld in my dream. I’m walking across the dirt that seemed to span forever as a child, so it does so as well in this trek. I pass the horses, the pool, and the faraway picnic tables before finally reaching the fence. Another hole, but this one is gaping, I can walk through this one with ease. I step through without a second thought.

            I’m in the identical neighborhood that is only distinguishable from my own because of the fence that divides them. I begin to walk down the deserted road, not a person in sight at all tending to lawns or playing with yard toys. It’s warm evening, it’s humid and very Floridian. Finally, I reach a house that looks different than the rest. This particular residency is run down, the wooden panels are falling from the structure and the grass is dead and brown. I take unexplainable note that there are no weeds cluttering the lawn, and later sarcastically think, ‘Not yet.’ I approach the door and enter uninvited.

            I am greeted in the house by someone of my past. I am faced with one of my molesters, instantly wishing I wasn’t in a position to be possessive of them. Kauvuo comes running from somewhere within the house towards me, instantly knowing I’ve arrived to rescue him. I call to him although he can see me, and my molester does nothing to stop me from trying to retrieve my beloved dog from his disgraceful residence. He smiles, but it’s not just a smile. It’s worse than a smirk, it is sadistic, he’s going to hurt me if I claim what’s rightfully mine by entrapping me after.

            Pulled out of the house by an invisible force, I kick and scream hysterically as I’m instantly warped back into my identical but well-kept home, and I realize it’s my dad that has rescued me. I argue, I complain, I reason. He didn’t rescue me, he left Kauvuo to die, or something worse. He tells me if I wait ten days, Kauvuo will return unharmed. Regardless of the promise, I am not comfortable with Kauvuo’s location. I proclaim I will retrieve him whether my dad likes it or not, the majority of me doesn’t believe he’ll jaunt back safely after ten days anyway. He tells me I won’t be doing that, instead of the expected advice that I shouldn’t. For the first time my dad is strictly telling me ‘no’, not ‘maybe not’. I feel surrounded by unfamiliar warmth beyond my body, is this what it feels like to be protected from the most horrible of things? I am realizing that although he is protecting me at the cost of another, I am appointed the most important being. This is something I don’t experience when I am awake.

            And then I awaken.

Dream Two

            I’m staying at a friend’s house, but I am not enjoying myself. Since I arrived earlier in the evening, I’ve had a lurking feeling that someone or something was watching me, just out of sight from my glance over my shoulder. It’s the feeling I used to get when I felt extreme anxiety to the point of near insanity from irrational thoughts. I keep my cool for show purposes only, and interestingly I don’t self-destruct in the privacy of the bathroom before bed. I drift into double-sleep with thoughts of pride at not letting my anxiety get the best of me.

            Snatched in my slumber from my friend’s bed, once woken I wonder how she didn’t feel the weight on the bed shift or the door creak open and closed, why her dog didn’t bark at my captor, or why her dad didn’t hear someone enter the house in the first place. ‘It seems like it’s always me’ I think in a juvenile fashion, without considering the array of possibilities of what could take place next. This isn’t unfamiliar territory, plus I know this is just a dream. Therefore, I know the inevitable is likely to occur, upping the likelihood of my abuse.

            And it does occur. My kidnapper (almost-adultnapper?) enters the dark room, and flicks on a light switch. Above me swings a sole lamp, it is so typical of a lamp that it could have been taken right out of Sybil’s childhood kitchen. Unsurprised, I discover that I am tied to a table by legs and arms. Maybe if I combusted, maybe if I set myself on fire with one quick jerk, I could escape. I don’t even try, but the metaphorical ideas cross my mind. He approaches, and begins his work.

It’s an interesting thing, after suffering the same thing time and time again for so long, you think you’re not dreading it until it hits you in whatever form it takes shape of. In this case, its shape is that of someone else cutting open my arms to an unexplored depth.

First working on the tops of my arms, he retracts layer after single layer of skin down to the fleshiest of flesh. In squared-off folds, he’s lifted it back and exposed my bloodless pink meat. I creatively ponder on the idea of ‘if a strong wind blew, it might blow them all back into place like pages of a book’. The force of nature on my body would be beautiful, and nothing else of a sad sort. But there is no wind in this basement, and I am not even graced with a half window that spends its life barely peeking over the grass.

            Now my abuser makes his way to my inner arms. The concept of not dreading this has fled from my mind completely, at least during this act of mutilation. He plucks out straight razors from somewhere underneath my mutilation platform, and begins once again. He works the razors effortlessly down my arms, and I writhe in intense agony that my mind tries to convince me is unbearable. I’m terrified, I want to wake up, I am screaming silently. I remember to cover my mouth with a towel that isn’t there, so I say nothing instead. I make no show of emotions, but I cannot control the tears that stream from my eyes. I assure my mutilator it’s not crying because I am not sobbing. Somehow he has missed all of my veins during this process, so he slashes them last. And yet, after the razor has plucked my guitar string veins for a single note, I live.

            I wake up shaken from the nightmare. This is one of the worst types of dreams my mind has created so far, naturally I hate reliving them when they grace my sleeping mind. Dreams of this nature have made increasingly more appearances. I wonder if this dream entails my deepest desires, defensibly I argue with myself, otherwise why would I concoct this situation in dream form? This dream possibly represents an extreme form of what I’d ‘love’ to do to myself in times of delusion, this is complete self-annihilation from another’s blamable hand. There is no pleasure in this abuse, only relief that I’m not carrying out my most secret desire.

After some speculation, I realize I am doing this to myself. In my dreams of the very same nature the person is always me, regardless of what mask shrouds them to give the illusion that my body’s mutilation isn’t my fault. This time, it happened to be my biological mother’s father.

The lowest of lows, this is no high end

I don't have anything to say, except I want a

gaping "O" in my arm right now, just as hollow as me.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

 [Warning: Contains spoilers.]

I really should have predicted the ending.

All along I related so closely. For example, Charlie's frequent speculation of his psychiatrist's constant questioning of his childhood really hit home.

Why couldn't I place it?

Why couldn't I see where it was all going?

I don't really have an answer, except maybe all victims are weaved through and through like a basket of mystery, seemingly like a person that tries too hard to be something they're not but in reality they are and that's the saddest part, and often they are like wallflowers. Rooms and rooms, fields and fields, of wallflowers.

wall⋅flow⋅er [wawl-flou-er]

-noun

1.

a person who, because of shyness, unpopularity, or lack of a partner, remains at the side at a party or dance.

I realized there is perks of being a wallflower, of being observant when others cannot possibly be as much as you because you're subconsciously blocking out the past, which naturally leaves extra room for the present, and the future. It also leaves room for constant, unexplained panic. Something I hate.

Too much of something is dangerous to a damaged person.

I shouldn't have an episode just from losing my wallet. I don't care about the money, I never have on the various occasions of loss.

I have always cared about losing something I'm not expected to lose, like my permit or my library card. I guess that's how I perceived my innocence, or my virginity to oral sex. It wasn't supposed to be lost, it was supposed to be given. But it wasn't.

The worst feeling is losing something someone I love gave me. I'm grateful I can't think of any extreme instances off the top of my head right now, hopefully that means I haven't lost much. I think if I ever lost something expensive or really meaningful, I'd seriously consider killing myself, or at least return to self mutilation at the minimum. The sad part is, is that a few items in my possession have this label that could lead me back, or lead me to death. I know I’m labeling these things as “trigger items”, something I want to work past.  It's good to care about your belongings, especially if they were a gift, but not to the degree of suicide if they are lost.

I remember once when I was a child I was at the beach with my mom, who I then still considered my aunt because my biological mother was still around ruining my childhood and filling my head with lies.

I was swimming with my mom in the ocean, and she asked me to hold her snorkeling mask. Somewhere along the way, I lost it because I was holding it under the water and not thinking about it. I didn't even realize it had floated away until she asked for it back. She was really disappointed, and that crushed me.

For years that memory has plagued me, it's probably something I should talk about to someone considering how much it haunts me. It seems so silly though, so irrational, to worry over something I know she's sub-consciously forgotten.

I'm talking about the same woman who told me that if I totaled her car learning to drive, she wouldn't care, she could always get a new one in the most extreme case. Material things can always be replaced in her world, and I completely understand that, yet still this loss bothers me to this day well over a decade later.

That event—along with other things lost, or rather, stolen—makes me never want to lose anything ever again. I never want to have to see that expression of disappointment in telling someone I lost something they gave me, or trusted me with.

Going back to The Perks, my best friend in the entire world—well, one of the two, love you Bianca—Dave gave me this book for Christmas, saying he knew I'd love it because he had read it before. I tried not to think much of it because I know how non-chalant Dave is about things, but now that I discovered The Perks's ending, I cannot resist wondering why he suggested it to me, why I could personally relate, especially because of a passage I'll quote at the end of this blog post.

The book affected me profoundly, and I wonder if he knew it would in the sense I'm quietly referring to. Regardless of whether he'll ever know how much it affected me or how much I related on a level I desperately needed to, I'll always know he knows why I could have, and that's all I’ll ever need. I need someone else to know my pain, my suffering, but that someone has to be someone I'm not paying at hourly intervals, someone that's not dating me, or someone that respects me rather than fears me.

More than anything, I think this book taught me more about how grateful I am for my friends that really know my vulnerabilities.

I have had many best friends in my life, but right now, at this particular time in my life, I have the very best because of the things I've let them know.

     It's like if I blamed my aunt Helen, I would have to blame her dad for hitting her and the friend of the family that fooled around with her when she was little. And the person that fooled around with him. And God for not stopping all this and things that are much worse. And I did do that for a while, but then I just couldn't anymore. Because it wasn't going anywhere. Because it wasn't the point.

     I'm not the way I am because of what I dreamt and remembered about my aunt Helen. That's what I figured out when things got quiet. And I think that's very important to know. It made things feel clear and together. Don't get me wrong. I know what happened was important. And I needed to remember it. But it's like when my doctor told me the story of these two brothers whose dad was a bad alcoholic. One brother grew up to e a successful carpenter who never drank. The other brother ended up being a drinker as bad as his dad was. When they asked the first brother why he didn't drink, he said that after he saw what it did to his father, he could never bring himself to even try it. When they asked the other brother, he said that he guessed he learned how to drink on his father's knee. So I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we com from, we can still choose where we go from there.

- The Perks of Being a Wallflower

And then I got my wings

     The truth is I want it to envelop me. I want it to surround me so closely nothing else is in my outfield of vision.

     “That’s the victim in you talking”, can it always be the victim in me talking? I’d rather people feel constantly sorry for me or just find me repulsively pathetic than expect something greater of me or ridicule me for not being stronger on their time stamp of expectation. Check out is not at seventeen o’ clock.

     I can hardly divulge the truth to myself, it’s so far into repression. Yet timed by the self-seeking clocks of others, tick tick ticking away, I’m expected to have already moved on with the idea of addressing it positively absurd. All that I have said is a mere fragment of what all has candidly occurred, especially when I cannot even call to mind the earliest events, estimated to have been endured some fifteen years ago.

     If all I felt was the pain of everything, life would be pleasantly bearable and on a comforting schedule. I’ve felt it before, and I was utterly on top of the world by the comfort of blood in the morning and night. That memory of me seems so lucky, so unbothered. I am jealous of its freedom to recoil.

     My destroyer is the confusion of sometimes being happy and sometimes being sad, by the grip of myself and by the beating of others. Once a smile is witnessed, smiles of sunshine are expected thereafter, mimicking of a child’s delight to be alive. One grin must equate into being positively thrilled to be repulsed by the sounds of mouths.

     My pseudo-smiles are undetectable, for I am a spectacular performer of falsities. My over-conscience derives from my birth mother’s sociopathy, or so I’d like to believe. It is comforting to imagine it so. Conceptually, it makes ironic, spectral sense, so why can it not be true?

     She cries on whim because she feels nothing, I smile on whim because I feel too much. I hate having been born with predetermined behavioral patterns.

     I am so cold and so numb, shivering too much to even cry. I want to badly, I feel there’s regularly clarity in the aftermath of crying. I can’t even focus on one horrible thing to concentrate long enough to cry, how problematic/pathetic is that?

     Life wasn’t supposed to “end up” like this, even though my forever is nigh. How do I exist as an idea when I haven’t even existed as a person to so many people that should have recognized me above all others?

     Perhaps because victimizing human’s smell a victim like a shark does blood, I have been disrespected to an extreme degree-- how dare you touch my body or tell me I’m worthless of your time or sight. How dare you tell me I need to love and forgive my “mother” who didn’t even protect me when I couldn’t have used her most, who should be grateful of me for even giving her pathetic existence a purpose she didn’t fulfill. Note how these are not questions. I do not question your mirroring self-hate you’ve reflected upon me in hopes of burning a dry weed. I would much rather be the strongest weed instead of the weakest flower.

     My unenthusiastic carrier knew I was being repeatedly molested, and still she sneered in the direction of her computer monitor instead. I’ll let you take that in for a moment so you can ctrl+alt+del all the fabrication you have stitched into her tell-all tracked arms. (As if.)

     She made fun of me and blamed me, whenever she could tear herself away from cheating on our “family” (families don’t torture their children, that’s why my brother grew up with family and I did not). She watched me trail behind my abuser to room and into my closet, without even the faintest glance of care in my undesired direction. (Why couldn’t she have been excited for abortion instead of hating me?)

     I submitted to sexual acts because my family’s lives were threatened, if I didn’t cooperate they would kill them all with guns, hands, and gangs, and sometimes I was told I’d have to bear witness. Their deaths would leave me unprotected, and then I would really be forced to obey. So if you have anything to say at all about that in her defense, I don’t even care what it is, just shut your fucking mouth before it gapes open and spills out bullshit, because you’re dead to me, and you might as well “kill yourself”* because you’re “already dead”.

*Discredit yourself right now, take me off your walls and websites and completely disband from my life, follow through with your act of abandonment because I cannot be half-orphaned forever.

     I recommend avoiding the mistake of opposing anything I feel or say based on factual events when you know absolutely nothing about my past, how I perceive my life, or who I’ve reluctantly become. No one knows, hardly even me, and although it unfortunately has to be said, none of yours matter to me either as of yet, or never will. If you care enough to shove lies down my throat, you care enough to keep me in your life, so you better try if you want me to be here. Start believing in me not caring about your eternal absence or presence.

     My plan was not to be a godless self-loathing individual who cannot even look at herself in the mirror without abhorrence. Just a glimpse and already I feels pangs of desire to mutilate every patch of skin I see. The outside might as well be as ugly as the inside, no matter what you think exists within.

     The blueprint didn’t detail in the hating of my drug-addicted family performing and pursing incestual pedophilia, among other humanly criminal acts. It wasn’t part of the path most religions promote we’re stuck on with no alternative to being forced to follow. (Things do not happen for a reason, you weak moron.) If I ever find that to be scientifically the case, good bye Sino.

     In a sick way, it’s probably good I don’t submit to believing such bullshit. On that note, be appreciative the hobby of believing in sky-gods hasn’t yet struck me with the disability to reason reality.

A Syntax of Self-Annihilation

Recorded by Alexis Mullino
from 5:15 PM 8 December 2009
through 2:43 AM 9 December 2009

"Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze 
into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you." - Friedrich Nietzsche

    The following of what you are about to read will in no way grant me personal gratification. At most, it has the capability of producing embarrassment due to my shame, grammatical errors, improper use of words, and the commentary of spectators.

    My reason for publicizing this very private flow of conscious is exclusively for the purpose of helping others who also experience nights of torture at the superiority of their free-thinking minds by clearly expressing that I am not afraid to be honest. As it follows anything I release of similar motive, I am left in the frightening aftermath of hoping someone will let my exploitation and sacrifice impact them positively instead of ignoring everything said and simply mocking me.

    With attempts at writing my history into an auto-biographical format of various sorts, the abyss has taunted me with provocation unmatched to anything it has ever exhibited before. As strong as I have forcibly designed myself to be and as far as I may have come so far, I am no exception to being regularly tormented by the seemingly clockwork mind commonly shared by those previously or currently victimized by something or other.

    I always feel most comfortable in someone else’s darkness as opposed to my own, but I can’t hold residency there forever. In owning my darkness, I hope it provides others with the authenticity that they are not alone in theirs. Although we may not find much realism amongst our darkest thoughts, recognizing I am not alone is quite possibly the most realistic thing my mind has ever thunk.

    Interpret these declarations for what you will. It’s likely I wrote from my mind following my usual manner, but rereading what I barely remember recording, I wonder if perhaps my heart finally saw a chance to reveal itself in writing due to my distress, owing to the fact that I was in no condition to repress it like I normally do. Regardless, take them for whatever you need to so you may better understand yourself.

    5:15 PM- What a feeling it is to be able to indulge in your desired behaviors. I shall drink this water till I am sick, lest my jeans do not fit. Come forth darkness. Come. Forth.

    5:16 PM- To create you must first destroy. Myself is not excluded.

    5:56 PM- I am fighting demons— and for what? So I can temporarily break free from my ‘demons’, which are actually just a frowned upon part of me, and still exist dissatisfied? Come one, come all, Alexis. Be all that you have created yourself to be, reluctantly or not.

    5:59 PM- I taste metal everyday. There’s no one here to save ourself. I.. this is what you should fear. you are what you should fear. Nothing more, nothing less. So says my trusted influence, savior, saint. SAINT.

    8:29 PM- I know I’m in second place.

    9:29 PM- My life is a re-run of things I didn’t learn from.

    9:36 PM- I am too terrified.

    9:45 PM- “I’m not an artist, I’m a fucking work of art.” Can my body be included? By the way, it’s mine. I can do what I want, opinions of others do not matter. Weakness? It’s a conscious choice. I could kill everything that I am, only to be reborn tomorrow. However the choice resides in whether I want the rebirth to take place within this current body, or another.

    9:50 PM- I am pushing everyone away because I don’t want to be talked out of feeling how I obviously want to feel. Let me suffer without additional confliction. Do not suppress me. I might as well kill myself, I’m already dead.

    9:53 PM- I am numb from your power. Absolutely numb.

    9:53 PM- God has come.

    10:18 PM- How long will THIS episode last? Can I beat weeks ago’s record time?

    Unknown- There have been so many mistakes made I have been expected to pay for. I only have enough money for myself.

    11:57 PM- All I feel is eyes when there is none. Don’t cry now because it doesn’t affect me. Pointless behaviors pointlessly expressing your pseudo-care. I am scared to speak for all ears will hear me, but all I feel is eyes when there is none.

    12:11 AM- I always wanted everything to just be okay. I wanted stability, and I was passed up. All attempts are now futile.

    12:53 AM- As always, once ‘everyone’ is back in their comfort zone I am left alone to remain suffering. You are nothing to me after today.

    2:43 AM- Sometimes not knowing what to do next is good. However, I cannot evolve standing still. I must love in the only direction left— forward.

    This is quite possibly one of the hardest things I have yet to publish. I tremble with fear, yet my desire to hold strength for others until they can hold it themselves surpasses any selfish fright or worry I have. It is important to remember that everything I am, all that I study, and all that I do is all for you if you allow it to be. I have proclaimed before, "I will be your savior and servant if you let me."

I want to know what's inside you.

     A long time ago people tried to make me feel like shit for writing about "disturbing" things—my real thoughts—and it worked. (After writing this, I have come to believe that the phrase "disturbing thoughts" derives from the reality that it doesn't bother—"to bother" is the definition of disturb—the thinker, it "disturbs" people that hear about it.) I admit and understand that they didn't make me feel like shit, but that I let their influence ultimately decide that I was going to make myself feel like shit. This really started then I was nine years old so I was only a child, but regardless they were relentless in their goal of getting me to shut up about my personal truths. Recently, I've discovered that people will not listen to anything I say once they get the idea in their head that I'm talking about just them—since when is something I talk about all about someone else? I don't care about you when I'm talking about me.—so I'm going to say right now that I am speaking of my family, friends, peers, and school system. Wade into one of those pools if you belong there, and for the first time in your life of knowing me, listen up to what I have to say.

     I cannot and do not blame you for my choices and actions, but I can fairly claim that you assisted me in the path I took of leading myself towards choices of suggestions you implied. I'll start with the one highest on the scale of seriousness— my addiction to self mutilation. Of course no one chose that for me, I was the one that decided to pick up pliers the first time I put a toe in that ocean. However, by telling me for years to shut up and not express my thoughts that disturbed you, I was taught that no one cared and no one wanted to hear about it. Therefore, I inflicted the pain I felt within upon myself. As led to believe, I was the one at fault, and the one that is supposed to deal with it privately and silently. Oh the confusion that drove me towards once my thoughts became visible in a way that wasn't the ill-advised words, all of a sudden people showed concern and pointed more fingers in wonder at why I never spoke about anything going on in my head. (What the fuck? It was too late.)

     I'm sick and tired of being pushed into the ground amongst worms. People have to get very sick (and tired) of something before they refuse to stand—or lie down in this case—for it any longer. This day has come for me way too late in my life, but regardless it has come, and it's probably as unexpected as Christ's second coming will be (insert a ha-ha).

     Depression hits me at times, but I'm not depressed all the time. Although, my mind has been forever tainted, and is constantly clouded with sick thoughts and ideas because I suffer from a very serious addiction that is barely recognized in current society. People consider disorders as reasons for my life-long "depression", but in reality I have been self mutilating since I was five years old. That's kindergarten, if you're curious. My point is that I have been ill with addiction from the age that my words started making sense and people could understand me, so they have come to believe that I was born with something wrong, when in actuality I wasn't.

     Due to recent depression, I contemplate suicide often. As Nietzsche explained better than I ever could, "The thought of suicide is a powerful solace: by means of it one gets through many a bad night." It's comforting to consider suicide in the midst of crying fits, because it gives me the sense of having another option. Deep down I know that for me, personally, my life is of too great value that it's not a realistic option. Still the fact remains that by simply pretending that I could make such a selfish decision, it sometimes helps me drift into sleep, which is ultimately the goal of crying after the sun has set.

     Without editing and logical explanation for why some of these things could never be followed through with, I think hard and often about: the indescribable feeling and sight of slicing my skin open again, how great relapse would be as a wonderful finale for this clean time in my life, locations of possible self mutilation in the future, words and phrases I would want to cut into my body if I ever chose to again, ways I could kill myself so my body isn't ruined for my funeral, planning specific details of said funeral such as location, my outfit, and attendees, spitting on my birth mother's face at her funeral if she were to ever commit suicide, and physically beating her body into the ground now as she stands live and well. The list goes on, but I don't believe it matters if you speak about things you'll never follow through with—except spitting on my birth mother's face, that will happen at her funeral even if it's not the result of a self-inflicted death—despite how fucked up they may be, and it doesn't scare me. It scares other people. I've written all of this before, and I never published it for the world to read. I am not afraid.