deepundergroundpoetry.com

Welcome to the show: Muerta

38 circles around the sun…
But the age in me feels older than the sun itself.
Its shine cannot illuminate the darkness of my soul.
The depth of my pain goes deeper than my most suppressed feelings.
My emotional body seems hollower than the emptiness of space.
Fragments of mine abuse every effort of my essence self to survive and thrive, they smile devilishly and satisfied with my inability to take control.
They want me dead. For death is the only way to accept this futility of not being born in another body, of not having another kind of life, another family, another character, another ego.
Wisdom is useless during the storm of self-abuse versus the self-pity show inside my head.
A fog of doubt covers everything I think I knew.
I don’t have a clue of who I am or who are those inner voices that plan in detail my suicidal scene. The bridge nearby appears to be a great scenario, if I could calculate the distance and the time needed to reach the asphalt, jumping in front of a speeding truck on the highway beneath it could smash my entrails in seconds.
The obnoxious creativity though goes even beyond, putting me on the cold bathroom floor with a razor in my hand. Its sharp edge touches my hard skin, trying to reach the radial artery. All the remaining energy, amplified by despair is needed to make a forceful stroke with my right hand. And vu àla! A peaceful ruby colored wave of thick blood spreads outwards, approaching the old wooden door and escaping under its crack. My eyes stare into nothingness, my palms are sweaty and open facing the ceiling, and red splashes of my bloodstream decorate aesthetically my sloppily tied up sneakers. What a Renaissance of beauty of the objective reality.
I’m shocked, dehydrated, and tired. As soon as the horror movie ends, I mentally applause my abusive aspect. She fucking rocked it this time, she gave it all. Every little trick that she knew it would hurt me. She unburied every negative experience and used every line in her dynamic book of shadows. “Worthless”, “unloved”, “useless”, and so on.
I could do nothing but let her say what she wants to say. I heard everything, embodying both the victimizer, the victim, and the weird observer.
Her twin is the weak one. She cries and cries, accepting the punches on her face and weeping over our smashed head, our death bed, our hospitalization. I’ll deal with her in another episode.
Wishes for a great day.
Thank you for watching.
personanongrata
Written by personanongrata (persona non grata)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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Em-ily
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