I see myself outside of myself. I am planet me. I am ashamed that I am so selfish yet I know that I am not. My compassion holds me like razor blades. I cannot move unless I be cut.
I have no friends. I am an outcast that dreams of Gods.
I once was so pretty, now I AM TORTURED.
I hear music in my head. I think of nothing else but pain. The music will not stop. I need a haven. Is there no safe place for one like me? Is there no home for the mad? I see all that can happen, the pain, the dead, the fear, the loss, the reaction, the guilt, the terror. It will never end. No matter how many snow white pills I take, no matter how many sessions with my therapist, no matter anyway.
The people in my life do not see me. There are so few now. The ones that could see killed themselves. Yes, I have to say it out loud. They killed themselves. I am a child of suicide and a child of such love as to one could ever comprehend.
Maybe I will get better. Maybe I will not. Maybe it will all fall away like the frost that covers our trees.
My Grandfather once smashed the eggs of a Robin. He tried to care for the eggs, we did it together. He built an incubator for them, we nursed them. We were going to save them. But the eggs died. He cried and smashed them. We smashed them among his clocks and we both died of insanity that day.
I wonder if God will ever see me. Will God ever see me? Will He see the moments? My Grandfather. my father, my mother?
This is movement. I do not care for it. This moving through fogs of nothing.
I hear the music in my head. It is a movement. Beethoven, my dark prince. Bach, my devil. Mozart, my love. Vivaldi, my hope.
Hold me now. Just hold me and let me curl up in the demons of my mind.
Let the movement be. Let you sweep me with Summer. Come Vivaldi, come. My hope.
I so long for you. Hope.