there is definitely more to this than just writer’s block.
it is staring at palms stained with the blackness of sin, fingertips burnt by the growing frustration threatening to usurp this almost empty vessel. i feel nothing and everything at the same time and it angers me; i tap my feet annoyingly as i wish for this agonizing ache in my heart to go away, the restlessness teasingly mocking me. it is difficult to breathe normally – i am choked and strangled by the shadow of who i used to be and my lungs are held hostage. weeds grow and flowers die; overcrowding produces too much carbon dioxide and death breeds. unsatisfied souls with unfulfilled wishes, attachments lodged to their feet pester me to join them, chained and anchored because they hate change.
i hate change, even if it’s the only constant. but i cannot bear the burden, for everyone is moving forwards with the heads held high as i stare at the floor with guilt overflowing. some try to pull me with them, dragging me up by the wrist but my being weighs me down and is too heavy for them to carry. my feet are starting to take root, growing and moulding into the ground and i am this close to succumbing, giving control to the demons that are more deserving of this body than i am.
at this point it stings like my eyes brimming with water purer than myself and i am afraid to reach out, to possibly hurt anyone else in this entire ugly metamorphosis. this heavy dirty soul will refuse to accept the warmth of a sun and reluctantly rests in the chilling darkness that i am still afraid of, at sixteen years of age. pain comes knocking at the door and intrudes selfishly, wearing out a mind ridden with fleeting hollow thoughts that don’t really make sense anymore. fatigue, exhaustion, synonyms for feelings i can’t actually describe in words so you give up doing so. stare in the mirrors and a murky reflection stares back, both leaning on the edge of breaking into haphazard fragments. white silence rewinds over and over again, filling my head with static noise that only serves to fuel the growth of unpleasant life. this life is unpleasant, i think, pounding my clenched fists into where it hurts most.
i can only hope that this is just a phase, like everyone claims so.
sometimes you wish for the erasure of your existence instead