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dead again

August 4, 2009
by


we all have our own stories. we all have secrets we can’t tell and we all have our own terrors that we can’t face. but i am my own terror. my life is my story and my secrets – i share as i write. i am a victim of life. i am held captive in a mind of a dreamer. the warmth of the night tells me it’s time to sleep now so the pain will be no more. but i fear that there will be no morning. and this fear is my sickness. a disgusting flesh-eating sickness devouring every last bit of me –

until i am afraid i have noting left to fear.


birds flew across the living backyard like a page of music. in the extreme range of vision, i could make out their needled homes nested in the half-dying tree that’s been holding on for almost twenty years now. this is what it was like to be dead. staring through the shattered kitchen window, crumbling to the floor into an awkward but not painful pose. the soft sound of telephone wires floating through my veins. no terror, no rage, no love. just nothing. i was good at being dead and close to dead. i’d played it often enough. it was the only thing i’d see at night – and the only way to want to live for now. the girl lying on the floor of a train station with a bullet in her heart, or slumped against the wall of a living room, or face down on a dirty motel room bed with a jar of pills in her hand. and here i am again behind the wheel of a wrecked red car. his bmw went off the cliff, just the way he told me he had pictured it. dead again. acting dead isn’t hard. i’d lay in my bed after these dreams, too haunted to cry, so i’d just pose dead like i had seen it. acting dead wasn’t hard, it was like modeling, finding an interesting arrangement of limps and staying very still. i never felt like a part of my body anyway. even as a child, i could watch things happen to me and remain unmoved, like the time a pen came crushing down with his hand, right into my eye. a pen sticking out of my face, as i closed my eye and saw the pen fall to the floor, i watched the blood flow, the pink of slashed muscle like a mouth. this was my secret, i wasn’t what they saw, a slight girl with crazy hair, i was buried inside myself like a coin in sand , a whisper in a seashell. my neck arched at an impossible angle, but i didn’t feel it. it wasn’t so awful to be dead. the stillness would almost be a relief. i wouldn’t want the pain, but i wouldn’t mind it either. i could never shoot myself, or jump off a building. but being dead was not unthinkable. these past days felt like there was no time, only an empty horizon. busy and blank. i could just think about space. space without time. maybe that was god?

♥electrina

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2 Comments leave one →
  1. elektrodeathdisko permalink
    August 5, 2009 7:33 pm

    “this is what it was like to be dead. staring through the shattered kitchen window, crumbling to the floor into an awkward but not painful pose. the soft sound of telephone wires floating through my veins. no terror, no rage, no love. just nothing.”<~~~~~ fuckin awesome i love this !!!! ….my hats off to you friend.

  2. August 7, 2009 8:21 am

    i lu lu l lu luvuvvvuvluelvkejkvhfd luvvv luuuuuuuuuuuuuve this<3

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