I am my own worst enemy. I tend to obsess over things I want, and there fore crush it. I tend to forget to laugh when it is needed. And my mind reminds me of humor when it is not. I have this emotion for something and I enjoy it so I want nothing more then to make the others feel that emotion with me.
Obsession and Deception play the main key and paranoia dances in to. I am nervous and lost my focus on the world and where I am from. It is often when I get horribly sad or paranoid, or filled with anxiety that I revert back to my father. I have tried my whole life not to be like him. To not flip out with the episodes he has. The violent ones, the non violent ones, laughable or tear jerking moments that are bore in to my brain.
The walls of my mind are graffiti, they are painted in a display of colors that often seem to be beautiful and avid to the times and events that I was going through. However the years of wear and tear of the highway of my emotion has left more of the stains of life traffic to cover up the beauty that was placed there by others. A simple few artists have come in to my life to inspire and create passion with in me. As much and as often as I try to hold on to such a memory it is the day light traffic of doubt and deception that others have displayed, soot and smog fills the streets of my existence and the once was beautiful inspiration is now covered in the tar of polluted thoughts.
I walk the railway of wonder. I cease to remain the puritan of the decision crafted. My inspiration to rob me of all happiness and joy over takes me in the black cloak of regret and remorse and I can do no more then envy those who can smile. My memory is a factor and as much as I do not want the truth to come out about the changes in my life I know well I will have to. There is no way for me to shed this cloak of night off. It has been welded in to my flesh and when I feel its gone, for ever how briefly it remains and hits me so.
Earlier this year the events took place where the crate of my demons were locked away. The hinges were released and what I had through was over is far from it. My sleep has left me. Hours pass and yet my mind goes back. It is hard to be afraid of the bed. I do not think that anyone can really know that fear. That place of pillowed dreams and true relaxing, when laying upon it alone is the fear.
Not because I am alone, that is only one part, but because of events I could not end. Years of it. No matter how many times I have changed the bed, no matter how often I have changed location I had not felt safe till Pensacola. Now returning back to my habitat of the Missouri depths I find myself with the stains of tar and pollution filling my mind. The focus groups reminds me I am not the same person I was when I was a child.
Really? When had I switched bodies? When did I jump out to be someone else? I am running now more then ever, I keep running, the track of my shoes have lost the treads and my knees ache from the morning jogs. I am loosing the sight of my protection in this move. Never have I been more scared but then to return to the hell-mouth of my birth city. I am glad the world wants me there but I do not. The simple listing on the sexual assault and predators are on every single block. I can do nothing more then curl down in the unrealized horror of what may to come.
Months before I am to return, my assailants who murdered me as a teen contacted me, via the power of the net, only to remind me I have been missed. There is no justice for me and nothing can or will ever be done to them. Nothing will ever be spoken to them. As much as I cried and bled for some form of justice it was always bound to being this lie. No one could ever believe no one was bound to listen. I could show it, I could speak it. I envy the lives of the mundane so much. I would kill to have the normal life of worrying about what outfit would go with my shoes. I would of killed to be that woman who was more worried about accessorizing then the one who is more worried about her flesh being marred with something that will never be removed.
Memories, are just as deadly as blades, and memories will scar and burn your flesh and form faster then any other. . My painted walls of beauty are filling up in the flood of despair and as much as the life line I wish was handed to me it is still to far for me to grasp it. I am bound in weights and as much as I try, slipped fingers to grasp on to that line, I sink.
I am still drowning.
I am the woman who is afraid of the bed. Who needs it to be filled with someone I trust so I can sleep. I am the woman who is scared of her emotions, for they run so deeply I am always cut. I need someone to share them with and lightened the load of their impact. I want to give them to others. Happiness comes to me not by making myself happy, but by allowing my words to affect others and see them smile. I am the woman who hides her face, because her family is so filled with beauty that she is not. For the short moments I was believing otherwise and now. I am drowning again.