If You Cannot Own Yourself Who Are You

if you cannot own yourself who are you

nothing is ours; not really and not ever we are all made out of the same generic mold and predispositions claiming to have found a new way to be original in our fixed rigidity. our ideas are merely thoughts been thought over a dozen times in the last second, a thousand in a minute and millions in a day our minds are preposterous unthinkably so that at the mere mention of all this being thought, being done and said before we build a city of bones around us hiding in our closet made of skeletons how can we not realise we are the skeletons? we are nothing but skin and bones rotting in our unofficial homes and when we are afraid of the dark we are afraid of ourselves. of what we might be. that we may see we are never truly our own.

self-proclaimed and diagnosed is just another way to say 'fucked up'

I am a self-proclaimed bitch, a know-it-all fucking jackass of a person that obnoxious motherfucker you wish would just go away. Any name you can think of to call me I’ve probably called myself. My friend walked up to me the other day and told me I was a bitch but ‘that was just my personality’ and I just smiled and laughed, said 'I warned you when you became friends with me, everyone knows I’m a bitch’ so I didn’t start crying.

Some girl tried to pick a fight with me because her friend was upset about something I did (how dare she be mad without knowing the full story, without knowing what her friend had done to me. How dare she come charging up like a knight in shining armour except in this story the dragon is secretly the princess who’s been trapped in an ugly body by society’s expectations; don’t kill the dragon we all shout except knights don’t listen so she killed the dragon anyway and was confused when there was no princess to save) and she tried to pick a fight by calling me a bitch and a terrible person and telling me I should just go die because I didn’t deserve to live and I just smiled and laughed and agreed with her with everything she said.

It’s hard to pick a fight with someone who agrees with what you’re saying. She called me a bitch and told me to die and I said I know but I didn’t say that I’d tried because telling people you want to die is the moral equivalent of kicking them while they’re down; it just makes them feel guilty so they halt and try to reverse the train with fake apologies.

Trains don’t go in reverse anyway so I let her words barrel over me and took all the blame that I didn’t deserve onto myself and said I’d let myself cry later, when everyone was out of sight.

Nobody likes to see a bitch cry. It reminds them of their humanity and the fact that yes we are all people and inside that person you say is less than a person, the one you call a bitch and terrible and say that 'I guess they can’t help it, some people are just natural mother fuckers who need to be put down and taught a lesson’ yeah the person you say that to is exactly that a person.

I’m a person but no one will believe me so instead I say I’m a self-proclaimed bitch. That way when people tell me things about myself they think they’re the first person to notice, I can smile and laugh and then I can destroy them for hurting me because that’s what bitches do.

This sword works two ways; when you tell someone they are less than a person they will believe you. You can demean them and unmercifully beat them down but you had better not turn your back, better keep one eye open when you sleep because less than human means I will have no qualms about destruction.

Your weapon is my humanity and you in your unwillingness to unlock my chains have given me the tools to render my cage obsolete.

excuses that could be reasons if you thought about them for long enough

1. I'm sure that it would've lasted if we tried 2. Trying was too hard 3. I couldn't pretend to love you any more than you could pretend not to hate me 4. You never told me I had to catch you 5. I fell all on my own 6. We could've loved each other and I think we might've 7. If only I knew how to love 8. It was your fault 9. It was mine 10. It wasn't either of our faults it was just the way things went 11. You were the ocean and I was the rocks, we beat away at each other until there was nothing left of either of us 12. The waves don't lose their happiness when they beat against the rocks 13. Love, I wasn't ready for you to leave 14. I'm sorry for all the things I said but I know that I meant them 15. In the end, we knew it couldn't last 16. It's raining here and I am in someone else's bed 17. Absolve me of my hatred, father forgive me for I have sinned 18. Honey I love you that's all she wrote 19. Goodbye was always meant to be forever and I knew we weren't 20. If I had told you before now, would things have turned out differently?

waiting for the rain to come

you measure your pain in increments of nine, pour out happiness in millilitres etched into a glass cup. sadness comes in ten gallon buckets, orange, contrary to popular belief. not everything is blue like misery but it's enough to last the year.

Hung (Pulvus et Umbra Sumus part two)

Besides, we’re all dying slowly and perpetually every day as our cells keep decaying at an ever faster rate, until there’s nothing left of the genetic rope that is us; a predisposed pattern of cells and atoms and bones, fused together in a haphazard mangled manner which it had to be because why else would we have such peculiar noses? And for some, our rope is longer and our infinities expansive, and others die faster, simply for the reason that they drew the short rope in life so when the platform drops

they break their neck before they touch the ground.

There is a holiness to exhaustion

I puke, doubled over in pain. Exhaustion runs through my veins like the iron that is supposed to be in my blood, the iron that I don’t have enough of and can’t get more of. It tastes like guilt. Thick and heavy on my tongue, coating everything in my mouth. If you were to kiss me you could taste it too. I stand, wipe my mouth and spit at the ground. Curse, kick, blame myself for being weak. Hug my arms to my sides then give up and wipe at the crusts frozen to the corner of my mouth and my eyes. Water can’t wash away the taste of shame, of guilt. I quit, change my mind, stop, change it again. I will not puke. I will not be that weak. ‘puking means you give it all you have.’ I sigh. Pick my lead-filled limbs and heavy heart back up. Keep running.