Old Vent Writing - Tumblr Posts

The Heron

I want to weigh nothing and bury myself in a nest of silken sheets and blankets that never crumple or lose their softness. I wish my flesh was made of feathers so I could take off and get away from the mess I am tangled in.

Let me not feel guilt or shame or any of these very human things that are nothing but more weight on my already bulky and grotesque form.

Oh to be a heron; Lanky and graceful in all the most terrible ways. I'd like to wade through water with the patience of a mute and the calm of an empty auditorium. Legs like the kind of grass that ripples in a breeze. Tall, thin, and unkempt. Feet that strike the earth with precision and purpose. A beak sharp as the tools humans use to butcher what could have been my meal. And eyes that bore into souls, yet have none of the sort behind them.

Alas, I am bound to this human form and burdened with thoughts that branch far past what my next meal will be and how I will feed my offspring.

Let me know happiness as simple as the creatures that move around the Earth. Not dependent on others. Carefree and beautiful in my solitude and selfishness.

The heron feels complete even though its existence is truly nothing special in others' eyes. The heron cannot damage things that matter, unlike myself.

TW: Mentions of self-harm

Distract Me

I want a distraction

I don't mean a fun game,

I mean a blade on my leg

that's causing me pain

I'm craving it's sting,

The ragged red line,

The way my heart speeds,

And the slowing of time

The rush of it all

The loss of before

The focus on feeling

And the want for more

To others I say that

"Music calms me"

Because I can't tell them

About reality

The others won't know

Because I'll never tell them

About what goes on

When there's no one to listen

My Heart

It hangs precariously from a single digit on your left hand. A fragile thread keeping it aloft as it shifts restlessly in a breeze. I presented that broken and wrongly-bloodied mess to you in the form of a confession. It was a guilty admission that I had done something terribly cruel to myself. I trusted you to care for it. Then this? This is the treatment it receives? It does not even rest in your palm. I had expected for you to treat it with a little more care and respect, to treat it better than I have, but no. You could not even offer me the courtesy of holding it responsibly, so that if it falls and breaks, it is your fault. So that I can blame you instead of the winds.

Those arteries and veins and muscles that pumped life through me; I gave them to you because you had me fooled that you could care for them better than I; That you could keep the blood as red and pure as wine; That you could keep it from spilling time and time again; And from creating a new, harder to clean, deep red stain on the carpet of my bedroom.

A bedroom is a god's domain. You would know. A space that should be worshipped and treated as if it is a church or a temple. Each time you spill blood in my bedroom you taint my life like no other can. Because I gave my heart up to you in a blinding haze of unusual affection and compassion that has driven me mad ever since.

I hope that next time you are careless and my heart breaks a little more in consequence, you are reminded that the lost blood will follow you. That my tragedy does not exclusively lead to me anymore. Your footsteps leave their prints behind in the same horrifying deep red.

I will forget.

Nauseous, I roll over. My mind turns with me, terrible thoughts dragging their talons across the backs of my eyes. I feel sick, though I most certainly am not, I think to myself.

You will forget.

You will forget.

You will forget.

My sheets are damp with sweat. It's been a hot summer, full of days that would have been better spent at a pool or a beach. I hate the sand.

Doomed.

Doomed to forget.

You will forget.

A hot summer packed full of the gloom that Death oh-so-generously leaves in its wake. Two funerals, both for grandparents dear to me. Lives quickly broken down into dust by the silent destruction brought by Alzheimer's.

Unavoidable.

Unpreventable.

Carved in stone.

I know my fate matches theirs. It's in my blood. I can do things to try and extend my time before I become burdened with it, but ultimately it will claim me as well. It will tear little chunks of my life from my hands that clutch them so desperately. It will take away everything I know.

I will forget.

I will forget.

I will forget.

Tick tock, tick tock, the clock marches me towards my death. My body will live longer than I. When I pass, the people I used to love will have already been grasping the hand of my corpse. I will not know who they are. I will not know who they were to me, their names, the way they made me feel. None of the things that matter the most out of absolutely everything will stay.

TW: Mentions of self-harm

CYCLES

i did it again

i took the silver to my skin

dragged until I saw wine spill

do I regret it?

no. But I know someday I will.

these scars I will take to my grave

life will grow

where I once felt dead

sprouts in my heart and soul

i hope worms roam my spine

and beetles crowd my mind

and snakes curl to bind my legs

i wish for deer to graze my field

for foxes to play with my bones

for birds to watch me from their trees

return me to nature

that's all I ask

let the earth grow to know me

Wings

Amid the cries of a fallen angel

There echoes the sound of a mourning mother

She begs for an end at the feet of the reaper

And exists the same as all the days before

She weeps, she screams

For her child has changed

But maybe for the better

Without warning came trumpets and banners that flew

“I’m different!” The angel shouted

Thinking this was the answer

The solver of problems, of worries and woes

Mother and father

They disagreed

They held their ears

Begged for an end

Squinted and questioned

“Who are you again?”

The angel, they whimpered, confused and afraid

Were these not their parents?

The people who taught, cared, and loved?

This woman and man, who were they if not?

Retreating on wings to their haven, safe at last

Confined and understood at least they had that

The people who talked, worried and helped

This was their family, without even a doubt

Thunder, lightning, questions, it rained

The mother and father they asked again and again

Without satisfaction they took the angel’s wings

Convinced without flight everything was explained

“A feeling!” The angel cried, “a thought in my head!”

“These people I’ve talked to, they heard what I said!”

“Understanding, relation, they know how I’ve felt!”

“They helped when I thought I couldn’t be helped!”

Silence, not one single word

The mother fret, the father read

Desperately turning thoughts through their heads

How could it be?

Our angel so sweet?

Trapped with the mind of a demon so mean?

“You’re lying,” they announced, matter of fact

“This isn’t the truth, this author proves that”

Papers and words and books and things

Page after page to justify disbelief

Not knowing who’s thoughts were whose

The angel now doubted the melodies they blew

“Did I lie?” They thought, “was I too hasty to speak?”

“Should I have waited more days or more weeks?”

The angel now mourned, hiding again

Bloodied and torn flesh on their back, wings lost to the wind

A feather in hand, a tattered lifeline

A beacon of hope in the dark of the nights

Plotting for futures that came and went

“Should I keep going like this? Can I reach the end?”

The feather, it twisted and turned

Their clammy grip kept it tight

Reluctant to lose more but too weak to fight

TW: Mentions of self-harm and suicide

The Parking Garage 2 Blocks Away

It's pleasant to finally relax. To let my bones free and my muscles loose. All of me painting the concrete where I've laid myself to rest a vivid red. My blood will soon mingle with the rain that makes its brief trip through this watershed.

The impact was brief, the initial step off being the most terrifying part of the whole ordeal.

I'd just like to apologize.

I'm sorry to the city workers who will have to clean me off the sidewalk.

I’m sorry to the police who will spend time on this rather boring case.

I'm sorry to the journalists who will inevitably write of this and all its horror.

I'm sorry to my teachers who have spent money and time and knowledge on me.

I'm sorry to my family because so much was wasted on me just for it to amount to this.

I'm sorry to my friends because society told me I have to be even when nobody listens.

I'm sorry to my pets because they will have to count on the unreliable and unpracticed.

I'm sorry to my brother for leaving him alone in that house.

I'm sorry to my boyfriend who knew everything and still loved everything but i didn’t tell him about this. The promise was never empty, I’ll find you again after this like I promised. I swear.

I'm sorry to everyone I ever have and ever would love.