callmerachel

callmerachel

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picture it: an orphan boy, sitting on the concrete, cool autumn air hitting his face. his hands out, grubby, pudgy things, sticky and sweet from plundered garbage, begging for spare change, do you have any spare change, sir? that orphan boy is residing between my lungs. pleading, pleading for someone to grab one of those chubby palms and pull him to safety. but if not that, just some spare change, sir, to show him he's worth a little something at the end of the night.

the brain is always competing with the heart. thoughts always compete with feelings. my heart wins far too often. then, after i have fucked up, my heart cries to my brain, "look at what we've done!" and my brains just cackles back. what assholes, the both of them.

sometimes i try to figure out what my mechanism is. do you hear the rattling? the clunking? the metal scraping on bone? most of the time, i realize my mechanism is pretty fucked.

i feel my brain dissolving. a gentle fizz at first, a persistent throbbing as it splinters into my organs beginning to fail while my thoughts trail into a never-ending plea. whywhywhywhywhywhy?

think

i wonder what the sun thinks about the clouds. they share the same sky, yet some days the clouds invade its technocolor blue, leaving the sun to shimmer weakly. other days, the clouds are driven into hiding, allowing the sun to proclaim it's beauty. however, sometimes i think maybe the sun just wants some friends.

my system is so fucked. i don't know how to un-fuck it. i want my system to be normal. instead it is full of cracks and holes and scotch tape. scotch tape doesn't hold for very long. i'm waiting for my system to explode and myself right alongside it.

knock knock, the visitor is here. she comes around every couple of days hoursminutes seconds, when she's persistent. the visitor isn't someone i particularly care for. she steals away all of the life from my home, she takes all of my food from the pantry. she'll take me out to the gym, but she never lets me leave. i wish she'd leave me alone, but the visitor is at my door, and i can't leave her out in the cold.

end

"this is the end of my rope." you say it with shaking hands, shaking body, tremors dancing in your voice. i glance at you. back to the floor. my lines are next: "this is the end of everything."

in alabama, there aren't four Seasons, but two. sometimes we get three, but most of the time, we have 1. Blistering Hot and 2. Just Cold Enough to Freeze Your Nipples but Not Get Snow i like the second-long in-betweens, myself. those mini-seasons when you lay in the grass, drive around with the windows down, walk everywhere you possibly can so you can find religion for a brief moment before the Seasons find you again.

she laid there with a pensive look on her face. "i am dying." white lab coats looked at her with sadness, with horror, with pity, with regret. the shock of red cascading from her wrists made her hair look dull and lifeless. a voice came from the doctor to the right of her head. "yes, my child, you are."

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writing since 2011 · 30 entries · 30 days shown up

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on this day 15 years ago

rachel. wrote about force
“it's a strong force that draws me to you. draws me to my knees for you, your opening, your caress after the deed is done. the force of vomit from my throat. the disappointment of forci…”

the words rachel. reaches for

sometimesbrainnowstrongthoughtsfuckskinchangesuncertainwaterearthinsteadrulestreatyboy