euphoria
only in pain can i find myself, underneath the layers of skin and flesh and fat and muscle and sinew. i exist nowhere else, i am nobody. you're nobody too. it's possible i exist as the bone, as the bedrock holding my body together. i am under no delusion that i exist elsewhere, as all else proves that i do not. i am not "me". your understanding of "me" is as surface as the skin. if you could perceive "me", digging through the layers of flesh and muscle, tearing the fibers and leaving strands of dried blood and gore hanging out of my desecrated body, you would be disgusted. you would hate what you see. not because of the smell, or the vomit-inducing sight of my still-living body that might as well be a corpse, but because underneath all of those layers of flesh is something putrid, something that's been decaying from the inside for decades.
DECAY noun
to be slowly destroyed by natural processes
decay. to regress, to become something you always were, to see the disgusting truth of the self is beautiful.
some view going backwards as a sin, that life is one path forward and it must be progress, it must be something new and it must be an improvement on the past. this is childish. this is a view on the world that you can only have being sheltered.
to not know the truth of things.
some people are never meant to "get better".
some people are, as much as it hurts to hear as someone who's optimistic to a fault, forced to stagnate.
sometimes, you can't get better.
no matter what you do, who you cry out for, who supports you
eventually it's all going to rot.
you with it.
and that's beautiful, isn't it?
and despite all of this, you're expected to want to try. you're expected to get better. you're expected to want to do anything but hurt yourself and others to feel a fleeting sense of joy. and you just have to live with it, to float on the wave knowing you'd want nothing more than to sink, to know that the pressure of the water in your ears and mouth and nose would be comforting, that long enough, and you'd experience happiness for the first, last, time. it's all so pointless. if you get better, nobody really cares. if you get worse, everyone pretends to. not because they care about you, but because they're selfish. because they know your "loss" would make them feel bad. it has nothing to do with you.
and i'd ask, 'what do you do?' but the answer is that you do what you've been doing. none of it matters. do what brings you joy. even if, for someone like you, joy is twisted. if you can find worth in something others find revolting, then so be it. why let someone else hold you back from the one thing everyone craves? we're broken, and there's no golden lacquer that could truly put us back together
and even if there were
we'll just shatter again.
we'll shatter again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again.
this way of thinking makes me a bad person. i know that. you have to believe that everything is okay and everything will get better and you should put effort in for everyone all the time, but we're just going to shatter again. you know that. i know that. it's been the case for as long as we can remember.
so why bother putting in the effort for the repair? why not just shatter smaller and smaller until we're satisfied? to find our worth in pieces of broken porcelain and glass shards? to stain both with blood to prove that we exist? a muted and boring white to a vibrant and beautiful crimson? is that so wrong?
is it so wrong to want to be happy?
i am not you
must i be punished for not seeing myself in your reflection?