INTERNAL DAMAGE

The silence of the phone only bothers me when I am not here to listen to it. Those three days in the psych ward were nothing compared to the prison that is my mind. There are different levels of crazy, and just because I don’t walk around screaming my malcontent at the top of my lungs doesn’t mean that I am any more suited for this reality than those who do. When you came to see me there, I wouldn’t look at you because I wouldn’t have seen you if I had. I am the one that you accuse of holding back and only showing you what I want you to see, but we are all like that. It has been months since we sealed each other off and walked away. Superficial conversation and a holiday greeting thrown in here and there is what is left of whatever it was that we had. I am not sure who I am anymore, but sometimes I am well aware of who I am not. There was a time when I faced you and all of those like you and demanded respect. Now, when the phone rings at 3am and the voice on the other end informs me that it wants to come over and “talk”, I am not hesitant to say OK. I am easy to fill with words and colors and sometimes your seed, but still I am hollow. Even if it is what you wanted, you could not fill me up. I do not wear the scars of trying to walk away from this life on my arms, and maybe that makes me less brave than those who do. Maybe I am the coward because my pain is not my anthem. I carry it with me like I once carried your seed, only it is not so easy to do away with. If twenty-minutes in a sterile room could take this away, I would gladly walk through the crowd and pay any price. Knowing what I want and being willing to do what it takes to get it are two completely different things. I want to follow the footsteps of those before me who have carried this burden, and be able to drop it where they did. I want to keep this suffering and sell the writings and paintings that it inspires to those who cannot understand the source. I want to be able to open up and show you the raw, pulsing place inside of me that makes me who I am, but I want to be alone. If I could show you, you would never leave it. I would like to be able to give you my mind and heart, rather than my body. I want to keep my mind and heart and only give you what comes out when I put this pen to paper. More than anything I want to be able to care for you; for who you are and how you touched me. Right now, though, I have to be happy with looking into your eyes when you think you are taking all of me, and know that what I really want is for you to call out my name as you fall into despair.