pathology

[pathology]

finally

the empty spaces

in my soul -- filled.

even if only

with cobwebs.

a.n.n.

[pathology]

cynicism in the flesh forever broken in the bone i deduce, i deflect, and i destroy this fiery melancholy is all i know i’m finding myself again finally reaping what i’ve sown it’s time to finally find out how far down this dive can go

this is my portrait of skin and i’m ready to begin painting again

a.n.n.

[pathology]

My craft bleeds onto the page. Words do not drift lazily atop fond memories to the keyboard, no, they come crashing down, drawing the water with them. A raging waterfall of raw emotion, of darkness, of memories and feelings that slumber, lying in wait for the next wave of overwhelming sadness. They lie steadily, and when the moment comes, they lunge for the chance to slice open their abdomens, gnawing at their exposed intestines, bleeding over every line, every letter. Dripping, dripping, dripping, and tearing ferociously at their own guts, all-the-while smiling at you, welcoming you into their arms as they bleed out before you because it’s all just a show. A horror show of my own guts, on a platter, for you.

a.n.n.

[pathology]

I am the calm of the open ocean, and I am the roaring waves at shore. I keep you afloat and make you unsteady. I am your rock, your fragile house of cards. Night and day, light and dark, fighting a war inside me no matter the hour, the day, the year. My insides scream, and they soothe. I am both wicked and serene, lost and found, here and there. I am searching for myself. I am running from myself. But always, always reaching out to you when my lungs fill with water, and I cannot continue this battle on my own. You are my dry land -- stable and set, resistant, constant. 

Your love is what I need it to be.

a.n.n.

[pathology]

My body is not a temple. My body is a house of cards.

[pathology]

the breaker breaks

welcome to my dream fortress lilac walls and petal skies my retreat from reality the sanctuary in my head i have brought you here to show you where i go when i get scared and hurt so that you know that i am alright so that you won’t worry mom and so maybe i can help you focus on the pretty purples inside of your bruises and imagine that the drops of blood are rose petals in the sky and you are a princess and one day you will ride your white horse far from here and your tears will dry and become great, billowy clouds your eyes the sunset and your body the canvas as the maker makes and the breaker breaks

[pathology]

How diligently we try to bury the past deep within us in an attempt to stifle it, and how often we fail. The worst moments of my life are the ones I long the most to forget, yet they are the cobwebs  -- the constant reminders that something sinister once dwelled here, something venomous. Something has gone, but it has left pale, fragile remnants of its existence in its wake.

The worst memories for me are the good ones. I feel guilty, I feel heavy, simply for remembering that you were ever associated with something good in my life, even a fleeting memory. It pains me to be reminded of you– rough hands, the smell of gin and smoke, Stephen King novels, “Stairway to Heaven.” You were a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a nightmare. How can I even momentarily stomach the idea of your existence bringing me joy? How can my mind even generate these ideas? How can you cross my mind even still? Am I a bad person for remembering that good things happened, too? Each time turns from reflection and bemusement to horror at the memory of your face, the sound of your voice, the feeling of your hand on my shoulder. I feel my blood turn to ice. My hair stands on end. The terror returns. I want to forget you altogether, but I don’t know how. 

a.n.n.

[pathology]

i want to write but my most used key is just the backspace

[pathology]

constellations of scar tissue grace your skin and i couldn't be more in awe of your beauty at this time and in this moment because together we are galaxies 

[pathology]

And there were times when I knew how you felt and it was hell to know it.

Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

[pathology]

Words bother me. I think it is why I am a poet. I keep trying to force myself to speak of the things that remain mute inside. My poems only come when I have almost lost the ability to utter a word. To speak, in a way, of the unspeakable. To make an object out of the chaos….To say what? a final cry into the void.

Anne Sexton - From A Self-Portrait In Letters

[pathology]

Suffering has been stronger than all other teaching, and has taught me to understand what your heart used to be. I have been bent and broken, but - I hope - into a better shape.

Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

[pathology]

I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.

Salvador Dalí

[pathology]

I am a very unhappy human being and you, dearest, simply had to be summoned to create an equilibrium for all this misery.

Franz Kafka, from Letters To Felice

[pathology]

inhale / exhale / relief

it's not a fashion statement, don't you realize? it's not because of the magazines it's not because of the silver screen it's not from what i saw on the tv it's because of peace of mind, chemicals and the rush of relief our love for the destruction of our temples, our bodies, beautiful things when will they realize that we know it's unhealthy we just don't care

a.n.n.

[pathology]

i am writing you tonight to bring you bad news -- to tell you that i'm okay and that it hurts less every day that passes. i am writing you tonight to tell you that you lost -- to let you know i'm better and that every passing moment, i am closer to normal -- i am closer to me. even after every bruise, after every lost night, and every last night, the broken bones still heal, and so do i. .

a.n.n.

[pathology]

i get a deep ache on cold nights that makes my leg feel hollow it doesn't throb it doesn't waiver the pain digs deep and it just stays

a constant reminder of what was once broken though the cast is long gone and the bone has healed

i guess my mind is the same way

a.n.n.