#proasis poem

[evilback-wards]

Turn it “OFF”[Trigger warnings tagged]

I wish my brain was like a dead light bulb

I wish my eyes were closed like circuit breakers 

I wish my mouth was sewn shut like invisible stitches

so no one would ever be able to read my expressions. 

I am wishful person, filled to the brim of hope of better days.

But how much better can days get?

What if the thought of happiness always turns sick

What if the idea of truth is just a lie 

What if lies are all there is to life? 

I wish, like many other things in life, you could lose your identity

your self

your body

your truest indicator of existing. 

I wish I could peel of my body somewhere

(I’d still be living of course) 

and float around and wander

and ponder the meaning of life

leaving the lead-like dead weight behind.

Don’t misunderstand,

I’m not suicidal. 

I have no death wish.

I want to survive in this terrible world like anyone else.

But. 

This aching body and mortal flesh 

always has the instinct desire 

to hurt itself.

It’s like a slow burn that bursts into flames

ticks across the skin to 

roaches invading the earlobe to the brain 

fingernails scratch, scratch, scratch. 

Only dirt can ever be found.

Rarely a piece of missing food obtained.

Impossible, though the feeling is very juxtaposed 

is anything living ever near this body of mine.

It’s like my body is always trying to connect

with things yet

it strongly dislikes 

the mere thought of it

occurring. 

Life in bits of scratched off skin.

Fabric-like blood tainted scaly skin. 

They cloud up my vision, my drawer cabinet, my floor, my bedsheets

and sometimes, if I’m unlucky

the insides of my socks. 

If I could leave this body I could be free.

No trace of me ever to be found

I’d just be gone -- bam -- no more me 

I’ll escape somewhere, anywhere

away from this body.

It taunts me, daily, with its distinct and didactic order to injure

peel, scratch, pull, bleed, scream.

Scream.

Scream.

Screaming.

Turn it OFF.