Dinkaltranen

“That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.”

“What is, my lord?”

“Nothing.”

Crying, waking up, screaming, reaching out for someone who isn’t there. “Scharf. Scharf, please don’t let me go.”

Vomiting blood into the toilet at 3am. Vomiting onto your best friend’s tiled floor as you try to stand up and walk out the door at 10pm. You haven’t eaten in two days.

Movies, dozens, back to back. A flood of information and emotion and experience denied to you through your entire life. Games, books, stories. It’s nothing. It’s so empty in your room and you don’t care. It’s better than the burning touch of others.

Frozen portraits, silhouettes, stark from the light of a cinema. Blood in your mouth. I loved you once, you say. There’s agony in the words, agony throughout your body. Your blood is acid and you try to scream as the nurses hold you down and begin to pull out your broken leg. You would even drink piss if someone gave it to you, the thirst, the horrible, unquenchable thirst. Please kill me. Please let me die.

Beautiful, perfect women, emotionally immature. Yet simultaneously so unmoulded, so uninterested in being anything else other than who they have been told they should be. They could be anyone you wanted them to be. You try not to throw up at the idea, at the idea of someone thinking the same of you. There’s blood. So much blood. Not as much blood as when you cut yourself, but enough to know you’re dying. You punch yourself in the stomach and puke up more.

Razor to your throat. You’re tired of tasting blood. You would have to taste a lot of blood to do this. You’re not sure you can take that.

Rambling, raving. Cursing yourself. Please god don’t let me go. Please don’t leave me in the rain, in the cold. I can’t be alone again, not alone in the rain. I can’t take these lies. I can’t tolerate being no-one. Go on, drink a piece of glass with that scotch. It can’t hurt any less than the burn of the drink itself. I feel sick. But if I am sick I will taste blood again, and I can’t do that, I will die if I taste blood again.

You have no idea who you are, do you? You are trying to divide the entire spectrum of human emotion into binaries. You would be anyone to be loved.

Falling, tumbling. Why am I here? Did I push myself? In a way. I am dreaming. I feel like I am dreaming, I couldn’t have pushed myself. I just remember feeling my knees against the dirt, then reaching, reaching for anything to hold onto, then falling, falling from above the trees. The sickening crunch of every breaking bone on the way down. This is all just a bad dream. Ruptured blood vessels, your skull nearly crumples. Blind in your right eye. Can I move? I can’t feel below my waist. Am I paralysed? Am I going to die here in the dirt and leaves? Crawl. Crawl. Crawl. I don’t want to die. Fuck God, I hate you and everyone, I am not going to die here. I am going to come back and fucking kill every single one of you.

Back in the world. Puppets. Everyone’s a puppet. I have to believe they’re not, looking for someone who is suspending themselves. Someone who is willing to not play to another’s tune. I found them. I found them, and ruined them. Oh god I ruined them. I ruined them through my incompetence. I ruined the last chance at goodness in this world. I ruined myself. Please God, oh Lord, please forgive me. I am curling up in a ball begging you, please, please, please, sobbing hysterically at 1am before class.

Noise, stimulation, a world of static. I am breaking apart against the shore of the world, eroding away, crashing against the sand that breaks my brittle form into smaller and smaller pieces.

I am (removed) years old. I am going to die never knowing who anyone is, even myself. I am going to die knowing nothing but misery, and there is nothing I can do to change my fate. Become a clown. Dance, little clown, puppet for others. They can’t hate you if they smile. Be others’ happiness. I hate you. I hate myself. I want to die. I want to die. I want to die. Please kill me. Please give me an excuse to kill myself. I can’t do this anymore.

Drink. Numb. Drink. Numb. I don’t want to do die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. Please don’t kill me. I am 13 years old and I am cold and wet and alone, I am crying in the rain. There is a woman here, I know her. She’s going to do terrible things to me and tell me she loves me, and I will love her. I can still taste blood. I’m really trying. I’m really trying, it hurts, it hurts so much, and it’s never good enough. I can do everything right and it still turns out wrong. That’s a lie, I’ve done so much wrong. You’ve done so much wrong to yourself.

I hate you. Please save yourself. If you hate me, why do you ask me to save myself? Because in doing so I save myself. I can’t force anything. Time speeding up and slowing down. I am moving through time, moving through time. I can taste blood again. I throw up, more blood. Please, I don’t want to die.

I was raped, horribly, it didn’t hurt that much but it was uncomfortable. It is awful. I don’t know who I am anymore. I can be as sick as I want to be, but I would die. I could ruin the world. I could ruin the world and everyone in it. I think I’m telling a truth and I find out it’s all a fucking lie. Please hurt me, I deserve it. It still wasn’t as bad as what my mother did to me. And worst of all she doesn’t remember it. Is that what love is? Are you what love is? Why am I asking for love advice from someone who can’t even love themselves?

I can’t even tell you what my mother did, because I don’t even remember. I know it was nothing sexual, and that makes it worse. She at least had the balls to hit me. My father couldn’t do that, he cried raising the belt, the reflection, the role reversal of his childhood reeked far too much into his adult life. Just like me. I don’t live in the present, some time in the past. He cried boxing my ears. But he was the reason just as much as mother. Never there, somehow worse. Drunk, like I ended up being.

Take it off. Be a man. Be something human. Rise, rise! Fight like The Idiot you are! Fight until there is nothing left of your arms and legs but bloody stumps.

Please don’t ask this of me. I can’t. I am too weak. I have fought all my life. Must you ask more of me, God?

I am not God. I am you.

Good. Because then I would have to kill you.

There is no reason to live without you, does that not make you God?

There is no reason to live without yourself, as God.

I have seen what I have done as God.

But have you seen what you could do as good as God?

I have seen I am not enough. That I will never be enough. I want to be drugged and raped to death. Where is the good in that?

In the denial of those urges. In the denial of what will make you happy. In denial of life.

What if I want to live?

Such is the denial.

This is psychosis. This is dissociation. I want my high school teacher to come back and love me. I want anyone to love me. I want to love God. I want to love myself.

This is all consent. I miss the women who thought they loved me. I miss the men who thought they were my friends. I miss being human. I miss being alive. I miss not bleeding in the shower after work every day or drinking because it’s the only way I can feel anything. I would say I miss being loved, but I never was loved. I was delusional to think I was loved. I was… I was… I was…

I am.