I went for the background check today. Paid almost $60; the last of the money I made from the craft show in November.
I’m actually relieved about my appointment with the doctor on Wednesday. I just feel I should be shoved away in a box somewhere. I don’t seem to care about the time here I was given. I don’t want anything. Not a marriage, not kids, I’m not a good worker, and I have no skills. When you want nothing, how strong do you have to be?
It’s hard to put together a point here, but one thing is for sure. I cannot have this year go by with nothing having been done. Something will happen. Everyday feels like the end, and as much as it hurts to wait and see about things, I have to. There’s nothing left but my life to lose now, so I’m going to go through the pain and try to be productive for the next six months.
This picture is one I was going to throw away, but instead I decided to paint it since I was bored. It reminds me of a tarot card in a way, black magic or someone sending evil things out into the night. But really, it’s random so it’s whatever anyone wants to make of it.
I’m closing out on my poems now, just a few more to edit. The first one below starts out about a particular death sign/symbol I read about in a book I have, of sighting a butterfly at night. The rest stems from that I guess, wanting the end to come, as usual. I worked closely with this one though- compared to the first draft, I’m very glad about how it turned out.
For A Sighting
Window I stare out, into night
Butter-fly wings I hope to sight
Flickering in moon’s beam light
Flirting, the faces of my knife.
The late hours wafting mystique
Intense silence, I hardly breathe
Engrossed, in wait of memories,
Daring them to speak,
For even one vision to peek, with
My torturous reality, as spread
In flecks of bloody dream, its
Deluge of pain filled musings.
Ghostlike flames, lantern escape
In mind, here at the end phase
Of dark unshaken promises, I’m
Safe and the utmost convinced.
The second one below is one I’ve been working on for some time, but I’ve accepted that I may never capture the moment I’m trying to express as well as I would like. It’s about how I felt when the first therapist I ever had actually examined the first few, tiny scars on my left arm. I remember feeling completely violated (why I never went back to him), and so angry at myself mainly for allowing the conversation to get that far out of hand. I still hate myself for it, but I’ve learned. No one will ever have that much power over how I feel when it comes to anything on the outside again. People will judge anyway, sure, but that’s going to come back at them, not me. Judgment doesn’t erase what’s happened, and I truly don’t have time to even think about it anymore. Why not just be glad that I write more about my thoughts of hurting myself than I act on them. I have a feeling I’ll be back in therapy within the coming month, as I expect to be back on some kind of medication soon. But maybe this new physician will let me slide on going to therapy…that’s wishful thinking probably, but it would be nice…
His Closer Look
My answers were
Soaked in a frozen sweat
Of injuries, not innocent; my
Guilty eyes were swelling red; my
Breathless plea for sudden death
I’m studied closely from the start
And shiver from my quickened heart
As a filth-like feel derides my scars
When keen suggestions lean too far
Then- lost as the loss of a dear secret
Lies continued to pass my lips
Just deaf enough to get me through
My final words most resolute
All hopes of wellness fell in doubt
The sickness flared as I walked out
A ruined, angry quake, I felt
Far redrawn into myself