Desperation by definition
means to give up everything for something. It doesn’t matter what it is. It
could be the soul to the devil; it could be life for that one glimmer of hope.
I’m looking for a hand to
come out from underneath my bed, one I could grab hold of to return to where I
belong. To shake and touch and get lost in, to let the being connect with me,
to take away all that prevents me from going as far as I can go. It’s not the
end for me. It’s not the end of the line for me. A hand the colour of the lack
of light, and another of all colours with bright red nails. They’ve left me,
and I don’t know for how long. They come when I think of my mother. They come
when I write about the three-eyed dog, about the ghost boy that talked to
James, that coaxed her into jumping from her window because her father wouldn’t
accept her as a girl. But they only flutter into the folds of the dark at the corner
of my eye, and they disappear again, and they return only when I write things
that keep me awake at night. I remember when they were always there, sneering
at me from the shadows as I jumped from destructive relationship to destructive
relationship. They were always there when I felt out of place in my Asian skin
in a white Iowa. They were there when I reverted back to suicide when he and I
broke up, and all I wanted to do was disappear because I was unlovable because
no one could ever love a broken doll who pretends that she’s whole, that she’s
not cracked, that she doesn’t see ghosts before her mother’s suicide, that she’s
OK, that she’s beaten her suicidal thoughts, that she’s whole that she’s whole
that she’s fucking whole OK and no one will ever be let in again because fuck
you that’s why. She chased them away, determined to be strong because being
strong makes you better makes you alive makes you feel like you can do anything
but then you realise that you have nothing, you have NOTHING OK and you just
have to FUCKING DEAL WITH IT and you have to say goodbye. I hated them because
they were a reminder that I was nothing that I was weak that I was just like my
mother but I’m not OK I’m not my mother, I will never be my mother and if I
turn into my mother I will end just like her and guns are so easy to get in
America why do you think I haven’t been back in four years.
I hate guns. I hate
policemen and security guards OK but not just because police brutality is so
popular nowadays that it’s become something that’s in every day news and soon
everyone will be immune to it. They’ll watch the news, shake their heads, and
nothing will be done because the NRA is so fucking powerful that all they’d
like to see is money and if the money is bloodstained who the fuck cares
because money is fucking money OK and money makes the world go round. And guns
make worlds stop and blood spill and all I can think about is her funeral, how the
makeup artist did so well to reconstruct her head and skull and I was too young
to understand that she was dead and she was never coming back FUCK YOU.
I don’t like being
disillusioned I don’t like being lied to I don’t like feeling like I have no power
in my life in my country in my decisions to be me and not to be judged by
stereotypes. They were there when I felt like the black sheep and I feel like
the black sheep now so where the fuck are they where did they go why won’t they
come back to me and hold the knife to my throat so I feel like I'm still alive?
I don’t have know why I
haven’t been able to cry when job after job rejects me, publication after
publication reject my work, and when I get a shot my stomach twists my self-esteem
plummets and all I want is to be in a country where buying a gun is easy and
legal. I can’t go back there, to a country that supports their businesses, defends
their goddamn second amendment like it is God’s word and they’re not even
fucking religious, so why the fuck do they care why people die? When people die
they die. There’s nothing else. Just darkness nothing zilch nada emptiness.
Life is just that empty just that sad and death is no big deal because there’s
nothing scary in the darkness and that’s why children aren’t afraid of the
dark, why I’m not afraid of the dark.
They’ve lost faith in me
in my abilities in my existence and they left the way my mother did the way I
did. I’m running away I can’t stay in one place for a long, a nomad with no
friends no family no talents no prospects. All I have is this innate urge to
write and write and write and get better at writing and write but that gives my
life no value no meaning to society because writing is nothing it's not
important it means nothing it is nothing except there for entertainment value.
Having them back is high
risk I know and it may hurt people I know but what am I supposed to do in a
world that doesn’t love you doesn’t care about you doesn’t see you as anyone
important because they couldn’t even remember the one day you were born to tell
you that they’re still thinking about you, that they still remember and love
you? I want them back to be destructive to let me be extraordinary to let me
have a secret that no one will ever know and we’ll all smile in the dark at
each other, blood dripping from our teeth and our eyes and we’ll never be
alone. I want to be extraordinary with them to be a part of them to be one with
them. But a part of me is afraid of them because I won’t be able to control
them and then what will happen?
I still have her death
certificate. Blown up, folded, because I wanted to write about it one day. I
can’t find it anymore, but I know I still have it because I still haven’t been
able to let it go, to forgive her, to forgive the security guard she was
fucking for giving the gun to her.
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