The Greyest of Blue Skies

This piece is a creative response to the music of finger eleven.  I programmed in my favourite songs from their two discs, the songs that speak most to me, and allowed the thoughts to flow via the monologue of the character emerging in my mind.  Is she me or am I her?  I do not know.  But she spoke tonight.

I sit here alone, lights dimmed, arms wrapped about my legs in a desperate attempt to make myself an impenetrable sphere of strength.  I am anything but strong now.  I think I was strong once, long ago, maybe when I was five.  But now, I am weak, bendable, yielding to the world and its bitter whims and games.  Most of my nights are spent this way.  I turn on the stereo, fade into the music, and ache to cry.  My eyes often sting as if they have been drying for days, such is the strain I exert to wring a single tear from my pathetic body.  Even my body has betrayed me now.  It has always betrayed me.  I have always betrayed me.

You lost what made you you

I am growing tired of this irrational beast lying heavy within my guts.  It feeds on my misery, dictates the thoughts I think.  It revels in the acidity of my mother.  It enjoys the cruel laughter of my peers.  I am so sick of it all.  Sick of this hollow gnawing dread, sick of talking myself out of suicide - particularly when it is so easy.  My shrink loves handing me pills.  I wonder if she's hoping I will go ahead and die so she can be rid of my incessant whining.  I'm nobody in this world.

Or maybe you never knew

I know I should stand up for myself.  I know I should scream, speak, demand attention.  But there's nothing left of me, save the pain.  So I walk about each day, struggling to fake a smile, struggling to talk about the silly trite crap that drives my generation.  I wear a mask.  Sometimes, it slips down, ever so slightly, and my true nature is revealed:  cold, cruel and bitter.  Consumed by memories coating my dirty flesh.  A layer of dirt I cannot remove, even as I run the blade down my arms.  I am never free of these tangling vines about my pale throat. 

I can't stay here anymore.....

I've been down here before, all my bones + joints are sore

But someday, someday, I will be.  Someday, you will not enter my room.  Someday you will not tell my how pretty I am.  Someday, you will stop whipping me with your belt.  I'm going to run from here.  I will leave behind my costume and end this masquerade, and all will be known.  Your hypocrisy will be shed, and you will know the beat within you, as I have known mine for years.  And someday, I'll get away from you.

Find my way out of the wreck again..... (finger eleven)

Wait and I'll be begging.

Force it through to get relief