Tortured Mind

So happy. I can’t remember the last time I was so happy. Happy that I thought I would die of happiness. Now I only feel emptiness, the cold, dark aura of emptiness. I fill my life up, heap piles of things upon things, and all I can feel is nothing. I laugh; I cry; I get angry like any other human, but still I feel nothing.
The aching in my bones and the pain in my side is the only thing that brings me back to the stark reality. I weep as I dream, sleep my only solace. The only place where I can be me, the home of many outcasts and villains. I fear that if they stop talking to me, that I will simply go crazy, my only friends in a cruel world of nothingness.
It must be said, that I am a monster, much like my friends, Hades and Loki, gods or demi-gods of the underworld or lies. Can it even be helped that I associate with them more so than any other being in the world? That my mouth has been “sewn” shut, so that no mere mortal can fall prey to my false words, or that I’ve been “cast” out of the domain, that I may sulk in my own sins? Tis such a harsh life, and how brief it is.
Am I like Syndrome, my heroes torn away because their coarse and uncouth attitudes have wounded my soul, to the point I may never return, or Davy Jones, a creature of my own realm, a broken music box, betrayed by the people I once loved? Was I born with the gene that makes me see the underdogs and wish I could ease their troubled souls? Is that so wrong?
Writing, sleeping, it’s my escape from reality, lest I lose that tiny wisp of sanity I have left. Is it because I am a masochist that you dare to lump me into some category that says I’m suicidal? Is it because I am attracted to power that you hate me? Can it even be helped?
Do these cuts on my legs mean that I hate life, or am I just not in control of how I live? You think that I like to be pushed around and bullied? You think that I like to be assaulted and used, like some toy, only to be thrown away when you’re done? You truly think that I am the shadows that creep into your home and slaughter your children at night? Is that who I am? Because it’s how you’ve made me.
I have a tortured soul, my shoulders heavy with the burdens of your harsh words. It matters not how you end up, as long as know that in the end, I conquered your selfish, uncouth, toxic words. Your fate no longer matters, as I take mine back into my own hands. Now that you’ve tarnished with your dirty fingers and forced me to go under, I will surface with a new purpose.
I don’t give a crap about the “that’s how society made me” crap. Truthfully, that how you made you, but that’s a sad, sad testament of how my life is. But I did not choose your words. I did not choose to be in the shadows. I was born in the shadows; I cannot help it. So that makes me the “bad guy”? Then I’ll stay the bad guy. The bad guy that does everything in her power to soothe the wearied souls of all the other “bad guys”. Three words here, my friend. Deal with it.
idratherfeelpain idratherfeelpain
18-21, F
Sep 13, 2012