February nine

last night: i watched the toast turn crisp in the oven. she’s knocking on my door and i pretend to be asleep. i clutch at my pillow, making myself believe that it is a lover. they are smothering me. they are crippling me. i cut my hair out of frustration. if a robber tried to rob me, i’d fight back to increase my chances of being killed. i numb myself of everything: feeling and thought. i am okay for the meantime. i don’t want to wake up anymore.

once again i feel like i am the worst daughter in the world. my mother made sure of that. while sitting through statistics class four hours ago, she sent me a barrage of text messages: anger, hatred, contempt. she is guilt tripping me again, i figured. she is bringing god into the conversation again. “God knows what he’ll do with you.” alright then. un/fortunately, i don’t believe in god anymore. i thought her words would prick, but i realize, i’m so disconnected from my parents that i really can’t feel anything anymore. i couldn’t summon any reaction from myself, even if i tried. i read them once and hit ‘Delete’

perhaps she sent these things to garner a reaction from me, any kind of reaction. but she knows i never open my mouth, that i live inside my head, that i will never give her the satisfaction, that my best weapon is my silence. therefore, i ignore her. she should’ve known better.

i wonder. when my mother lies in bed, does she regret the time she said yes to Marriage? she basically condemned herself to a life of misery, miserable perhaps because she bore a daughter who despised her. when she weaned me, did she ever thought that i would grow up to spite her? life is so funny. i will never get married, i can tell you that right now. i do not want marriage. i do not want the burden of children: to bear a child that will grow to hate me, to be like my mother and oppress my child’s life, to give myself up to make way for something else. i cannot lose myself that way.

i sit here in the library and my fingers are stiff from the cold. i am freezing, but i don’t transfer tables. earlier i ran my finger down the spines of books, from one shelf to another, and felt tears prickle my eyes again. i don’t let them fall, of course. i cannot. i realize, then, that Solitude is really the only thing that has been there for me all throughout this godawful life.

i don’t know what happiness feels like. i think happiness is just a temporary feeling, just like all the other feelings, just like Love. it shouldn’t mean anything to me considering the fact that i know nothing of these things. they say life is beautiful. i’ve only seen the worst of it, or the bad side of it, i suppose. perhaps i am ignorant by choice; perhaps because i prefer to wallow in my privilege and live inside my head. it irks me sometimes. i find myself turning to books and literature and writing for comfort. a part of me tells me it’s an awful way to be, that one’s life should consist of people and not things… but books have given me joy—escapism—more than anyone ever has. is that so wrong?

i no longer believe in people or miracles or myself. i am crippled. i’d like to believe that someday i will be able to heave myself from this quicksand turmoil, that i won’t have to suffer forever, that i will escape this godawful life. i see faces and faces and faces every single day. every face is a different story; i wish i knew theirs, but i refuse to reach out and open myself to anybody. do i really have to? meddling with Trust is a messy thing.

i find no comfort in family. blood relations mean nothing to me. i think i have a hardened heart, hardened from the callouses that were once blows inflicted on my poor, hollow organ. i should be sad for myself, but i really cannot feel anymore. everything has been repressed. my heart is stoppered once and for all. i long to know happiness; have it in my hands and unravel it like a spool of yarn, examine every tidbit of it. why is happiness happiness? and why am i so sad all the time?

sometimes i wish i could just disappear, disintegrate, and cease to exist. sleep-starved. i slept at 1 a.m. to study for a godforsaken quiz. i think i did well. i no longer care. secretly i do, but i don’t want to look like i care. every time i cared, i got disappointed. perhaps the New Way is to never show you care so you never get hurt. i have to ward off these unnecessary feelings.

i feel like i am just damning myself. secretly i study people and wonder what it would be like to get inside them, get under their skin, be one with them. secretly i am always on my toes. secretly i am always weak in the knees. i’m not a serious person, but i am for real. i wish i could know someone truly and genuinely, but i don’t want the arrangements of friendship. is it possible to trade souls with another and not call it friendship? i get so scared of the word ‘friend’ what a scary word that is. a loaded word, that is. i never use it on anyone.

they say in this world there are good people aplenty. but i think there are heaps of temporaries as well. i still feel like the piece of shit daughter that i am. suppose i can just go home, yes. suppose i can just turn my key in the lock, stow my shoes away, climb my spiral stairs. suppose i can just apologize, hug my mom and father, I love you, i say. suppose i can just let go of this pride. suppose i can just, for once, act like the good fucking daughter they never had.  suppose i just stopped being a piece of shit. suppose i can just bury myself in my mother’s arms and tell her to love me again. suppose i can just go home.

home. but home isn’t home anymore. perhaps it never was. perhaps i am a snail, that the only home i know of is myself. all this running around, all this chasing— for what? the world isn’t going to hold and embrace me. suppose i had a lover, a significant other. insignificant other. suppose i just wore two masks. one happy, one not-so-happy. and then i’d never be sad again. but that would make me an actor…but aren’t we all actors, then, on a stage we never asked for? i am thrust into the spotlight, the spotlight which we call Life, involuntarily…did i have a choice? i never asked for this. thrust into the spotlight…and i singe from the heat, and just like that, i am burnt toast.

my heart doesn’t hurt anymore. perhaps it has taken too much hurt and is now calloused. i realize i’m not gonna live forever… that thought alone will do. there’s always the next life. perhaps it would be better, perhaps not. perhaps i will be someone else by then, perhaps not. for now i am stale, like dry week-old bread, just waiting for the mold to grow on me and finally turn me to scum once the fungi is finished with me, once it has reduced me to something lower than filth.

i try to preen, and end up being pruned. and here i am, making small talk with myself because it’s the only conversation i can have without feeling undeserving. the only conversation i can have without ruining everything. i am unworthy of conversations and i’m stuck here with my qualms once again, the qualms of a nobody.


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