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take me to the ball game
Nov. 6th, 2023 05:35 pmYou ever get tired of saying the truth, and nothing but the truth? In the car you start wondering if your hands are shaking and if it's perceptible, knowing with this completely alien feeling that if you were asked to lie now you would not be able to. Just sick with it, drenched in horror, unable to do what you have always been so good at doing. If asked the question, you would not be able to lie convincingly.
That little voice- you have grown weak. Easy to pick out now, like an insidious little worm crawling on the patchwork of your brain, but now that you are trained you can pick it up between thumb and forefinger, examine it when you hold it to the light. You cannot quite explain why it makes you sick, having to lie for a secret that isn't quite yours, too many things not told and assumed and held in the dark.
Go back. Sit in the entrance to the shopping mall and your hands are clenched and there's something peculiar inside you, like a fish grown too big for it's pond, which now you can recognize as trauma. You ever wander what it's like to have the sharingan but not the Uchiha genes?
Borrowing a metaphor for something I have no words for, able to watch the harm coming and unable to dodge it. At least you can see it coming. At least you can see.
Go back. Coming down the mountain bleeding all the way, not just physically but somewhere, again, inside you where the words will not reach. Sick with the bleeding and dizzy with the desire to pee so bad you're spending most of your willpower there and she reaches out and holds your hand. You're the same build so you shouldn't quite find it so comforting. You make jokes about your dead grandfather yeeting you off the mountain- yeeting is the exact word you think very loud but, again, impossible to translate- all the while feeling like you're about to fall off these infinite stairs, bouncing on every gravestone you see. Grandfather. You miss him only in the most abstract of ways. The wind in the trees. You miss him for yourself, the emptiness and uselessness of grief. Somewhere inside you there's a voice that suggests; perhaps it isn't so bad to give in to this kind of self pity. Graves are for the living, anyway.
Go back. Hugging over the excitement of getting the right figurine from a blind box.
Go back. Things I cannot say. There you go, the first time you say I. You want to erase it, make it a story that belongs to someone else. Going in the CT scan with your eyes screwed tight and the doctor saying there's nothing wrong. But there is, and now you know what it is. The dizziness, the slow headache that builds up in your right eye like storm blowing in over the mountain.
One person in the world who knows how you really feel. You've changed so much. But not enough. You think the word is trauma bonded, as in the dictionary definition, not the popularized version. We spies, we slow hands. Wandering the mall with your fists clenched tight and your shoulders bumping, wondering what to say, how to say it. Don't you need to write a diary? Don't you need to write things down? Sometimes the rage takes you by such surprise you have no idea how it happens, and then it's in the room with you and demands recompense, like a ghost that gets resuscitated at the strangest of times. Now you can see clearly. Now you understand a lot of things. Now you make choices as you should've done, and still.
I can still see her, you know? I am still her. I look at the photos and think that's a child, but in my head is the same voice there's always been, the same girl I've always been.
Weird. Now I have to walk apart. Now I have to stand up and detach. Now I have to put a hand onmy on her shoulder, tell her it's alright. And I really believe it.
I still wish I could burn it down somehow. Erase it. Cut the threads completely. If the right people die, etc. But the right people never do. What could /I/ possibly do? The uselessness of my westernized thinking. It's not so bad, I think. But the fish is still inside me, silent. And the harm remains the harm, which no fire could ever wipe clean.
That little voice- you have grown weak. Easy to pick out now, like an insidious little worm crawling on the patchwork of your brain, but now that you are trained you can pick it up between thumb and forefinger, examine it when you hold it to the light. You cannot quite explain why it makes you sick, having to lie for a secret that isn't quite yours, too many things not told and assumed and held in the dark.
Go back. Sit in the entrance to the shopping mall and your hands are clenched and there's something peculiar inside you, like a fish grown too big for it's pond, which now you can recognize as trauma. You ever wander what it's like to have the sharingan but not the Uchiha genes?
Borrowing a metaphor for something I have no words for, able to watch the harm coming and unable to dodge it. At least you can see it coming. At least you can see.
Go back. Coming down the mountain bleeding all the way, not just physically but somewhere, again, inside you where the words will not reach. Sick with the bleeding and dizzy with the desire to pee so bad you're spending most of your willpower there and she reaches out and holds your hand. You're the same build so you shouldn't quite find it so comforting. You make jokes about your dead grandfather yeeting you off the mountain- yeeting is the exact word you think very loud but, again, impossible to translate- all the while feeling like you're about to fall off these infinite stairs, bouncing on every gravestone you see. Grandfather. You miss him only in the most abstract of ways. The wind in the trees. You miss him for yourself, the emptiness and uselessness of grief. Somewhere inside you there's a voice that suggests; perhaps it isn't so bad to give in to this kind of self pity. Graves are for the living, anyway.
Go back. Hugging over the excitement of getting the right figurine from a blind box.
Go back. Things I cannot say. There you go, the first time you say I. You want to erase it, make it a story that belongs to someone else. Going in the CT scan with your eyes screwed tight and the doctor saying there's nothing wrong. But there is, and now you know what it is. The dizziness, the slow headache that builds up in your right eye like storm blowing in over the mountain.
One person in the world who knows how you really feel. You've changed so much. But not enough. You think the word is trauma bonded, as in the dictionary definition, not the popularized version. We spies, we slow hands. Wandering the mall with your fists clenched tight and your shoulders bumping, wondering what to say, how to say it. Don't you need to write a diary? Don't you need to write things down? Sometimes the rage takes you by such surprise you have no idea how it happens, and then it's in the room with you and demands recompense, like a ghost that gets resuscitated at the strangest of times. Now you can see clearly. Now you understand a lot of things. Now you make choices as you should've done, and still.
I can still see her, you know? I am still her. I look at the photos and think that's a child, but in my head is the same voice there's always been, the same girl I've always been.
Weird. Now I have to walk apart. Now I have to stand up and detach. Now I have to put a hand on
I still wish I could burn it down somehow. Erase it. Cut the threads completely. If the right people die, etc. But the right people never do. What could /I/ possibly do? The uselessness of my westernized thinking. It's not so bad, I think. But the fish is still inside me, silent. And the harm remains the harm, which no fire could ever wipe clean.
