Kaleidoscopic Resonance - Issue Two - Sinking Body Systems Fail

Sinking Body Systems Fail

A prose-poem by Steffani Schlierf

I’m falling apart.

I feel like if I don’t concentrate real hard my whole body is going to disintegrate. Or melt. Or something awful is going to happen. Crushed into a zillion sparkly pieces picked up by the wind like a spilled tube of glitter.

I need something to make me feel real. Right now I just feel like a little kid lost at the store or waking up from a nightmare. Needing someone to realize something’s not right. Like all the times I got so sick and my mom had to hold me sitting up so I could breathe while I was sleeping.

I feel so pathetic. And broken. And stupid. I clearly did something wrong or I wouldn’t feel like this. But how do I fix it? You can’t stitch together a rip in reality when pieces are missing and the only needle you’ve got came from a heroin shot. Your veins can’t be thread; they’re too elastic and sticky. You’ll just take it to a whole new level of ruined.

Grow up, move on, or do something about it. The tears in your eyes don’t pay rent or tuition. They just make you look cheap like the whore you wish you could be. At least someone’s touching her. And she’s got some cash tucked into that waistband or wadded up in the toe of her pretty plastic pumps.

The words all run together and you wish you were high. But the lady at the desk is going to start searching your bags soon. ‘Specially if you keep leaving at silly hours. Like that deal you watched go down. Duck your head and say a quick Hail Mary. “Please don't shoot me. I didn’t see nothin’.”

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck
I give up.

And in this moment. I know that I’ve lost any chance at becoming a person. Silly, silly me. Silly, silly person. Waste of space. I need to find a way to breathe and be whole again. I sigh and it’s such a stupid excuse [depression] - that’s what it is: an excuse, a crutch. I really should be able to work through it, live through it. Be okay. Be normal. Be a teenager. Be something. Someone. Instead of this zombie robo teen who doesn’t work. It’s kinda hard to work when you don’t breathe. Fuck it. And it sucks.

What what what what what what what what what what. What am I supposed to do? I want to text her. I want to tell her that I’m not okay. But I don’t think she cares anymore. She doesn’t love me. She’s put it all away. I want to reread her notes and remember the days she wanted to hold me. I want to remember the days that we were together. I love love love love love love love love her. She’s my life. She was my life. She was what I lived for. I wanted her to be proud of me. But now she’s pulling away and doesn’t love me anymore. And I hate it. Who am I supposed to live for now? What’s the point? She doesn’t love me. She doesn't care. And it sucks. It really fucking sucks.

And the thing is, I’m finding all the reasons I feel the way I do. I can connect my reactions now to specific incidents and memories. But seeing why it hurts doesn’t make it feel any better. I even came up with a clever analogy while I was in the shower this morning.

Say you watch yourself get a cut. Maybe it’s just a paper cut. You saw it happen. You know what caused it. But it still stings even though you know it’s just a paper cut. And eventually the sharp, initial pain goes away and you stop the bleeding. But you’ve still got an open wound. And if you leave it there, just open, it’s going to get infected. Even if you know why it’s there, if you don’t treat it, it’s going to get worse. You can wash it out now and again, small attempts to keep it healthy, but it’s not enough. Now it’s not just a shallow wound, but it’s an infection that’s going to kill you if someone with medical knowledge doesn’t step in and fix it. And when they ask what caused this, you say it was a paper cut. You know what caused it, but you couldn’t fix it.