NOW. This moment. Alone.

I fill my head with noise, or I lose all control and stare quietly at the dark night sky without listening to myself or anyone near me. I empty my memories into little crystal well-hidden jars with tight corks. I hoard my salty burning hot tears one by one which pour from my heart. I have always kept them under a stone so heavy that noone could open them even if they did find them. Miniature memories were burnt like a branded steer into my heart and inside are cracked pitiful baby pieces of “Little Me”. I don’t know how to walk away like an old cowboy, blowing the smoke from his gun and twirl it like a baton, all the while staring at his worst enemy with a stern glaze. I am my own enemy, I am the gun, I am the smoke and all the leftovers of a deserted, dusty, vacated town. I don’t have a horse or a good pair of shoes and my bones are brittle and I am so damn tired. I feel like laying against a strong tree, letting the sun melt away my skin, watching coyotes circling, nearing me and I welcome them. I look deeply at each one straight into their hungry eyes, well knowing I could shoot them, but I don’t. I want them to ravish me and to be their best meal so I could just stop everything right here and let go of this disastrous shell of a life. My dreams are not fair. They give the scoundrels who used me and abused me the power to hurt me over and over again. I pray to that black sky, that painful scorching sun, that deep, icy cold lake to make my dreams go away. I can’t get enough of “Little Me” out. I am like a bulimic, bulging with sour chunks of pain and try desperately to rid myself of BaD DaD. I see a photo flash across the television, a father, an actor, an ideal man for the job. I want to hire a Dad to be mine. To say, I will save you no matter what. I will catch you; I won’t leave you and say ugly nasty things and scare you. I won’t get us kicked out of restaurants and throw wine bottles at the staff and mostly, I will never try to kiss you with my smelly stinky tongue drenched in alcohol. Go away you stupid memory bank. Can I have a piece of me removed to end this? What the hell does this world want from this little girl who only wanted to save the world and maybe, just maybe a bit of herself. What do I know about blogging? Nothing. What do I know about me? Everything. And that everything will be regurgitated before I get too old to die alone with it all. I will pull my self out of this lonely drifting soul and I will not stop until I can say to “ROCK”, thank you and goodbye.

The Shell of LittleMe
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on