I am what is left of me

I used to insist. Insist for things to fit into place. Insist to myself, one foot after the other, that the road was long but the reward was worth the walk. I used to fight every urge to not be my very own savior. I never needed anyone. One of many gems on my flex crown. I could do it all. I was fierce, fiery, fearless. Yes, I was.

There is a lack of motivation that dives my world head first into quicksand. It used to be a myth. Just a story to scare the kid in me. It's funny how history brings perspective, changing what was once norm to discarded behavior. It is certainly crazy to see the heights I used to frequent, now nothing but a distant memory. An illusion of the past becomes the hunter in my waking nightmares. The unhinged need to try, only to fall on my face and break my pride and joy into shame and dread.

No one, absolutely no one ever told me to be ready for the day when everything I had built would be reversed by my own literal flesh. Every inch of muscle gained, every skill learned, every step forward. Today I took a nap on top of my broken self, hoping to smother it. Waking up, the retaliation was numbness of body, mind and soul. What was the point of building a castle, an empire, a life, when the avalanche of deception was so nigh? So blind...

More is less, less is more, but everything is everything and nothing is nothing. No going around it. Trying so hard to change into something. The build up, the struggle, the accomplishment, all to be thrown downhill to the unknown. Had it been back to the start of the line, reaching the end of the road again would have been just a matter of effort. However, breaking paths through a new unknown like a comatose patient against a moving train? What is the point? The end of the line has a different color by now.

I once saw it from above, it was crimson and crying. But now, from the new below, there is too much dirt in my eyes to see beyond my own destruction. I could get lost and that would be progress, but my feet won't budge. They are stuck in what used to be fact and is now fiction, not even history. Maybe it was just a story I told myself to scare the scars away. But this tissue, this skin, it is rotten by now. Bruised beyond recognition.

This could have been a learning experience, but I can't learn for others and this is a shared ride. If the smell of trash didn't flood my senses, maybe I would bring myself up to making some dinner. To maybe feed myself some hope. But that is a social construct that I killed back in another life. I'm no necromancer and there are no but's left to avoid the flood.

While drowning, I looked out for life boats. All I saw were love boats and people lost in their own reflections. I swear I tried reaching out. And when finally some looked my way, they smiled while fading. Again, they were bedazzled by the road ahead, just like I was back in my youth. I tried to warn them, I yelled, screamed the tar out of my lungs. All they could hear was the whining whisper which was wisely ignored. Don't ask me how I know.

I swear I tried, but a wise man once said "no siempre se cruzan todas las miradas". So I started crossing all of them off my life. What was left of it anyway. The sharp chest pains had me crossing my fingers. "Is this it?" I'd ask, anxious. I was tired of saying "not today satan", and a wild maybe popped up. This idea, these thoughts, therapy. I was vocal about it for so many moons, to so many moons. It turns out I'm mute and everyone noticed, except for me...

And just like that, the poison became words. Even when the damage was already done.