Fa11ing (A1ON3)

Friends, loved ones, Fam

I am sorry “I” am the I am

Or Was

Sitting here solitary alone

In a place where the bright light sun once shone

Now cast into night

Caught in a thought thinking

Caught thinking on the pieces the pieces of me That I keep out of sight

Those pieces I strain to push together like Sisyphus just to get my life right,

Reconnect my unsainted soul,

my painted mind

my tainted spine

Guess it’s fine

right?

It’s better than the pieces of me pondering how I’d swing the line and get the noose tight

Today I pulled my baby pictures off the shelf

And I sat here looking at these pictures of a younger self

Looking at that laughing face

I wonder to myself how I always end up in this place

Displaced

A temperamental mental case

With a case full of issues

And a subscription to follow

Every day I face with another pill to swallow

I wonder how everything just ended up so hollow

I feel like I’m an actor on a stage

And I fill every page of the script

With a rage so nondescript

And a costume so stifling it feels like it just might not fucking fit

I grow weary of my daily battered task of reassembling a deeply shattered mask

So looking at these pictures, I gotta ask

Was that child born with even a single bad atom?

Is that why you were always mad at him?

Never talked at him, sat with him, or included him at all?

Was he just too weak and too small?

Tonight I fear I made the bold mistake

Of letting this constant mirror of interaction and distraction fold and break

Killing myself to pick up the pieces like what real damn difference does it make?

If life is really a game

Can anyone ever really hope to win?

And can what’s been broken

Ever really be whole ever again?

To my abuser is there a day when I will be absolved of your sin?

Sin that I don’t even believe in?

Can you tell me there’s a day when I won’t feel your touch outside and within?

A day when I can be comfortable within my own skin?

When I won’t remember that greasy fucking grin?

Outcast and destined to lose

Is that really what made you choose?

It’s something I just can’t see.

Because even with you as dead, as you should be

would the ghost of you left in me let me?

Leave enough room for me to feel free?

You hurt something deeper inside.

Something besides pride.

Something that makes me shake in place of tears each time I’ve tried

and cried.

Even worse when they believed you

in place of what was true.

I spit on your grave in everything I do.

Honestly, I don’t even know who I’m talking to.

My birth Mom and Dad?

Like Mother, was I born bad?

Was I even worth the labor you had?

Dad, maybe you could explain.

Was it in my blood to always feel this pain?

Did either of you have to feel the strain

of trying socially to maintain

While

Independently

desperately trying not to go too insane

Did you ever feel the same loss

in the moments where you were too alone to reach across

a great breaking chasm of your own making?

Did either of you ever feel like you lived a life with miles of smiles that you were unable to hone all alone, deck unstacked, just faking

Standing on the precipice, last act of your own unmaking.

Now, to be honest, I don’t blame you at all

Especially if you felt like I do, continuously nearing this precipice about to fall

Hearing the echoing of this reaper’s constant call.

Then I would have to give you the same grace I struggle to try to give it to myself to you.

Then maybe you are the source of the strength that it takes me day to day just to heal.

Maybe there is that God you taught me about that can’t and won’t ever bring myself to believe is real.

Who made a world made so sloppily where those who have a temporary need for worthless minerals steal

from those who don’t as they crush them under heel

Where people cry for answers

as their youth is stolen by toxins, cancers

And violence.

You answer with silence

Echoing through the void.

To me, you exist only as an open-ended answer to the endless questions we’d all prefer to avoid.

It didn’t stop me from forming some sort of sick parasocial connection before the façade was thoroughly destroyed

Ripped away.

Sometimes I wish I could still feel anything in the words that I say

when I kneel to pray.

But the last time I did that, it was with a man and but not for the sacrament.

But I’ve been told you are not a fan, and that’s not what the words in your scripture meant.

A fucking book of empty platitudes, paradoxes, contradictions left to be bent

Left to be interpreted, explained, and maintained, put in boxes of personal convictions by sick lechers to eviler intent.

Seems like a grave oversight in light of the ramifications of omniscient believer intent.

Loss of your promise and power still sticks to me like a cannon event.

Hard to shake the intoxicating fleeting hits of momentary universal connection, personal selection.

A Stockholm syndrome-like affliction.

A fleeting but viscous addiction to the insidious bias of fiction in being just an automaton.

A blameless guilt-driven pawn.

Life sometimes still hits like a funeral to a long con.

So hard to elate joy from my favorite filth even though you are gone.

So hard to separate from the hate and guilt that raised and grazed on

even in my current state.

Even as I meditate, my curtain call, my denouement [day-noo-mah].

Even as I meditate

Whether to separate, accelerate my final bow from a world most desolate.

What does cause me to hesitate?

Is a world unruly yet truly

beautiful in between the ugly?

Like kintsugi.

Maybe the spaces of me I’ve let mold as I hid

or made heavier, spread bold in lead.

Should’ve been highlighted with gold instead.

I just have to use the words I have while I have them, not to complain

about this pain.

How I reached out while slowly going insane.

I hope my actions reflect how I feel as I apologize

for my empty moments that manifest as silence and late replies.

For the broken components that come as my excuses and lies.

If in the moments of losing this internal fight, I’ve ever lost sight of all of our independent flight, if I’ve held too tight.

I’m sorry if I treated you all like my favorite balloon.

I just learned far too hard way too early on: it all goes away if you let go too soon.

Maybe the larvae in metamorphosis tries to make stay the things that make it feel okay within the same cocoon.

Night to night.

With him in there.

But if I’ve put that on you, it wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right.

Ryden?

Yasa?

Rob?

I wish I could see you tomorrow.

I will continue with any strength that gives me the honor to borrow.

The show is over, too hard to follow.

So no script.

This book will not end in a crypt of sorrow.

This world without you is hell.

I am the unfinished story you never got to tell

And my life will spill out into the margins

where your silence used to dwell.