Living in a false reality. The truth being right in sight of my eyes, written all over my body. In bullet points. Reasons. Filling in every inch of my matter. Essence in my room filled with blood and tears, the pillowcase is shriveled in salt water, bedsheets with leftover blood from the cutting blade, pile of clothes aside the window, bad days written all over them. A silver- lined mirror with a reflection I can't bear to look at, fresh cuts on my thighs, expired food sitting beside me, and a few crystals I lost faith in, an altar full of sculptures of deity's front of me watching me scream help every day, a brown bar cabinet, all kinds of shaped glasses, bottles of alcohol sitting steady, and a few deranged empty bottles in the sink, the kitchen smells of old whiskey and a shot glass to go with, these four walls have built a material truth that I can't now ignore, my truth.
I distract the show and tell of these non-living things with lit candles and hot showers, discipline and the organization of a few sheets and here I am free, for now. Until the wave beneath my bed hits the surface, floods it, and the sirens feed on me, ripping my skin into the fourth layer of my flesh eaten horridly to the depth of my bones lying without a breath never sounding so deluged of pain to be silenced even in agony is to hurt more than the torment of the devil’s ace. And that is my truth. Four walls. Built with cement and bricks, furnished with seven-year-old wood and glass and two blood related casts, the abused and the abuser in one house playing switch, leaving the end to know which is which. A burning house, on the edge it stays waiting to be pushed down the unknown depths of beyond the 8-bricked cliff.
