Scared

Some days I am scared.
Awakening to a shuddering body
It always takes a few moments before I remember that it is mine
That I am not lying in a warehouse covered in blood
Who it belongs to is always indiscriminate.
The blood, not the body.
The body is mine.

And it scares me.

I wonder what I must have done, no.
What must have been done to me, that I am in this place.
No-one walks into a slaughterhouse of their own volition.
They are lead in, blindingly, quietly, almost as if they were sleeping.
A house of dreams that can eat you up and serve on a stranger's plate for dinner.
Red-raw and dripping lifeblood as you are consumed by the world.

Doesn't that scare you?

None of it's real of course.
So I tell myself it counts less.
But then I tell myself I count less.
And then I have to start all over again.
Putting back the pieces that my mind saw fit to tear away
Until the sunrise doesn't frighten me.
Until the darkness behind my eyes is just as safe as the darkness dwelling on the streets.

Until it doesn't scare me.

I haven't quite figured it out yet.
Cigarettes and coffee fill the gaps
Where I think safety once lived.
But what does safety even mean? In a world
Where I am a commodity
And my thoughts are just a liability.
And I am mocked for my sexuality
And condemned for my promiscuity
And stripped of my dignity
And ignored for my history
And destroyed by my reality.

That should be what scares me.
And it does.

7am

It is 7am.
I lie, shuddering, in what is supposed to be a comforting bed
The cat is sleeping at my feet and shifts slightly at the start.
I hope he's still awake.
I leave, faltering steps down a dark hallway as I grope for a familiar door.
Safety, I hope he's still awake.
Silence.
I try to wake him but my voice wavers and I call twice
He is asleep, fast asleep. I envy him.
Then the thought flickers across my mind
what if he's dead?
Don't be foolish. It's not possible, he's sleeping.
The thought flickers.
I sit.
Searching blindly in the dark for my toxic reprieve.
Papers, tobacco, the clang of a small metal box, filters.
My hands shake as the first paper creases and I scrunch it up and throw it away
The thought flickers.
I wish he was awake.
It works this time, I roll a perfect cigarette. At least, I think.
It's dark.
I stumble out, looking for fire.
I flick a light on in the hallway to find one.
I can't bring myself to turn it off again, I know I should
It's too dark.

Outside is brighter, the street lights glow and building that are dark and bathed with light
Cars tear past. Going to stable lives and stable jobs.
They've just woken up. I wish he would wake up.
The thought flickers, I flick the end of my cigarette.
And old, useless habit.
It's 7am. The world is lighting up and so am I.
My hands won't hold the lighter steady
I curse under my breathe.
It's quiet.
The light flickers but I fail.
It flickers
And flickers until
A spark.
I inhale a breathe and begin to feel real again.
The fumes fill my lounges and I breathe out. A sigh of relief or resentment, I don't know.
It seems to loud for this waking world.
It's quiet.
There's letters in the mailbox that weren't there an hour ago.
I wish I hadn't gone to sleep then.
He was still awake then.
It was less quiet.

A steady breathe of smoke leaves my lips.
The last before I retreat again.
It's cold. I hope that's the reason I'm shaking
It's not.
I hurry back inside away from the growing light.
Back into the darkness.
The light I left on glows dimly at the end of the hallway.
The door is too loud when it closes.
I hope I haven't woken him,
It is, after all, 7am.

I turn of the light and the house is bathed in darkness once more.
As I enter my room. I look again at my bed with loathing
I suppose everyone sleeps sometime
The cat awakes with a start as I disturb him and lashes out at me with claws.
Then shakes it off.
It makes me laugh, then feel like crying all over again.
Its 7am and he's too sleepy to stay awake.
I wish I was like him.

So I write.
The world seems less dark here.
Funny how words make me feel real again,
When so much of it is fiction.
Perhaps it's because in stories the hero's never sleep.
Or eat, or bathe, or do anything Other than slaughtering their enemies.
Which makes me feel worse.
I wish he was awake.
It's quite here
It's cold
And dark.
At 7am.

Here be Monsters.

They call it blood.
The essence of life
These rivers tainted with metal memories

So we write about fanged fantasies.
Horrors in the night
Who steal it
Consume it
Consume us.

Lustful creatures
Only destroyed by the heat of fire

But we burn too.
In flickers of red and blue

Here be monsters
Where are you?

I won't be the damsel in distress.
Or the hero on a shining stallion.
You will find me in the night hours
With lifeblood dripping down my chin
A slowly spreading grin
A hunger.

Because here be monsters.

We can't fight them
They live, they endure.
Fictions slowly sucking at our souls
Telling us we are never good enough,
Reminding us to never grow old
Or trust, or love
Or die.

Funny how those who have no reflection
Reflect the most.

Crawling under my skin
Doubts that stink of death and decay
The air smells of smoke and sin
Worming into my brain
Again
Again

Dreams and waking thoughts
Telling us it's all for naught.
My mind, my mind
I am one of their kind

Here be monsters.
Run.