The memory can no longer heal, To heal is to forget, to forget is to lack exposure. The internet exercises exposure trauma. We cannot heal when the reminders are always plastered online, there forever. Past will always be present. The timelines converge. Your face will always be HD in my memory, tattooed into my retina from all the time I’ve spent dissecting it. Every pore, every shade of your eye color, and all the phases of your hair. Your eyes once smiling and once flirting. Convincing myself you were undeserving of my ruminating, unconfessed comparisons. I remember every picture, every angle, every quote, every comment.
Hours on hours spent digging, looking for answers nobody had the decency to give. He plants the dagger, twists it, leaves me out to bleed, only to be the one to lick the gaping flesh. Slap a band-aid on it. Kick me in the shins anytime I want to stand up and remind me my insufficiency. He tells me there’s something when I know there’s nothing, then tells me there’s nothing when I think there’s something. As if I should always be on the lookout. Looking for answers in all the wrong places. Dissecting the internet for crumbs of context, crumbs of a timeline that paints me a blissfully ignorant clown. I bury the hatchet then dig it back up, bury it back again, I dig away and let time fly by me, blisters all over my fingers, dirt under my fingernails and stunted growth.
Everything I believed about myself, engraved deeper, entangled in my DNA. Your worth tanks the more you try to prove it. Inauthentic in the way you want to impose your authenticity. Ton Moi te fuit quand tu le suis. And I ran, I ran I ran I ran, grabbing it between my two hands, waving it in the air, arms stretched for anyone who wanted to question me. This is me, this is me. Lost myself trying to prove myself, I stepped into the mirror and forgot there was a world that existed outside of it. I melted into my own reflection til it reflected nothing. I run into circles, spend time mourning wasted time.
My hands feed the mouths that bite. The gaping pit in my stomach becomes a familiar home I run to for comfort. The wrench in my guts becomes an addiction. A feeling I chase over and over. My heart becomes a haunted mansion full of has-beens.
the song from 1:58 onwards is what my mind sounds like if you even care
Still shaking