3chrsfor12yrs
Not Active
Hello! Not quite sure if this is the right place to post, or if I have any merit to post this at all, but I figured I'd go for it. I deal with the aftermath of a failed suicide attempt along with my transition from female to male directly after, and it's hard to explain, but my past self shows up and terrorizes me. I see her setting up her suicide two years ago, and at night she tries to hurt me and kill me like I tried to kill her two years ago. It's really important for me to keep her life and my life separate. I write a lot to sort through things and here's one I wrote recently. It's called Highway Hands
I can only describe her in phrases that don't make sense
in images
in times of night
or metaphors.
She isn't real and never will be again.
She's dead. I'm not. Ironic.
She comes in waves
In candlelight
In claps of thunder
In floods.
Her face will flash.
Blue and gray and dark and sunken. Dead. Me.
That's me staring back at me.
She's changed since last April
Last April her eyes were lampposts
Her collarbones were highways
I saw them,
They were there, but in fleeting moments
When I drove too slow down I-75, through my neighborhood with roads too narrow.
Her memory is written in the highway lines down the west coast of Florida and now I see her in my window blinds.
The scars across her thighs line them, the woodwork, carved in carefully by a boy too concerned about what they'll mean in five years from now.
We match, for a moment.
But her arms are untouched.
We're so different, though when she digs her fingertips in my shoulder blade she reminds me
We are the same person.
For sixteen minutes last week she squeezed my wrist until it bled.
Threatening over and over again
She'll watch me flatline
Her tar pit eyes
Her bones pushing tight against her skin
That is not me.
Yesterday
She felt warmer than usual.
The cuffs of her jacket were tattered and soft
And her hair was a blonde, pulled back in a loose bun.
She was gentle.
She took a knee on the cement that once was hers.
And took my hands in her own.
"Only at night. I promise."
She watches me off at the top of the stairwell.
I recognized her hands.
They're my own.
I can only describe her in phrases that don't make sense
in images
in times of night
or metaphors.
She isn't real and never will be again.
She's dead. I'm not. Ironic.
She comes in waves
In candlelight
In claps of thunder
In floods.
Her face will flash.
Blue and gray and dark and sunken. Dead. Me.
That's me staring back at me.
She's changed since last April
Last April her eyes were lampposts
Her collarbones were highways
I saw them,
They were there, but in fleeting moments
When I drove too slow down I-75, through my neighborhood with roads too narrow.
Her memory is written in the highway lines down the west coast of Florida and now I see her in my window blinds.
The scars across her thighs line them, the woodwork, carved in carefully by a boy too concerned about what they'll mean in five years from now.
We match, for a moment.
But her arms are untouched.
We're so different, though when she digs her fingertips in my shoulder blade she reminds me
We are the same person.
For sixteen minutes last week she squeezed my wrist until it bled.
Threatening over and over again
She'll watch me flatline
Her tar pit eyes
Her bones pushing tight against her skin
That is not me.
Yesterday
She felt warmer than usual.
The cuffs of her jacket were tattered and soft
And her hair was a blonde, pulled back in a loose bun.
She was gentle.
She took a knee on the cement that once was hers.
And took my hands in her own.
"Only at night. I promise."
She watches me off at the top of the stairwell.
I recognized her hands.
They're my own.
