birth is the exit from nirvana

I have an addiction to feeling pain.

I desire the pity that pours through open graves, the coddling of a child with its first wound. I will admit now that my head feeds off of a rich, tender love found in between the hospital beds. Love that is laced with bleach and copper. Love that is whispered at the edge of nothingness. Forever choosing the role of victim, never the victor, never the one who vanquishes the demons - but the easier role of being helpless, possessed by the same spirits they summoned. Throwing away all hope, all ropes, and tossing themselves into the air. 

A mountain climber with a death wish. I to feel a false caress of wind and the crushing embrace of stone to soft skin, is that all I am? Over and over I see myself as a body of failure. There is not point in living if all of my life is seeped in deprivation. 

But this is not who I am, is it? 

“You must unbecome who you thought you were in order to become who you were all along”

Unbecome? In this spider silk I’ve dissolved into the illnesses and fused myself, how do I escape myself? Unbecome of all that has brought me here. You ask of me to move on to everything that makes me feel alive? I dream of an existence where I am free of suffering, where I shed my own skin and become one with the sky and earth. 

The past few months have been slipping in and out of consciousness, awoken by tears and lukewarm kisses, using every ounce of my body, squeezing every last drop of pleasure from myself.  It is truly the apocalypse when I am granted a lover. 

My worst moments arise when I act in the name of love. An excuse to push away what I need and overdose on what I want. I have an ache that flares everywhere I go, and in everyone I cherish.

Every second of being alive I am addicted to finding out what will hurt me and what could give me a false sense of hope.  No matter what I do in this life the snakes head will find its tail and the cycle will repeat in every bed I sleep in, in every hand I hold. I am cursed with knowing that I have million tomorrows without certainty of permanent tranquility. 

I am called to perform as the face of someone I don't recognize anymore. All I have done to this point is for the sake of approval. This is a battle that I will always lose, but will shed all of myself for.

I am cardboard. A cardboard cutout of a being. People talk to me and I appear how they want me to look, forever. There is something wrong with me that the most important people cannot see. 

...I fear I've dug a hole I can't climb out of.