help me

XI: Scrawl

X: Scrawl

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT.

NO ONE CAN HEAR YOU.

OR

SCREAM ALL YOU WANT NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOU.

WHICH ONE IS TRUE? I MEAN SCREAMS, EVEN SILENT ONES, ARE OBVIOUS.

THE PAINED BLUE EYES FROM SLEEPLESS NIGHTS AND THE RED RIMS FROM THE SALT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE CRACKED KNUCKLES AND SCARS FROM A CONSTANT AND HABITUAL BODILY-RAPE HOBBY, THAT’S A SCREAM.

THE IMPORTANT SUDDENLY GETTING TOSSED ASIDE AND RELOCATED ELSEWHERE, TO ROT AND FEEL EMPTY WITHOUT ANYONE’S INPUT, THAT’S A SCREAM.

AND PEOPLE SEE THEM.

THEY JUST DON’T WANT TO HEAR THEM.

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X: Scrawl

IX: Scrawl

 

IT’S NO USE. NO USE CALLING. THOSE WHO I PRETEND LOVE ME ARE USELESS.

PLEASE, KILL ME IF YOU CAN, I WON’T STRUGGLE.

I WILL BE HAPPILY SHOT DOWN – IF I COULD STOP BREATHING FOR A MINUTE, AND ALLOW MY UNWELCOME SOUL TO PASS THROUGH MY HATING LIPS, I WOULD AND I WOULD NOT MISS IT.

GOD DAMN, SOMETIMES THE PAIN TAKES ME OVER COMPLETELY UNTIL WORTHLESSNESS SETS IN TO THE POINT WHERE ASKING FOR HELP IS POINTLESS. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME. WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO WHO.

TEARS RUST MY CHEEKS UNTIL I AM AS RED AND BROKEN AS DAYLIGHT.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I CANNOT SCREAM FOR FEAR OF BRINGING MORE UPON MYSELF.

I CANNOT LET IT OUT FOR FEAR OF BEING ALONE FOR FAR TOO LONG AGAIN.

I CANNOT TELL THOSE I DON’T KNOW BECAUSE THEY HAVEN’T THE TIME NOR THE ENERGY.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

I AM SAFER LIKE THIS.
LONELIER
BUT SAFER LIKE THIS.

I WILL HAPPILY DIE, ROT AND FEAST WITHIN THE EARTH.

JUST KILL ME.

JUST BURY ME.

IT’S WORTH IT TO BE FREE OF THIS.

JUST LET ME DIE.

WHO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HO WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

O WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

WOULD HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP A STREAK OF SHIT LIKE ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

HELP ME.

Which to Continue?

Now – while I haven’t got a lot of attention, there are somewhat regular visitors who read my work. And, once again, I need your help.

In order to try and pull myself out of this depression borne of Writer’s block, which, in turn was triggered by my completion of “Hello”, I’ve written two short deviations.

You might recognise who’s talking. Or you might not. If you do recognise who they are, thank you.

 

This is the first one – “Guilt”

YM 1 Guilt

 

This second one is “Mistake”.

YM 1 Mistake

 

They’re quite short, for two reasons:
1) People don’t have a lot of time to read things, really, do they?
2) I really can’t do anymore. I have no direction. I have nothing. I have some ideas, but they’re centring around something I’m very, very reluctant to do.

So here’s what I want from you –
Please pick which one you prefer, “Guilt” or “Mistake”, and comment it.
Or, if you like or dislike aspects from them, please tell me.
I feel so dull and numb to writing at the moment that I don’t notice these things.

If people prefer one more than the other, I’ll make it my goal to create something out of that one.

Thank you.

SERIOUSLY, help me. Help me. Help me.

How much must I breathe to wake up with gunfire in my ears? How much of my body, life, soul must I pay for that? How much must it be for the gunfire to be coming from me? A single metal pellet, fuelled by nothing but hate, I’ll stand and force it out of my skin.

And watch it fly.

And watch it strike. Raise my other hand, a machine gun, no longer fingers but a cannon. I’ll step back, between two buildings, and raise and fire. And raise and fire again. Oh, good Lord, I’ll let go several thousand rounds in a matter of minutes. What am I shooting, what am I shooting at? Is it so much? Oh, I’ll tear through buildings, I’ll desecrate concrete with these metallic fists of mine.

More, longer, faster. Fuel, hatred and anger. I am no longer the silent fool you took me as. I am fury, I am the metal in the fire.

I can be the metal in the fire. How! Shoot, shoot, and keep myself scowling. No laughter, no joy. No psychopathic tendency to let a cheer fly from my throat. Concentrate. Calculate. And fire. I am angry, I am furious.

I want to wake with that gunfire, I want to hear it burn through the metal and stone, I want to know how far it flies through the other side, how long until it crashes to the ground. I want to stand on the edge of the world and scream it all, after I’ve destroyed everything in my wake, when there is no one around to accuse me of myself. Give it out! And let it destroy! Come on, darkness, come on. I’ll shoot you, too.

I’ll step off, I promise, I swear it, when I’m finished. A mercy killing followed by a self-sacrifice to end the world. My scream will be friction, my scream will be power. Friction and power, and bring him back to me! Why, why did you leave me! Why did you leave my head!

 

My frustrations are real, my block is too real. I can touch it, it’s inside me, a huge forbidden weight that strips me from Automatic to Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic. I am Catastrophic! I’ll fucking get him back, I’ll try anything. I’ll work everything. I’ll draw him until I know each inch of skin. I’ll draw him until I know the true colour of his greasy hair. I’ll draw him from the inside out to know how he works, maybe he’ll come back to me.

Oh, God, Yestin! Where the fuck did you go? Where the fuck did you run off to? I have no idea if you died, or if you lived, I have no idea what happened to you. I want you to return, for I am dangerous without you. I am furious. I need you to be my guardian. I need to write with you. I must write with you. You’re the only way I can move forward.

My disgusting guardian angel. I cannot tell what you are. Human, demon? Do you love children for what they are or do you love eating them? Are you alive or dead? Can you die? You made out like you could.

“Enjoy it. / For it could be my last.”

Yes, yes, apparently that child was your last. Did you know when you wrote that down? Did you know that, and I didn’t? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? But you can’t have known, surely, because… because you didn’t know you were to become obsessed. You didn’t know you’d retreat into your dying mind with her. Is that what happened? Or did her soul… did you manage to inhale it in time, did it live in your mind, did it cause your obsession?

Yestin, I don’t care for the answers, actually. All I wish, all I ever want now, is for you to return to me. I cannot get over this. You were the best, the worst and everything in between. You gave me the drive, the power and the superiority to present something truly unreal to the world. And yet, I cannot get you back.

I’ve tried writing with Lull, his poems. I wanted to know his mind, because his life is interesting too. But it’s not yours. I couldn’t truly get into it. I wrote about a nobody walking a line three times. The line between life and death. And I never got that. The concept, sure. But, past that, nothing.

Where are you? I spread out your manuscript, I look at it, and I begin crying. I read the first words, Yestin, and I feel depressed and sad. I miss you.

“Hello. / Am I / scared? / scarred? / sacred?”

And that’s enough to ruin me for the rest of the day. I hold your manuscript close to me, hoping that if I never let it go, you’ll return to me. You’ll give me something to work with. I imagine you walking behind me, I talk to you as I walk, I tell you to put your huge hand on my hip so I know you’re close. I walk along the street, sad, angry, in denial, talking to the face only I can imagine.

Please, Yestin.

Return to me. I want you and I need this. Please. Please.

I didn’t even know you. I know you so much better now.

“I’m content to squat here. With my fluorescent lights.”

Don’t go. I need you. Wherever you are. Please.