What I Do When I'm Not With You

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When I'm on my own, I quite often lay on the carpet in my living room in silence and I think. When I do I think hard and I can feel my chest, my pulse in my toes, my thumbs, through my back. I listen to the sounds of my stomach. I close my eyes and feel him watching me still, but not so menacing anymore.

I think of the silly things I remember, and I do remember some bizarre things, little details that don't actually have any effect on my life apart from the fact that I do remember it. I listen to the music in my head, and sometimes I believe I can hear my brain cells dying. I can see colours flickering behind my closed eyelids, and I'm still picking my fingers, and I feel the blood around mynails. Fuck.

Some days I really really do believe I am poison, and can't decide if I am so often on my own because I'm scared of getting hurt, or scared of hurting someone. Sometimes I feel like I suck all the good things from the people I know, like a parasite as I can't create good things myself and need to feed off everyone else. I think of every.single.damn.time I've screwed up and I cringe as much as the day I screwed up.

I suppose it's no wonder I used to self harm so so regularly. Maybe I should find a new procrastination method? I'm pretty sure all this laying on the floor and mentally berating myself is not doing anyone any good.

But then.

I can't help it. I remember everything and everyone so much sometimes, and their ghosts clamour and choke me. I've not always been a very nice person. I'm probably still not a very nice person if I'm being honest. I'm trying though, and it'd be awesome if that was enough.

I went for a walk in Murder Woods (only called because so many bodies have been found there) and I almost felt like lying down and not moving for awhile, and then realised that might be perceived as crazy, and I'm so so so desperate to not be seen as mad-bat-shit-crazy-cat-lady. The light was nice, and so were the bluebells, covering everything in a blue-green. It reminded me of dreams I used to have, when I could fly (I'm sure there's something in that).

I came back and laid on the floor in silence, I knew the work men could see me through the window, lying motionless, and I gave up caring. If mad-bat-shit-crazy-cat-lady then so be it. I love my cat, I love my family, I love my boyfriend, I love my friends and if they can love me, then I must be doing something right.

Mustn't I?