Battered

The doorbell rang. She cringed and glanced at the clock. 10:00. The numbers glared at her. Pulling the over-sized hoodie sleeves over her hands, she chewed on the frayed edges, contemplating whether or not to answer the door. She pulled her legs, drowning in her father's sweatpants, to her chin, biting her lip nervously. She was alone. 

She hated being alone. She hated talking to people. She wanted them around her, like a wall, but she didn't want to speak with them. She just wanted to be invisible; to hide behind a shield. The doorbell rang again. She gnawed at her thumbnail. Her mom may have forgotten her key. Her lip quivered. She didn't want to open the door. She didn't want to be afraid. 

The doorbell rang again. She covered her ears and fled up the stairs, to the safety of her room; the safety of her bed covers. The melody echoed in her ears and tears began to fall. She clutched her cell phone, her fingernails digging into the touchscreen, ready to dial at a moment's notice. She waited; she held her breath. She waited for the sound of the door crashing down. Hot tears fell onto the sheets. 

She was tired of the pain. She was tired of the memory. She was tired of the fear. It raged through her. It reigned inside of her. The memories haunted her. She went days without sleep, drinking energy drink after energy drink; swallowing caffeine tablets. Anything to stay awake. Anything to escape the nightmares. No good. Nothing saved her. Even her daydreams haunted her; tormented her. They taunted her. 

She withdrew. Threw her makeup away. Tossed her jewelry. Burned her beautiful clothing. All the skirts. All the low-cut tops. Poured her perfume down the sink. Ditched her nailpolish onto the street. She broke down. She cried. She hid. She cut herself bangs. She hid her eyes. Chopped the rest of her hair. Butchy. Ugly. She clawed at her skin. Bruised. Beaten. 

She let her skin reflect the scarred interior. The traumatized soul. She hid the window to her broken inside. She let no one in. She feared that her eyes reflected what constantly played before her, without release, for the past months. The face. The ugly face. The touch. The disgusting touch. The smell. The hands. The sweat. The pain. 

The helplessness. 

She hid, ashamed. She picked the blade up once more and shoved the baggy sleeves up. She wouldn't rest until her body was as battered as her soul. 

Resurrection

Feeling dead for so long. But is dead a feeling? It seems everything is relative. It seems everything is contemplatable. It seems everything is debatable.

It seems life carries only one absolute: there are none. Finding security in paradox and oxymoron.

Death. Death is an absolute.

But what is death? Death seems relative. You can be living dead. You can breathe. You can smile. You can be dead inside. Death is subjective.

Can subjectivity be an absolute?

Everyone seems certain of something.
Everyone seems uncertain.
Everyone clings to something. Everyone thinks they've found the truth.

Evolution is fact? It's facticiousness is still only just your opinion.
What about death?
What if I defy death? What if I deny it? My opinion.

I create my own truth within my twisted mind. Truth to me. Absolute to me. Insanity to the rest of the world.

Feeling dead for so long. Where there is death, there is life.

So resurrect me.

Dream

She slid the pizza into the oven and tossed extra cheese on it. Stupid frozen pizzas. Never enough cheese. Stingy pricks.

Her fur boots made no sound on the hardwood floor. She loved her fur boots. She ran around in hot pants and a tank top, but she still wore her pink fur boots. A finger tapped her shoulder as she grabbed the orange juice out of the fridge. "Iahh!" she whirled around.
"Taylor!" She glared. He smirked.
"Heyllo Brooke! Thought I'd pop by for a visit. You mind?"

She rolled her eyes and took a swig out of the carton.
"That's attractive."
She opened her mouth and sloshed the juice around for him to see.
"Uch!"
"Don't you have better things to do at the moment?"
"No. I'd rather annoy you. Can I have my own pizza please?"

Brooke rolled her eyes again but put a second pizza in the oven. She turned around to find Taylor pouring juice into a tumbler. He offered it to her. She reached for the carton but he held it out of her reach. Scowling, she snatched the glass and drank from it.

Late that night there were two plates in the sink. Two glasses. She leaned over the toilet, spewing both pizzas. Her vision had long since blurred. Her mind had long since succumbed to her dreams and fantasies. Still sick to her stomach, she stumbled to her room.

She pulled out her notebook and began to write. Stories, people, worlds she created, smiling to herself. Taylor watched her from the desk chair. "You continuing the chronicles?"
"Not tonight. I'd rather work on the imagery of the underworld."
"You don't look so well."
"I don't think the pizza sat well with me."
"Well you only ate a whole thing."
"So did you."
"I am a guy. That's what I do."
"Why don't you shut up and get me a tea?"
"Oh fine. Black?"
"With brown sugar and milk."
"Be right there."

She got up to make the tea.

She lived within her dream.

Empty

Trying so hard to shun past beliefs. Attempting to grow new wings to fly. Tired of store-bought character molds. Through with iron-cast expectations. Wanting to escape, soar, create, break. Needing an own life to make.

Run from the past. Create an open mind. Embrace the world. Fulfill desires. Lacivious ambitions. Emancipation and reckless pursuit.

Mindless foreplay. Uninhibited lust. Reckless climax. Heartless cigarette. Cold goodbye.

No dear I don't know why you feel this way inside.
You have the freedom to live your own life.
Soar, soar, rise and fly.
No dear I don't know why you're dead inside.

It's a new age and a new world. Nevermind what haters say; let no one stand in your way.

No dear I don't know why you do not feel fulfilled.
No dear I don't know why you hate when he leaves.
It's uninhibited. It's no strings; it's free.

No dear I don't know why you're so empty inside.