Peroxide

Sometimes I feel like I’m reliving that day. The night before. The morning of. The moments that followed immediately after, and the days that went by since that night. I remember looking out my window a few days after from what had been done. I was laying on my bed after I realized I had to let you go. I looked up to the corner of the room at my window and the sky was one color. No clouds. Nothing. Just blue. My friends were standing around me, all their voices muted, and their faces blurred. They one by one filed out and I was alone. I was frozen, scared to be alone with my thoughts. I wondered.. how do I get up and just do life right now? How do I finish my homework? How do I go take a shower? How do I pack up my room and go home for summer? I’m glued to the bed. How does life just go on?

Everything you do at that point feels like you’re detached from your body trying to get yourself to function. I had to eat breakfast. So I cut up an apple and placed it in front of me. Sat myself down and tried to force an appetite. One bite after the other, tears were pouring out like rivers traveling down the cold stone walls of my cheeks. Just eat the fucking apple Alexandra. You’re okay.

And I am okay, until I am not. A small part of me wants me to go back to it. Back to the highs right before the crash of pain that would set in after the bittersweet moments. 

Healing feels like fucking eternity. Sometimes the wounds feel like peroxide is still being poured onto them in their rawest form. 

So now I’m sitting in my kitchen trying to focus, but I keep daydreaming, and feeling the sore lump in my throat as I look up at the lights so my tears can drip back into my hollow body and fill the void so deep inside me. 

Filling your own voids is fucking exhausting. And in this moment I want to give up and turn to numbing. I won’t, but sometimes I wish I could do it the way you do it. It seems “easier.” Just wish I could play the victim, or be angry, or be petty, once again.. would be easier. But I can’t. I’m too smart to do that. 

I don’t do it your way. So I’ll put on my big hoodie, put my hands in my sleeves, and make myself feel small. I can choose the bed, looking for comfort in the soft mattress I’ll let my emotions sink into. Or I can sprawl out onto the wooden floor and let my emotions pool around me, watching them but not absorbing any of it. In the end, the mattress and the floor feel the same, because the record in the background keeps playing the same song. I turn music on in my ears so loud that it tells my thoughts to quiet down so I can hear the lyrics better. And when I realize I can’t just lay in a ball, swish my feet back and forth against each other, tap my hands, and bite the skin off my thumb all day .. I pick up a fucking pen. I open my silly little big journal and write down my stupid painful thoughts onto paper. And when I feel better, I release my vulnerability to the public. 

I wonder if you read these.

I kinda hope you don’t because I don’t want you to think any of this pain is your fault. 

-Peroxide; Falling in and out of love