Harlequin
11.54 pm
I am sad. I am so broken-heartedly sad. It hurts somewhere deep inside, it tears me apart and this blunt pain makes me convulse among the sweaty sheets of my bed. I clench the linen surface and scream into it while tears tear at my cheeks like razorblades.
I am so sad. I am so desperately sad. The lurid light from my laptop screen blinds me and everything is blurred and distant in front of my eyes. My heart beats so slowly as if it were about to stop and every breath hurts my lungs like millions of jackhammers pounding against my ribcage trying to smash it. Secretly I pray that a stray piece of cartilage or bone breaks off and gets buried in my fleshy insides, rupturing a major artery. I pray for the blood to pool inside my body and drown my heart. I pray for the neurons in my brain to be set ablaze with raging electricity and to collide and explode until this animated corpse of mine falls to the ground and never moves an inch again.
I am so sad, so devastatingly sad. Of these words that I write I do not think, I do not linger upon this letter overflowing with self-pity because my fingers move faster than my sluggish thoughts. I shake my head and beg for the tears to come down faster, for the words to seep faster from my fingertips because I am afraid that the sensation will disappear and I will stop.
And hang like a harlequin.
This word, the name of this sad puppet, I had to type it at least a dozen times because I cannot see the things I write. My ragged body hangs on a pair of too tightly wound strings that are sometimes tugged so violently and so quickly that I feel like its limbs might come off and that it would be torn asunder.
I am so sad. So sickeningly sad and my stomach is churning with acid as it travels up my raw throat while I scream into myself. Not a sound comes out, just words, words on blank paper for they devour themselves as I type them out.
When you see me, I'll still be so sad, so broken-heartedly sad, but if you tug at the strings properly, I'll smile my painted smile.
I am so sad. I am so desperately sad. The lurid light from my laptop screen blinds me and everything is blurred and distant in front of my eyes. My heart beats so slowly as if it were about to stop and every breath hurts my lungs like millions of jackhammers pounding against my ribcage trying to smash it. Secretly I pray that a stray piece of cartilage or bone breaks off and gets buried in my fleshy insides, rupturing a major artery. I pray for the blood to pool inside my body and drown my heart. I pray for the neurons in my brain to be set ablaze with raging electricity and to collide and explode until this animated corpse of mine falls to the ground and never moves an inch again.
I am so sad, so devastatingly sad. Of these words that I write I do not think, I do not linger upon this letter overflowing with self-pity because my fingers move faster than my sluggish thoughts. I shake my head and beg for the tears to come down faster, for the words to seep faster from my fingertips because I am afraid that the sensation will disappear and I will stop.
And hang like a harlequin.
This word, the name of this sad puppet, I had to type it at least a dozen times because I cannot see the things I write. My ragged body hangs on a pair of too tightly wound strings that are sometimes tugged so violently and so quickly that I feel like its limbs might come off and that it would be torn asunder.
I am so sad. So sickeningly sad and my stomach is churning with acid as it travels up my raw throat while I scream into myself. Not a sound comes out, just words, words on blank paper for they devour themselves as I type them out.
When you see me, I'll still be so sad, so broken-heartedly sad, but if you tug at the strings properly, I'll smile my painted smile.