Blood On My Hands.

My hands seem to be unclean, no matter how hard I try to scrub the blood off. It’s more like cement, fused into my skin even though it should be inside of me instead. There’s a lingering guilt that plagues me, even when I try to look away and not notice it… It’s always there. I’m crawling through the muck, looking for a way to escape what holds me down. Little do I know, the exit has been circling me this whole time. I just have to open myself up and fall into my core.

Sometimes I scream in my car to feel alive. Sometimes I play music loudly that I’m deafening my soul that has been hiding for too long. I turn it up SO loud that she’s forced to come out and literally face the music. I make her sit there and absorb the music. From every guitar riff, to the trembling bass, the drums that break her eardrums, and the sweet vocals that either provoke rage or sadness. I make her hear every word… because it’s important. These messages that others try to tell she and I are crucial to our survival. Without it, we wander endlessly.

I’m staring at myself in the mirror. I don’t know who that is looking back. Sometimes the reflections’ eyes are hollow, sometimes they’re full of rage, other times they’re filled with such sorrow and flooding with tears. I touch the mirror as if she will come to life from the other dimension. Sometimes I wish I could go through the mirror and see what’s on the other side.

I sit on my bed and feel the electric emotions that charge inside my heart, through every vein, every part of my brain. I feel it in my fingertips, my arms and legs, but especially in my aching heart. I turn the music up loud. I’m listening, but I want to escape myself. I think I listen to escape this soul that seems so withered. I want to feel something other than what haunts me in my awakened state. I turn up the music… louder, louder, and LOUDER. Can you hear it? Can you hear me?

I look at you and I don’t see fear. I don’t fear the burning agony in my heart. Why does it subside all of a sudden? And yet, I still want to scream… I still feel misunderstood. I’ve been flipping through all the moments with these monsters I’ve encountered. I want to burn the pages, the photos, the memories that have been tainted by their black shadows. The vessel my soul resides in it filling up and overflowing. It’s flooding and I can’t keep it all in, but it won’t drain out either. I’m drowning in all of this. I’m drowning in you, too.

I’m in an empty room with no doors or windows. There’s a bucket of black paint and red paint. The music is telling me to lose myself. It’s telling me to create and paint what is killing me inside… and these two colors are what’s infecting me. So I run my hands through the paint and watch it drip onto the floor. The red soaking my left hand, the black slowly running down my arms. I stand up and look around. The music gets louder, so much louder. I cover my ears, I scream. I hold my head and the black and red flood down my face. I feel chained and locked up inside, I swing my arms around to be set free. The paint splatters everywhere. I fall and the buckets start overflowing and trickle towards me. I smash my hands against the paint and push it around vigorously until the floor is saturated. I’m crawling into the unknown; what is coming to life with these colors? Crawling through the red, the black, it all blends and turns to a mud color. I stand up and grab the overflowing black bucket and toss it so hard across the room. I grab the red and it sloshes over my body and I scream some more. I scream and scream and no one hears me except the music. My limbs are covered in black and red. I hit every part of the walls and the floor with my hands. The room slowly fills with color as my anger empties out. The way the angers moves me is like a dance, my spirit is emerging. Like a ritual I never knew existed, suddenly I’m free. Anger has released me. My creation can’t kill me, for it’s outside of me. I’m looking straight at it, and suddenly it’s so beautiful.

The room is gone now. My hands are still red and black.

The anger and the agony, it all feels like an abyss. I float there as it eats me up silently. I’m trying to find something to anchor myself down. I can’t seem to find anything tangible to hold onto. Why do I have to feel these things? All I want is something real to hold onto. Holding onto myself is lonely and dark. I want to shed some light on my soul. I want to embrace the beauty that sleeps in me. Why can’t I see it clearly?

I’m convinced I’m doing this alone, that there is no other being to help navigate me. Is this true? Am I really all alone? Is it too late to ask for help? Will nobody listen to me if I call out? Will anybody see me as I slowly erode into nothing? Will they stop me from exploding like a supernova?

Please hear me, please see me. I can’t be alone in this. Am I? Does no one else hear this loud music? I’ve lived so long with it here that I’m not sure I could survive in silence. The silence is louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

In the music, I find direction; an endless path that leads me to places I never knew existed. It protects me and becomes a wall that is nearly impenetrable. In the music is where I lose myself… but I’m still searching into the unknown.

I found you in the music. I don’t know if I’m too early or too late, or right on time. I feel like I can almost reach you, but I’m still crawling through the mud. It’s weighing me down, as if it’s trying to pull me back into the pit it resides in. I’m fighting hard and trying to call your name, but the mud is choking me. I hear the music, I hear your voice… I’m afraid you don’t hear me as clearly as I wish you did. The mud is laying me down, it’s thickening my blood and killing me slowly. Maybe it’s best to surrender to it, for the harder I fight, the tighter it holds me down. I’m trying to resist it, I don’t want to let it hold me back. But through what I can see, you’re fading to black and I can’t stop it.

I have no control, I never did, I never will.
The mud pulls me back into the pit and you and I both fade away.
The music ends.

The blood on my hands remains… But with every moment of clarity I discover, bits of blood and guilt start to chip off.  Every sigh of relief and song that resonates inside me makes the mud that has suffocated me crack apart. The quiet anger subsides this time.

Even though I’m buried under this mud and my hands are bleeding, and even though I’ve become my own self-fulfilling prophecy, I’m hearing that new voice of reason… it’s challenging me in ways I’ve never heard before. That voice belongs to you, you’re fading in and out. I treasure the time we have, for there may never be a tomorrow.

Every thought of you, every smile you share with me, and laugh you give to me is a new symphony that sings to me so sweetly.

I’m listening closely, more so than ever.


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These are the musings of a 32 y/o dreamer, wisher and doer. All my posts are authentic; I write what's in my heart.

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