My mind’s abuser

It works like clockwork. Every reaction is fixed to a schedule, and that schedule is highlighted carefully in my head on a scale of 1- 10 as to the urgency of my mind’s situation. Every situation I am put in I fix with an explanation that goes right under the problem with curly, pretty lettering, and heart to replace the points above my I’s. My silence explained in curly a’s just so you can understand. It works like clockwork, every single One two-three, spins completely, and they are messy. So I must organise. Sort the pain into columns, and give each a carefully underlined heading, making sure my ink does not stain or smudge. Because I am full of too much vivid colour anyway. And everything is too much anyway, too many seconds, too high a number, and not enough deep breaths anyway. And it is just another day.

Instead of taking my own pain away, I fuel it. I ignite it with fire and pour acid on my cuts, with the simple delicacy of my perfectly painted mind. Like a villain in disguise I will organise, and deceivingly trick you with a voice that bleeds of pleasant happiness. I will say again and again that every day the pain is only scale of number 1, even though my palms are tingling and the world is slowly fraying at the edges. As I watch each darling thread of colour, the world separates and splits apart, slowly in one, two-three. While I wring my hands, and take a small sip of water, hoping the coolness of the liquid travelling down my body will somehow kick my heart and soul into effect. And I will just start feeling again. Instead of taking my own pain away, I fuel it. I slowly build a bonfire on my body, and watch it burn. I watch it spread throughout every nerve and cell, and suddenly all of me is on fire. I am on fire. And I can’t speak or breathe because everything is burning. In a way that signals to your brain that yes you are alive, but you are about to die. It’s not like I do not try. To put the fire out, to stop spilt ink from spreading. I organise, I cover myself in a sheet of lies. I despise, the way I am and always will be. Yet I slather on some confidence and brush off every word of like it does not kill me inside completely. I breath in and out and take pleasure in the simple things in life, I give more than I take. And even though I sometimes my heart is beating too loud in my ears, I still give more heartbeats to every person I will meet. Because they always said I was strong, and at first I though they were wrong.But now I sit here, counting my three, two -one. Colouring in words, and the fraying edges of the world. Scheduling already scheduled reactions and illustrating the excuses into my mind, so that they are forever engraved in there as a response to those questions that you just won’t stop asking. No, nobody has hurt me. And no, there is nobody that threatens me or makes me feel weak. There is nobody but me. I am my mind’s own abuser. And my mind is my abuser. We walk hand in hand with a bottle of gasoline, and soak every piece of me, until finally,