Can’t breathe
Haven’t been
Day to day
Coughing lungs
One gives up clogs up
In my face
Months
Months!
Dealt with it
Not dying
Not of this
sick mentally
sick emotionally
sick physically
Falling mind
Falling apart
Stress from outside
Body breaking
To nothing
I’ll be gone
Grains of sand.
©C.O’Connor, 2016
I’m not the hero. I don’t think I am the villain. Hell, I’m pretty positive that were my life made into a movie I wouldn’t even be the main character. I’d be that random person standing in the background. Everyone around me would have reactions on their faces to whatever is going on. I wouldn’t. My face would be blank. My face is always, and has always, been blank. I’ve heard about it since I was a kid.
One of my earlier memories goes to a time when I was in second or third grade. It was the end of the school day with the excitement of freedom coursing through the student body. I was leaning against the wall in the middle of my class’ line. I think it was the summer, close to the end of the school year. (I have no idea why, and I’m probably lying. It just feels right.)
I can see a blob of colors from kid’s clothes across the hall. I can hear the high pitched thrum of children’s voices overlapping. I don’t remember what I was doing in line, or whether or not I was talking to someone. I do remember the teacher I had in the first grade walking up to me. I do remember her telling me to smile. I do not remember my answer, but I kept thinking, why is she asking me? I wasn’t the only one not smiling. I wasn’t the only kid not looking happy.
So why did she ask me? Why single me out? I didn’t understand then. It took me years to hear the saving phrase that would explain the countless comments I’ve received throughout my life. It explained all of the looks, all of the are you okays?, the you look like you’re about to kill sombodys, and the are you depresseds?
The phrase is Resting Bitch Face. I don’t know when I first heard it, but it has become a part of my life, my daily life. No I’m not depressed, at least not at this moment in my life. No I’m not going to kill someone. I don’t want to go to jail. And don’t even get me started on whether or not I’m okay.
©C. O’Connor, 2016
My watch stopped. The world stopped. In that space on my wrist time no longer exists. It does not move forward or back. It is still. Life is still. At 10:37 on the 23rd. If it is morning or night I do not know. If it is Summer or Winter I do not know.
It does not matter. Times does not have to matter. We make it matter. We create the rush or lag. Maybe we should take out all of the batteries.
©C. O’Connor
My hands are shaking today. I hate the shaking. It’s like the set up to the downfall of my mind. The doors are rattling and everyone is screaming. The hinges have loosened and the cages holding in my demons aren’t as strong as they used to be.
My fucking demons are screaming at me.
They hate me. They’ll ruin me if given the chance.
But sometimes I wonder what would happen if I let them out. Would they really ruin my life or show me the life I could have? Could live? Should be living?
A little chaos could be good for the soul.
The bottles that hold my emotions are breaking. They’ve been packed in too tight. It looks like a mess in there. Be careful of the broken glass!
I’m losing myself! OR Am I finding myself?
Was there really every anything worth saving? Is there anything left worth salvaging? I think my demons are laughing at me now. They know I’m losing it. That small bit of control I still had. Why am I so afraid of losing something I was never proud of to begin with? Was I ever proud of myself?
Rarely… only when I let the demons out.
©C. O’Connor 2016
Stories aren’t made. They are born. They create themselves. Like a relationship that starts out slowly then brakes into the deep waters. And suddenly you’re standing in the center of an ocean. The center of your imagination.
You’re Home.
©C. O’Connor, 2016
I have two hours until my flight is supposed to depart. There’s not much to do in an airport but wait and ignore the people around you. You can read, listen, listen to music, sleep, eat, stare into space, but it’s all done with a few hundred people within throwing range. I’ve always enjoyed people watching at the airport. I give all of the interesting ones nicknames. I have a small obsession with naming things.
There’s Flower Girl across the aisle to the left. Who looks done up as if she is entering a pageant. Except she is also wearing ill fitting jeans and crappy running shoes. I judge people by their shoe choices. She looks bored as she twists some reddish brown hair around one of her stumpy fingers and chews on her gum like a cow chews on grass. She got her name from the huge red flower stuck on the side of her head.
Then there are the three Stoic Starers. Three people sitting in three chairs, creating a small wall of hopelessness and lack of emotion. The two men and one woman all sat in their seats at different times over the last hour, so they aren’t together. But the sheer emptiness of their gazes as their planes become more and more delayed will link them forever.
Next is the TDH: Tall Dark and Handsome. This one was nodding off for a while, so he decided to stand against a wall. Usually I would be impressed with this decision, but now I’m not so sure. It’s a busy day and empty seats are hard to come by. That means that the tall, tan skinned, blue eyed beauty of a man is now stuck with his fate of a numb ass from sitting on the floor, because his seat was quickly taken over by a large woman in a moo-moo covered with daisies. It doesn’t look like she is leaving any time soon.
Oh god, I just made eye contact with one of the stoic starers. I think she saw into my soul.
©C. O’Connor, 2016
I AM THE LEFTOVERS
that sit in the fridge until they go bad, and you not only throw them away. You are afraid to
touch them
smell them
look at them
You run them outside and slam the lid closed as fast as your arms and physics allow. Then you walk away. Back to your
nonstinking
kitchen. Where I no longer reside. You have been rid of me.
I am gone.
Rotting away.
But at some point you wanted me.
At some point your mouth watered at the thought of me, and your insides growled. At some time.
I was all you wanted.
But you allowed me to rot before making me a part of
you.
©C. O’Connor, 2016
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