"Cusp" | Teen Ink


September 25, 2011
By crux1 GOLD, Inez, Kentucky
crux1 GOLD, Inez, Kentucky
14 articles 4 photos 3 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Some feel the rain, others just get wet." -Bob Dylan.
"What kind of beast would turn it's life into words?" - Adrienne Rich

I hear you fighting with the wall again,
dreams like fleas bouncing just out of your grasp before you can finger and thumb them down dead.
This is me, in the car, freezing
wind blowing through the window,
cigar after cigarette in and out of my child like asthmatic lungs,
a can of diet coke,
the pedal to the floor pushing through the metal and gears
Maybe I’ll get the flu, phenomena
Maybe I’ll get cancer and fall to the floor slowly instead of gun shot fast
Maybe diet coke is full of
And maybe I won’t be able to take this next curve in the dark, the way I can’t take it in the light.
At 60 over I can barely take a breath.
I am waiting on death,
he may come relieve me of my nightly watch.
Hunting for you in dreams, and hallucinations, and
you believe it all.
I see him, tell myself he’s the coat rack, and trudge on to the fridge
He bounces,
flickering away, before I can finger and thumb him, into killing me
da** down dead
Fog clouds the glass of my eye balls, and I can’t seem to wipe it off
It clings and hangs, making everything around me move, like I can see the world spinning on its
axis, and it makes everything grey,
or green.
Riding on this monochrome diamondback spinning top, I have risen up from licking wounds
You told me to rise up from it all, I did,
I did
I arose,
grabbed a smoke,
smoked it to the filter and then
jabbed it in a place where you won’t find
Where’s waldo?
Well he’s not red and white stripped anymore
I hear you fighting with the wall again, and
I can’t help but hope you get it, if
it’s the monster haunting you,
I’ll plaster up the hole and paint it
And then I’ll paint my body unrecognizable to
All the burns, and the bruises, and the mascara down my cheeks,
And me white and clean, every ounce of pigment from the scales of my skin,
to the dirt,
to the floor
Dripping paint all over the clean hardwood
Crawling back into the holes you’ve punched and kicked into the wall
Cackling madly,
like I have a secret, that to no one I will tell
Greeting an old friend, like they’ve never left
And letting death pick my
bones dry
Through, and though
Seeing, touching, smelling,

even while I die

The author's comments:
Written about my thoughts and my struggle with depression.

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