the darkest of places

Somebody explain to me why my mind keeps going to the darkest of places after I keep showing it the light over and over again. 

After I have to prove it wrong over and over again. 


I think it likes it there. I think it has found a cozy spot there. A place of comfort there. 


In expecting the worst, it feels safe. I feel safe. 


And that’s some tragic ass shit. 


To feel safety in the darkest of places because that’s what feels most like home. 


---


This is how beasts are made. 


---


You tell her to be quiet. To be small. To be nothing but beautiful. Like a porcelain doll picking a thorn from her toe with golden locs coming out of her head. And when she grows up to be what you consider the opposite of that. Loud. Angry. Sloppy. Black. Proud. Joyful. Free. Free. Free. 


You will pretend not to see. How the world kisses the air she walks by. How breathtaking she is. 


--


At least now I can see the spiral downward begin to form.


And I can see myself getting on the ride. Almost excited to join. Like yoooo I’m going home. 


I’m going fucking home straight into the darkness that’s always there waiting for me to return.


I tighten my buckle and try to tell myself to be gentle when I join the ride. The borrowed zanny in my bedroom drawer screaming at me to lord ‘have mercy’ like a bad song stuck in my head on an endless loop. 


But this ride is merciless. And I don’t want a sedative. I want to feel as it rips the scabs from the healing wounds off my skin with its speed. 


And yet the spiral never lands as low as it used to. It never takes me back to that rooftop edge. Back to that blade. Back to that bedside drawer. 


And I want to think I miss the days when I could reach that low. But I don’t. What I miss are the days when I wasn’t building a new home for myself. The days when rest looked like letting the dirt in my house pile up. When rest looked like ignoring the sunlight instead of chasing it. 


The days when I wasn’t knocking down walls and putting up new ones. 


Now on rest days I play music loudly and sing about la maldita primavera with it’s shitty love cycle while I clean. 


And I think. 


I’m becoming like all the women in my family. Except. I still sing my heart out even if the neighbors can hear me. Cuz a bitch will always be loud af. 


---


Maybe then. My question isn’t why does my mind keep going to the darkest of places. 


Maybe it’s how can I learn to rest in a home that’s under construction.


--







Comments