Friday, September 24, 2010

Sad Throne - 10thDoM Suicide Seat

I am a third party to my own life. My consciousness is dissolved in your presence. Far or near, your voice makes me melt or puddle, soften or crumble. It makes me curl into myself, into nothingness, giving up my soul, my integrity, my grit, my self. Heartbroken is nothing compared to soul-broken. It's so dark in here. I can't see past your view...

The sheer whites billow effortlessly toward her, brushing against her calves as she sits, chin resting awkwardly in hand, looking solemnly out the window. Her gaze, fixated on nothing in particular, is pure stillness. She is a statue. Her blank facade has been observed and reflected on the faces of every person who dares to meet her eyes. Wisps of hair vibrate in the easy breeze. A few strands plaster themselves in the slick of sweat across her brow.

I am the new face of those people so broken they can no longer be approached and offered a warm touch or a gentle, reassuring embrace because they are too far gone. The thought of warmth and comfort has become less than a memory. It was a beautiful illusion.

She's completely aware and numbed all the more for it. She is a shell, hollow, empty, ravaged by the masochistic tendencies of her own heart. She is soft now, pliable. The so soft skin covering her arms and legs, now crisscrossed with fading white lines, tally marks of controlled pain. Pain she can cause, pain she can control, pain she can take.

I am hard, unmovable, stuck in my own puddle. I am a stranger in the mirror, a pathetic excuse for everything I ever believed I was.

She knows what she is, her own deviant thoughts and devices. She knows when you look her in the eye and lie to her every day and still feels guilt and responsibility even where there may be no cause. She sits idly on her chair, listlessly staring at blank walls, barely aware of the tickle on calves. She wonders what happened to you to make you like you are. On the outside, so sweet and gentle, putting on a masterful facade for the world, for your girls to see, to draw them in. On the inside, you can't relax, you're constantly in defensive stance, and your caring for others is nothing more than superficial dribble. She sinks further into darkness.

I am dying. It is death at my own hands, but I'll blame you nonetheless, as I sit here on my throne, my suicide seat.


  1. I see you're back to normal.

    Lose the "my suicide seat." Totally unneeded.

  2. I so hope this is pure fiction. It was painful to read. Your words are filled with such hopelessness.

  3. I like this one. It reinforces my own style prejudices.

    I find it of interest that the 'conscience' paragraphs become shorter, whereas the 'person' paragraphs become longer. Was this deliberate?

  4. Now that Julie points that out it was brilliance, even if accidental. This theme seems to be one you are very comfortable with, coming from your other piece. Not a lot of hope in this one, but that is real.