personal blog: simon

my irreversible spinning spills to the morning. a slight crack to ooze out the fear. my trembling hands unresting and I let the cold water run over them, then splash my face to wake up from nightmares.

the scent of cigarettes always lingering or maybe it’s my manifestation of my father’s vulgar habit.

forgetting to run another order. unfinished design on wedding invitations. forgetting food. diminishing cognitive functioning as my brain cells slowly degenerate and my memories evaporate into a fluster of rubbish. only if I was able to scurry to a corner and pray but my blistering soles keep me paralyzed at my post. all these senseless metaphors and for what, to convey demise?

I haven’t been drinking but I feel drunk.

I haven’t swallowed a pill but I feel drugged.

three last months of battling with Kevin, screaming and shouting with force and anger.

three months prior to that battling in silence.

and still fighting in dissolute.

‘stand up straight! be brave!’ my father’s voice’s still shouting. I cannot put it on mute. the volcanic ash filling the room and I singe. quivering. how do I cope and why do I drift to the most inconvenient memories in these moments of chaos?

another lover, hours of self-spite; but Jackson was no ordinary lover. he was my first time. turning twenty had to have some significance, a milestone, a nostalgic imprint, and I went out seeking.

“well, we should turn that scowling to a smile.” Jackson had dark hair and a crooked smile that meant trouble, “a drink?”

and it started with a drink; a drink I much needed to loosen me up because I needed to get that one milestone done and over with.

Jackson’s grin turned to ‘I like you, kid’ smirk and he tapped his fingers on the concrete counter. the glass necks clanked, “cheers,” Jackson raised his to his mouth and gulped a substantial amount. I followed as a measure of our manhood.

he knew what my intentions were and it didn’t take long.

I was in control. I had to be. I shoved Jackson roughly to the wall, not only surprising him but as well myself with my own force. the buzz of anger and ferocity entangled with fragility and pain, conquered by calmness, letting go of every reservation, mapped to one moment and goal. to have every control of Jackson’s movement, his hands, his mouth, overpowering him. leading and taking charge… but every touch was like sandpaper, scraping my skin. I didn’t feel anything. I didn’t feel my body, my toes, my fingers. jarring, scared… cold… and I can vividly recall what I was thinking. the noise of a strummed guitar. a melody very familiar as Jacob’s voice resonated in my head. the melody I used to hum to, an echo, a ringtone on my phone, a precious treasure, an attuned obsession I’ve kept for years. only and always that remained even when I had the control when everything was at my disposal. I wasn’t present.

I gathered my shirt and shoes early morning, when the sun had not yet ruled the earth, as Jackson muttered, “call me.” his digits jotted as he handed me the paper. “later,” unscrambling his mumble before he dropped back to sleep, whether he cared or not for the later to happen. the ink somewhat did not eject entirely and the last three letters of ‘call me’ faded. I stood momentarily wondering whether Jackson did that out of courtesy, but, I cared very little to call him and discarded the note, feeling void. the checkbox however marked. my feelings didn’t matter, the goal did. the first notch on the belt, that’s what mattered.

I realize now, I didn’t matter. my feelings didn’t matter to me because I didn’t matter to me… and I haven’t mattered to me for a long time.

take another drink. take another pill. self-medication is an easy escape and eventually becomes visible.

eating my own mind in silence; however, is a disguise that only few will deduct. self-inflicted wounds and torture of silence is a brigade to leave me with only a shell but I’m still standing, I’m still communicating, I’m still living. I plaster a smile. I return a handshake or a wave, but then I pinch my skin and I’m unable to feel… and no one is the wiser.

my face looks like it’s melting as I pull the towel along my cheeks and jaw to wipe the splash of water off. ‘you are gorgeous.’ ‘you are special.’ ‘you are…’ some prescription of comfort and compliment; but the reflection I see is hideous. the wry grin only to cope with people; strangers and familiars alike.

‘don’t be a burden,’ my only qualm but I cave and reach for my phone. Jacob is always a measure not to take lightly but he might be my only salvation.

read more: ← tuesday 23:59wednesday 10:48 →

© simon whittle — second act