Challenges Require Changes
If the eyes are the window to the soul, can you see how many memories I hold? The weights I carry? But you can't, you couldn't even see it when I let you in myself. Get out. I see you now. Took more than eyes. More than ears.
"Jariah, get up." Three in the morning, my Dad walks in with a scowl. A cruel scowl. Has anyone seen the absence of light? Not pure darkness and evil, but the blockage. The empty cup. "We're supposed to leave at five, Dad."
"You got questions?" I see nothing, nothing like a light. Nothing like joy. "No sir."
"Good. Let's go." He walks out on his own, thankfully not prompted by me. When it gets to that point, I just brace myself.
I've become complacent. Stagnant. Evolution? Don't make me choke on my own blood.
My mind could be represented through smoke or S.O.S signals for anything. Anyone. Find me, help me, hold me. Do I beleive? Hardly. Do I hope?
With every ounce of willpower my feeble being may muster.
I heard the door close to his room. Thank god. There's no reason to stay now. From the couch, I walk to my room. Had to vacate because I wouldn't have been able to wake up on my own. Whatever that could mean. Just another way to control me really. I'd never let something like this happen, if I could be the real me.
Do I deserve to be the real me? DO I deserve to live the life I dream? How could I? I've sinned, I've hurt people, I've lied, I've stolen, I've cheated, I've been bad. Really bad.
Do I deserve redemption? Some sort of saving grace?
Fairly tidy, my room resembles something like a guest room at your grandparent's house. Faint resemblance of a life, but not enough evidence to conclude something real.
Thankfully, his week is almost up.
But then next week I see her.
The Dean. The Dictator. Not a Mother, but a Monarch. Iron fist, no compassion. Love, not honest. I'm sick of reading between the lines and lies they feed me, figuring out where the truth lies.
Locking the door, I flip between the clothes in my cubies. Fuck, where is it? There should probably be more caution from me, but I'm tired. Weary. The mattress sits on the floor, half covered in sheets that haven't been washed in sometime. I'm sick of living like this. I need a change. Fast.
WHERE'S MY FUCKING MUHA?!
Shit, nevermind. Here it is. Looking around at the muted cream walls, I gaze across at the wall with my full-length mirror. A prized possession of mine. When going back and forth between places like me, there's nothing very stationary. Dad, Mom, Dad, Mom, and I do that again and I do that again.
I watch myself. I watch my eyes. My nose. Curves and bumps, groves and notches. I look at my lips. Perfect size? Perfect for me? The small disposable cart, able to fit squarely in the palm of my hand, moves towards my lips. I watch myself as the light turns on, signalling my inhale. It flashes and I hold my breath.
1, 2, 3...small exhale
4, 5, 6...small exhale
7, 8, 9, 10...breathe out
There's no reason to feel pain or heartache. Greif or apathy. Why do we have stupid feelings like that anyways?
Maybe I'll find out soon.
Until then...I'll keep puffing til' I don't care about them.
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