by Tess McInnis
LIVING DEAD GIRL by Rob Zombie
“So, what can we do to help you...is there someone you will speak to? Can you look at me?” The next-in-line-new doctor asked, bending over me injecting his face into my sacred bubble comfort zone. “Fuck off” The first words I had said since my glorious red carpet arrival into the ants-helping-people business. There were plenty of them too. All busy on auto pilot tending to broken humans, wasted minds and attention grabbers. The attention grabbers were the worst lot. They disgusted me. The pity of cries for help I had long ago passed. Maybe I was revolted by their behaviors because I had met that level of hurt at one time on some ladder rung in my life. Now I was above it. I was annoyed by their weakness. I was double annoyed by any ant doctor thinking he had the remedy to save me. Those prescriptions were gone. He somewhat must have found an award in my remarks for he stood and carried himself off the stage in an accomplished manner. I thought I even heard him tell another white coat I had clearly spoken. This must have been an 'ahhhhh' moment for the little football hurdle happening outside the door. And with a great chant “let the healing begin..” they slapped each others butts and ran toward the sidelines. Healing. What is healing anyways? Is it a magic drink? Because I am not aware of where healing begins or ends. Is there a finished point...is it a foot race to first to catch the magic banner around your waist and yell to the world “I am Healed”. What do doctors know anyways, or people in general. No one is ever healed from the pains of their life paths. They are lying to themselves if they agree to others, to their voice inside “I am over it”. Nonsense. Ashes collect in the mind after the fire. I remember standing one time over our campsite fire, bleeding thoughts down to it with my eyes . I tranced into the embers and watched it burn down to nothing. And with a stick, I poked around what would not burn, and what other oddities remained as reminders of our guts inside. Like plastic for instance. Throw plastic in a fire and it clings to the hardest object in the fire, but in a second melts and it glued to that object. So, in my insanity, is it fair to say, I am plastic when it comes to love's fire. When the flames are high, I melt myself to him, my sturdy long burning reason to live. But then, how fast all of me disappears over him eventually consuming in the flames 'what was' down to mere ashes. Nonburnable, unhallowed mementos which would never, ever, return to a nurturing useful state of grace. And then again, maybe I am the tin can in the corner of the fire....alone...getting burned... living for the next fire to tap it's flames on me. There is no healing in this life, fools gather in groups to identify pain, talk about pain, and then go home to find the pain is still nagging away. Chipping away at their placid existence, their gold vase of hope on a constant wheel churning of being. I have no use any more for these truths. For the years I was beautiful. For the times I was brilliant. For the paths I took, knowingly or unknowingly...I remain with ashes. Looking out the barred window, I gather observations in truce, false attempts to make peace with all I see. The weather cannot pretend, nor can I pretend I feel this day. I see the sun on the courtyard defining this place as if it was a castle. I hear the birds singing to the God who creates all thing beautiful. Except me. I am flawed by battle, by the undying need to be loved beyond earthly measures. And somewhere out there, I know others are loving, living my desires and noticing the sun. I am stoic. Stuck here. At this window. The window with bars. I do believe now, I have had these bars with me all of my life. The clarity of insanity is a wonderful thing. I watch with my ears, without turning, as ant brings a tray of food into the room. “Gotta eat sum thin' gurl” a chubby young ant says cutesy too me. “If you want, I could come back and we can get you to a bath, get all prettied up...make you feel better.” She is just standing there. A blossomed energy taking over the room. I have no words to give her. As she leaves, I steal a look and am reminded of youth. I see her hand warmed in a princess cut diamond. It's not her fault, I think. For anything now or to come. The tray eludes me, as I ghost glide with my sheet wrapped around me back to my bed. I curl to a fetus position and beg off thoughts. I beg to close my eyes for eternal rest. Knowing that won't happen, because I have already tried to will it perpetually...
I drift purposely back to something I can still somewhat understand. I sleep, and pray this time, for a perfect dream I can live in.
ON YOUR SHORE by Enya
The ocean rhythms are mine tonight. The steady swoosh of the quietly pushing waters. I will lay here imprinted soul of the sand while he gathers a starfish for me down way in the dark. I barely see him, but he is of things no poems could write. His pants rolled up and white shirt just going along with the sea. I touch his footprints where he left me, and with my finger I write “I love you” along side the bottom of them. The night has painted a deep portrait for my moments surrendered here in love. I see him laughing, stumbling towards me and I sigh a hundred times within my heart for his perfection. Gently he rolls unto me with starfish in hand. As our lips touch, our hands find each other outstretched above us. I, in my white summer dress feeling the buttons coming undone, let it happen. His love is intense in a hand mapping by body, exciting it and begging the night for forever. Little whispers, little giggles of one mind, we are of one heart, soon he will crawl inside me to stay this life. All the senses frozen here...the smell of the ocean, of him. The texture of the sand and the urgency for it to merge between us, catching our legs covered in reminders of where we are. I am looking up at the stars, he is looking at me. The tide is cold when it begins its ascent to where we lay. He lifts me up and carries me higher up out of the way of frothing waters. He left the starfish. I begin to notice his footsteps in the sand are washing away, along with my words. I panic. Abruptly, I sit up and re button my dress, looking around for him. It is colder than I remembered a few minutes ago. Did he say he was going to go get a blanket for us to share? Did I imagine it? The waves are crashing against the rocks in anger. The sky has lost it's stars. I look and see nothing, little remains of a beach. I squint through the black night for anything...and I see it, the starfish. Slowly, returning to the ocean's graves.
Nineteen ninety four. A decade has passed between us, bringing him children as a confirmation of my devotion. . The ultimate gift to a man is a child. I have gifted him three and he has given back sloppy adulteries, emotional decayings, and in tempered times, physical marks upon the sacred vows, upon me. We have crossed those imaginary lines drawn on the ground two people should never cross. I can't even look at him right anymore. Slowly, without notice over the years, pieces of me have wintered. My love has beget tolerance, barely. Sometimes, I would sit across the table, eating dinner with the children, and stare at him, begging for glimpses of recognition of my one true love. After all, it was him who washed me lovingly after I had broken my back off my horse. And it was him, who worked hours upon hours in trade for that beautiful Arabian gelding just for me. His heart so aware of my childhood dream at those times. It was him who saw my wants for the smallest things and did magic to make it appear. And it was him, through his weaknesses, let it all slip away like it never mattered to begin with. His unfaithfulness all broke loose by cell phone messages dressed in “honey, I miss you' and when you coming back, I love you...”, I slipped for the first time into self imposed isolation. I drove off the cliffs into the hells of depression. I lived in my bedroom. The oldest child tending to the other two. I let him pretend our family was alright. Laughs of normalcy flowed from him and the children in the living room. I was dark, sunken, and without resolve to know what my next breathe or action should be. I was living a lie. My world view cracked, my belief system struggling in bile...for the perfect situation had eluded me. As if I was on a game show, and picked the wrong answer. Behind door number one....other women. Behind door number two...no intimacy or communication. Behind door number three...what happens as a result of the other two doors being opened. In my small, dark, bedroom I ruminated over and over the fights in front of the children. The escalating violence and hate that was stringing back and forth between us. Him no
t coming home nights or him coming home nights. Either way, my blanket of disgust existed for what we had become together. Everything was so macabre, the flowers would come after the night with the other woman. It took me a minute to figure it out. When I did finally piece it all together, I beat him over the head with those bouquets. Until one night, late, movers came in and proceeded to carry out all the belongings, furniture, everything. He stood in the living room surprised, maybe confused or stunned. I didn't really care at that point. So as we stood there while the circus cleaners packed and emptied my house, all I could say was “I guess I am leaving you”.
YOU MAKE ME WANNA DIE by The Pretty Reckless
I was able to finally convince a new orderly to let me sneak out back by the kitchen garbage’s for a cigarette. The consolation being he wanted one too, but didn't have one. At one in the morning, we were both sparrows of smoke, happy as larks. He never caught on to why I would have some of my own.
“you don't say much” he said curiously exhaling.
I stared down at him squatting near the exit door. He was young and reminded me of an earlier Bencio del Toro. Probably a little Mex in him.
“They say you don't speak at all, like some kind of trauma or something like that”continuing his sweet little probing. “alls I know is, I don't see nuthin' wrongs with you, like your pretty...like you shouldn't be here, that's alls...” he stood up and flicked his butt over the blue metal garbage canister. He stared. I wasn't sure if he was waiting for me to finish my cig or speak. I decided to relieve the tension between us with a low growl thought.
“don't love anyone...ever” and I torpedoed my cig butt to the ground, where I promptly put it out with my bare foot.. He smiled awkwardly. He followed me like a new puppy as we were sneaking back through the kitchen. Arrogantly, I stole an apple and he says “your kinda dope in a whack way.”
I cautioned my thoughts as to how I might use my new little muse to for bigger things should I decide my needs once again matter. Especially the one hardwired into me at the age of 13, when I became a runaway many times over. If only one desire was left after all others had excused an exit, it would be freedom. Elusive like love, but at least it was fucking something. I waved him off with a low bro fist and went back into my room.
“you wanna dog food sandwich you lit' bitch..eat the sandwich, it is all you are getting today, eat the goddamn sandwich...”
I listened to the music of the key locking my door, and like a dog passed over in a shelter, I receded to the corner of this barren room and slid down onto the cold tired floor. My brain wouldn't allow slumber after the nicotine flowed my blood. My hands ripped seams open through my hair and stayed tight to the pull. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I wanted to hate, and could. In self-loathing, I started my hamster wheel of running hate sentiments about everything. I hated this moment in my life, and all the moments which brought this one and the next one. I thought about getting up to look in the polished metal reflector, this place's version of a mirror. I was too terrified. I started picking at my skin. As I pulled at it, I envisioned slicing back my skin to find no blood pumping. I entertained thoughts of just going at it with a knife, or precision cuts...perhaps being able to detach my face skin from the bone in one piece. Use it as it had been used, clean shit up, wring it out and fold it neatly for next catastrophe. At least it would be one piece of me gone. I would still have the peepers to witness ugly. I could sew them shut and revel in the pain of the needle, each stitch moving the lids to darkness. After all, pain is a true friend. I can always depend on pain to provide a sucker punch souvenir of a pitiful existence. Of hate. Layers of hate years, black sediments fossilizing in my soul. Any given day could regurgitate the past, every day was a trap shoot. Yet, NEVER on a Monday, would I be fine. Stop being a little bitch and get up for school. Monday's would never be fine. Since I was 7 years old. Nope, I owned the beginning of the week. I owned Monday. By Wednesdays I was picking myself up off the floor deciding roulette with the pain. Maybe one good day in a week. Just one. Gone were the mornings where I would actually believe a new day was a new day. It was all the same. Predictable. Frighteningly boring definition of living. And now here, the one good day had all but disappeared as well.
I have the ability to whirl so deep into the darkness and see hell as a welcomed date. Perhaps this white, pine smelling, place is where I am to die.
I listened with great intensity as the children laughed and pattered their feet on the dirty cobblestone road. I laughed with them as they ran by, one tossing me a native fruit to be caught by my white dress flowing into the shape of a basket by my hands. The colors of Mexico stroked my soul like heaven itself. I was wandering the market breathing the culture romantically inside me. Yellows, blues, reds...colors life should be privilege of naturally everyday. Spinning around, snapping memories of blankets, food, the people, I was honored guest in a strange new rainbow. A dark hand reached to mine and offered a tiny little turtle to my open palm. I accepted as I rose my eyes to meet his. He spoke. I replied “hablo muy poco espanol” and shyly lowered my glance to the turtle. “I said you are very beautiful”. He spoke again. From a minute meeting, we became inseparable. He taught me ways of love, of making love, I have never known. Our language barrier was absent when our bodies met. We held words with our hands and emotions tingled out of touch. He was my teacher in a stranger land. The was no novelty showing he was going anywhere soon, at least apart from me. I was days into my Spanish conquistador and we were Mexico itself. Fused in something most would never experience...to be caught in a glorious postcard of perfection. Taken in by his laughter, the way his teeth grinned upon his dark skin as he joked with locals over costs of the day. I simply leaned back against the cultured yellow brick wall of his friend's store and possessed his soul. I watched. Like a living god, oh how he moved me. He moved towards me in stride of a prince bringing his intentions to crash me forever into his world. In one minute of his smile, I had planned our whole life together...our lives begetting these colors and leaving one in each child I would out of love bore him. Down the narrow road of limestone and faded bricks we walked, keeping eyes on each other, hands playing with the others fingers. We kept walking. And the road narrowed more. Aloof to the obvious, I giggled at the dusk upon the way. He asked politely if I still had the turtle. Amused by his wondering, I nodded yes...peeking into my dress pocket to retrieve the gift love gave me. Silence blanketed over my heart pounding as the pocket grew to enormous proportions. All I could see was the gigantic pocket, as if I was centered in it. Everything was white around me. The colors were gone. The turtle was gone. And he was gone
PAIN by Three Days Grace
“I fucking hate this life” I was screaming and writhing and all ugly in me was around the room. I stumbled hatefully off my bed. I was unglued. . No, beyond that. I was ready to waste everything material about this world around me. Screaming. Shredding sheets. Clawing at my skin. Anything which was not tied down was at my mercy. An ant ducked as I flung a morning food tray to crack and spread like paint on the wall. “What's the fuckin point? What's the fucking point?”, I wailed from my soul over and over the same words. “What's the fuckin point?”. Whether it is a dream or it is waking life, it is all a lie. Maybe love regurgitation is just fine with in the norm. Lies filtered to acceptance of an ideology about love. Pretend. Move on. Repeat. Pain, pain, pain. What's a four letter word for love? Pain. My head was eating it's thoughts, banging against the concrete wall over and over. And over. I could not be here. I could not exist. It was the blood painting down from my hair onto the floor where I saw a color I knew well. Red like a lipstick kiss, or red like death's Oscars carpet for my undoing. I got up and began to twirl. Arms out wide, spin girl spin. Hysteria danced with me in undulated circles to let the red go. It spotted this room as I went deeper into my ruminations with each whirl. For a moment in my insanity, I was blindingly content to keep wetting my reality with red. I wanted more red, and knew just how to get it. I took the spork they
had given me for eating, and with wild intent, I plopped back down onto the floor. I took the spork,slid it back and forth, back and forth, on the cement floor. I heard the utensil speak to me it was sharp enough to make red. Slicing into my legs, red. Slicing into my neck, red. I sliced and stood. Began my dance again feverishly, wandering out of my world to look down at me...and there I was pooled in the grandest color ever defined and created just for me. Red. Tunnels of this river blood beckoned my eyes closing, my body dropping to knees, my face hit the life pond in a dramatic perfect smack. I found peace...lest, I awake.
PERSONAL JESUS by Marilyn Manson
Eyes open. I cannot move. Covered by leather. It is dark here and I am groggy. Confused, not likely. As I know the scenario. So, I glance over to the corner and see the white coat with a clipboard observing me. I pray he won' speak, but I know he will. They always do. My prayers are never heard anyhow. “Are you comfortable?” he says in feminine monotone. I am thinking what a fucked up thing to say to someone who is strapped down. Callous expression reveals I am onto him.
“You know, you almost died in there don't you?” he attempts his college learning on me again. Then he says something so out of context it is startling. Almost as to force my voice to acknowledge not only his vile existence, but his words as well. “I know you want the pain to stop, it is unbearable for you to wanna breathe or even believe you are still alive...I can't say I blame you. What a shitty world we live in. People hurt people and we are suppose to buy into the next one being any different. Sometimes, I wish I was you”. How in God's name could someone ever, ever wish they were me? I turned my head to focus in on his face. No, I wanted to see his...his soul. Could it be everyone is dying inside? That I am not terminally unique to pain shoveled on me from life attempts to be normal. There is no normal, just relatively varying degrees of craziness. I most likely am tipping the peak on that one, yodeling my angst to hollows of lost winds. I am focused on his eyes, yet they were looking solemnly out the window, maybe his hurt was out there somewhere. He probably didn't expect anything from me anyways, committed to his own longings. I reached with a “Why?” Expecting a prodigy reflex from my probe, I instead got his continued frozen gaze traced beyond the bars on the window.