And She Sleeps

I haven't slept in my own bed for weeks.

What do you think now? Am I a waif in your mind? Am I a prostitute who has no other choice? Am I some coked-up whore living on the streets in a crayon coated cardboard box? I want to know—what is your first impression of me?

I haven't slept in my own bed for weeks.

What does that bring to your mind? Am I in a hospital bed lying down, dying of cancer, or a heart disease or something involving my weak legs? Am I in a mental institution where I signed my death warrant with blood and a knife, without using my fingertip but my own hand, my own wrist? I want to know—what is your first impression of me?

I know you think me crazed. Why would I be rambling like this? Staring at the ceiling, the walls the bath of white surrounding me like the battle of little big horn. Oh was that a history reference I slipped in. I believe it was.

I know you think me unsteady, just look at my words, my language. It's coherent but syntax is odd, is unique. Ironic that unique is so cliché; yet so summarizing when it's so indescribable. Who uses such vocabulary when scribbling down your own death note? Closer and closer to the edge I crossed, because life forgot it took more than a line in the sand to keep me away from danger. I live for danger. I spell dangerous 'Danger-us' because he truly is my lover. What sane person thrives off sadism of others and yet into themselves the thrill of losing everything again and again gives them pleasure from the pain? I guess that makes me a masochist.

You haven't stopped reading.

You're addicted to my addiction.

I never want you to stop.

And I know now you did if you were anything like me.

I do not have one obedient bone in my body, but that isn't fault of mine. My mother did not force me to take calcium. Take your vitamins, its what does your body good. Mother told me it was mind control, they put it in our food, in our water. Who gives about Fluoride but dentists? Only doctors who dope you up on medication care about vitamins. Why so inconspicuous about their names? Vitamin A? B? C? Name me the alphabet. I'll name you Arsenic, Boron, Cyanide. Chemistry was my best subject. Poisons of the mind purist, and the heart strongest, that way they can tell you how to live. They tell you how much you are worth, how you are who you are at school; because they tell you. And if you want to have a life, wake up. Don't let them tell you who you are.

I refused.

I am here now aren't I?

I know you think me paranoid.

I think I am just psychic.

Or that's what I told my psychoanalyst. Her name is mine. I've been committed so many times into her institution that I needed a divorce. Besides I am not narcissistic, I don't love myself, so why put forth the effort? White is unbecoming on me, there is not a dress I would wear, not a touch of lace on my clothes. The blankets are just fine. Yet they try to coddle me out of my shell, telling me that I am such a pretty girl, and pretty girls need pretty clothes. I tell them to go to pretty hell. They try to brush my hair but I prefer my knots. My body is not a source of pride. I only polish my mind, and there I find myself.

Sick aren't I?

Oh come on, if you disagree you are like all of them.

And you don't want to be them now do you?

You should have seen their faces when I told them the only disease I was suffering from was Déjà vu. You know, that one where life repeats itself and you think you have lived it all again. Don't worry, that's only a glitch in their mind chip. Your memories are no longer yours. You have to write your story so it becomes your own. Only then life is your plaything. They tell you otherwise, that you can live your own life and make your own decisions; only if they give you permission first.

I am through.

I am finished.

When you visit my funeral, when you visit my grave remember one thing.

She was victorious over what she hated.

She was strong enough to think on her own.

She was a maddening genius who could not live in our world.

And she finally sleeps.