Poem of a Broken Girl

Poem of A Broken Girl

I, taking a pseudonym, call myself Fire. Before we begin, I would wish to state the flow in which I do stake my claims is not in the mundanely common way. This is because I struggle with simple words when explaining in depth my desires, stanzas and poetry slammed together coming to me much smoother than choreographed philosophy organized within grammar. I can't easily translate my thought pattern into socially understandable words. As for the account of my name, this is because I consume myself. I have proven time and time again to be a fire, dreadful and bare. It is in this blinding desire to burn all that I am in which I have been compelled to write this and that compulsion comes out raw. It comes out in ways that even I struggle to grasp at times. If times were different, I possibly would have written you something much more elegant, cleaner, but I find no love for any other words but what has been trying so hard to escape for so long. I cannot wholly and truthfully devote myself to anything else while these words still remain hanging off of my limbs like tumors, so I must get them out. This is that such process and this starts with a simple poem.

I am the tainting stain on the world
One of the dots that piles upon the others, creating this distorted world
I am evil, just as you claim not to be
I am wrong, and in this I revel, just as you claim not to do

         The words felt thick in my mouth, seeped through the paper of my skin, left toxins in my blood and ate away at my immune system. They etched themselves in my phalanges, soaked there, in my biceps and my triceps. Traveling upward, they made home within the curves of my shoulder blades, finding homage in my left lateral brain. They became the whispers calling at each sides of my head until it all merges together and I'm hearing voices turn to people in my head. Those same voices rip their new fingers along my spine, carve notes of basses and trebles across the walls of my mind because they speak in tones to convince me the words aren't what they say, aren't so dismantling. So ruefully ripping my intestines apart, taking inch by inch into every disturbing thought that proves to be resounding, conclusive, like there is no other way, but truth continues to hauntingly remain.
         Truth rings true within the night where all my deeds are hidden under covers in spite of the demanding pump of my heart that cries so loud, my brain works that much harder to block out the sound. The sight is disgusting because with each movement I make, I know I'm wrong in every sense that could ever be right, but what compels me is not necessarily the desire, but the numbness of evil, that if I try hard enough, I can pretend God doesn't see. But I know God sees me and that breaks so tenderly all I threw myself into to shards that pierce my throat and tear down my forts made of stained sheets and ripped cardboard that was an attempt at a childish way to prevent all my walls from caving. It sends me spiraling down desolation because the one thing that has ever made me happy, I continuously run from, straight to my own condemnation.
         And in this realization, I kick up abandoned thoughts left to rot in my brain fluids as I roam the rusted railways of my mind. I've spent many days here, wasted, littering about myself and conquering thoughts of listless pleasure. Sleep used to be my vice because in the dreams my mind crafted all was alright. I wasn't so deprived of all I needed, wasn't so obviously broken and bleeding. But in the light of day with eyes surrounding and so obviously filled with disdain, I find no escape from the truth of the matter. All I am is worthless and in this, I can do nothing but revel. Because the only other option is to submit the higher power, admit that all I touch cracks under the pressure, shatters itself and seeks something better than the lowly hands that wanted nothing more than a hand to hold, but sought with wrongness and knowingly sold all of herself to fakeness because it was better than admitting her weakness. Yes, that girl gave up gold for coal because she knew her hands were red from sin and despite the claims of unconditional grace, she didn't accept that she couldn't fix herself on her own.
         But she couldn't. I couldn't and still can't, caught in this dance that I try to convince myself is just an act to get through, a phase of adolescence, but really it's a messed up state of mind that eats at me because the sin that I dip my fingers into greedily soaks into my the paper of my skin, it corrupts me and in the end, it's the only thing that matters. And while you may not understand, I know broken when I see it and I feel it all in my bones because I'm limping through life pretending I can't hear my own groans of pain, but they echo within my hollowed brain. I hate that I'm broken and I hate so much that I feel as though I can't be fixed and I hate even more that I know inside I've been given a gift, but my fingers refuse to grasp it. I'm a broken girl and I admit that, I hate that, but we all are desperate for something to fill the void that we refuse to acknowledge. I acknowledge it. Now I just want to be fixed.