(Warning this chapter is a vent and contains words that may be triggering please take caution before you continue.)
My glass is half full of blood, some spilled on the side, some not mine, while the rest is from tired hands. Tired attempts that failed and, as a result, spilled crimson poured from the inch of light within me.
My brain swarms with bees, eyes staring daggers at the wall like it offended me, scratches on my skin from irritation. Crippling depression from slowly losing my mind—memories fading like the water that was supposed to be in my cup, as names are nonexistent.
What even is my name, and will I remember it? Only time will tell, but it doesn't seem like I have much of it in my consciousness, my fingers losing grip as I cling to fictional characters for an answer for a reason why this is happening.
Begging, praying that through their story, their birth, that someone will help the others before it's too late.
Friends, Family, someone must know that we don't have as much time as we think, I can see it, feel it as we speak.
I can sense it in my dreams, as the darkness feels like it will swallow me whole, with answers unclear. Yet, it repeats the same message, separating me further and further from reality.
Scribbles across my sketches as the lines become repetitive and the music that I listen to starts to draw, draw circles in my head of a pattern.
Memories of my childhood, feeling nostalgic as I try to cling to who I once was, the happiness I once had before it tore away.
My own parents don't even recognize me, and I can see it, hear it from the whispers under their breath.
Tears brim their faces as I grow frail, barely able to walk and sometimes even talk, my back and head feeling like syringes pressed into fresh skin. Teeth no longer work the same, and the doctors tend to ignore it; no money would come from a healthy body anyway.
No money would come from a community that isn't starving, that doesn't depend on flesh bodies to tear it from their bones. Peeling the money from their eyelids and making sure that they stay that way, the way they were made to be.
Copies of each other so you can't tell the difference, puppets of the master being tugged in every direction.
The one with the most paper wins in the end, and the quickest to the gun dies first. The rich don't care about the dirt they walk on, just as long as they don't see the filth under their shoe.
At the end of the day, it's just a game, and we are all playing along involuntarily, pawns on an intricate board of checkers, disposable at the will of the players. We might put our faith in them, but they will always look out for themselves, look to win.
Even if that means rigging the game so there's more black than red, whatever it takes to cover up their mistakes. Sometimes swiftly or not carefully, the loser is the one on the end.
Not wearing a hat or having a cat, the winner's hand will be up offensively, no matter what they do. Their followers will always carry out their cultists' views, attacking the ones who don't see it through.
Sending the world to its end quicker than it was supposed to, the doom of a generation, all because of a false prophet. They spit lies, yet people still believed them, sacrificed their own kind just to get near it.
Parents abandoning their own children just to be in proximity to it, the same old poison from the womb spreading to adulthood. Plaguing the brain with thick soot enough to drown in, and it's a shame that no one could save them. Shame that everyone blames them when it could have been prevented from birth, if the parent was right in the mind. If it was the right time, but it wasn't, and the consequence was major.
Not once but twice more, now the flag is left hanging, bodies that stain it red and veins that paint it blue. In a pale vision, we would all be new, one under a distant land hidden under the shadow of a crooked man.
Oh, how I shout out to the ones who gave me great fun and a head full of sin, death swirling in my cup, as my ancestors know it will never be enough. To be happy, to be real, to get back the nostalgia that made my life worth something.
Now I am left with the alcohol that kills my family and the smoke from their burned bodies, ash in my lungs, steadily putting me to sleep. Under my eyes, I hope to weep, all the tears from the ones who couldn't speak, scared to be leaked.
Yet my voice was one unmatched, like a fire to a match, I try to live a decent life, one filled with less drugs, but hell, how can I be right? When it calms my skin, dims the lights, and helps me pretend that everything is right in sight.
Even when I know that the creature is in my room, pretending to be someone close to me, tricking us all, and I know it wasn't her, but I couldn't bear to see what she'd become.
I'd rather close my eyes and pretend everything is okay when I know that's not in any way. Therefore, I will simply go about my day, like all the others who can pray.
I know in the end it will be okay, but I can't help but write how it deeply hurts anyway, and while I'm not sure if you'll understand. I'm glad you still listened before all of our rights were banned.
Glass half full, as it will always be, for we are all carrying a cup of who we truly want to be.