Dating : Voices

It happens throughout many nights in which I stare into the ceiling, whispering to myself, remembering how I used to understand the world around me. But death is not forgotten nor glorified, simply unnecessary for the living. Neither is this sense of hopelessness. I just do not feel like crying anymore. I just wait for the feeling to be over so I can move on to whether I will not die.

These hands around the sheets feel like mine, sweaty and quivering, these eyes that scan the darkness move and look around like mine do, uninterested, but this whispering, this silky whispering that has not stopped, that will never stop, is not mine. It flows through my throat, into my stomach, vibrating, tingling. But this voice does not belong to me. But I think with it through my tongue as my mind speaks other things.

“What? Why? Where? How? Me. It’s me,” says the voice with my teeth and never anything else. It does not raise my tone nor does it let me rest. It talks and talks from beyond, from somewhere, and leads me to trap myself in my room, which is my room surely. No one talks to me now, no one knows where I am, everybody knows they are gone but no one can imagine that they exist, dead, putrid, mad, in my mouth. And they all think the same, they all warn the same, they all ask the same because being dead, they have nothing to lose. It is my mouth what they use, the thing that never stops bleeding.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, what do you want from me?, I cry in the brain that is mine because only there can I think of me, what it means to me, what I live to be, what dreams understand of me. But the voice keeps on, and the blood goes on, and here, in the darkness, the voice is law, the voice of my heart, and only through it I shall be punished. I have misused the greatest asset that was ever given to me. I must pay the price of futility. What use is there for a mouth that speaks only with what other people need? I cannot bear the sight of more grimy blood and the knife stops at my throat, and the spirits go on, in silent laughing, about this disgraceful vessel. They sicken me but they never leave and I beg them to go away, such a loss of mind that is mine, a chance has been lost.

Life belongs to those who speak what they think, when it’s needed, when it’s life itself what’s at risk, when time makes us right or wrong, where we are but speaking purely with us and no one else, I say in hope of forgiveness. There is none. What difference does it make? Perhaps they know what they are doing, what I did, what I would have done, and place themselves to gnaw comfortably into the most useless mouth in the world.