My body betrays me constantly.
I feel things that aren’t there, hear sounds that never existed, taste foods that want to kill me.
It’s more than the feather-light touches that dance across my back or caress my cheek. It’s the tickle of multitudes of legs along the shell of my ear. It’s the sharp poke of a fang stabbing my hip. It’s the pinch to my areola, hardening my nipple, wetting my apex.
It whispers to me when I’m not paying attention. I must always pay attention. If I don’t, the low resonance fucks with my eardrum, the treble cracks the tiny bones, and I have to hold my hands to my ears and my head between my knees for it to stop. No matter where I am.
Otherwise, I’ll bleed.
And the blood is loud enough as it is.
Every beat of my heart is an intimate earthquake. Most times I wish for it to stop. I wish for it to cease its pedantic tuning and let me go.
Or give me control.
It thinks it knows best, my heart. Along with my warring brain, I have no autonomy. I am a slave to this living shell that just keeps going.
Betraying me. Overtaking my lack of will to live and making me stay, keeping me existing.
I don’t see the point of it. Digging deep, I find nothing but gore. Nothing roots me here. Nothing wants me here.
Yet my body pushes on.
It’s been a long time since these sensations, these spirits of sight and sound and taste, haven’t been my own to keep. The source has been memories, thoughts, or wishes.
I fuck and suck and listen to ghosts. Phantoms. The company that insists on reminding me of my loneliness. The loneliness that sees no end.
I don’t blame them, the others. I understand the recoil during my moments. The moments that stretch and repeat enough to be a constant. I want to recoil from myself. I want to pull away from this sack of flesh and bone and transcend into what I hope to fuck is better than this.
But my body. It’s not my own. And it betrays my needs. It betrays my desires for the world to see. To laugh at. To compare.
To never alleviate. Or fulfill.
I live in a house that is a gilded cage with no lock or key.
It is not of my making. I do not own it and neither does anyone else.
I wish to sell to the highest bidder.
But I cannot afford my own misery.