Solitary

Your toes don't go first, like you always thought they would.  Your stomach does.  Like, one day it's there, and the next day, it's just... gone. And no one really notices at first because your shirt covers it, so it's only embarrassing when you change for P.E.

Then a few months later you look down halfway through the day and you realize that your elbows are full of holes, and the holes are getting bigger.  Eventually they're gone too.

Your knees, your heels, nine of your fingers.  The left pinky finger with the scar on it takes a little bit longer but eventually that one dissolves too.  Finally your toes.  Piece by piece you continue to disappear.

You really get worried when the pace picks up. You're gaining at least one hole per day now, and people have stopped noticing the holes because they look right through them now.  If they don't see you, how are they supposed to notice that you're full of holes?

Your shins, your calves, your thighs, your forearms.  The soles of your feet stuck around for a while but they're gone now.

You cry the day your hip bones and collar bones fade out.  "This," you say, "this is as bad as it gets."

But the next day you can no longer speak.  Your tongue, your teeth, your beautiful lips, all gone.

For a while your eyes and ears, hear and mind are still there.  And it's painful because you can see and hear so much excitement and you can want it and you can miss it and you can feel so alone and think about all the people that used to see you, but you can't say anything because you don't have a voice, so you just sit there screaming in your head, and even after your ears disappear you can still hear yourself scream.

The last thing to go is your heart.  It's tragically beautiful actually, this heart just beating.  Pumping away, just aching as it sends blood to this invisible body, but that doesn't last too long.

Your heart goes, just like the rest of you.

A letter to our ruler, lord of kings and beggars, that beastly tyrant: FEAR.

I'm like, so over it.

I'm done with the constant worrying, the lack of sleep, and the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

You said that you could help us.  You promised you would protect us.  That you would protect me.

"Listen to me," you said.

"Trust me," you said.

Well I listened.  You couldn't help.  You didn't protect me.

You built walls: strong protective walls.  You locked up my heart and buried it deep where no one can touch it.  You bottled up my passions and stored them in a cool, dry, secure place.  You whitewashed my vulnerabilities and disguised them with hanging curtains and still lifes.  You gave me guidelines and rule books, lists of  approved words and actions, checks and balances, dos and don'ts, and I studied them until my eyes burned but I never could get the hang of them.  You put deadbolts on all my doors and you said, "Look.  You're safe now."

But every second I spent in my bulletproof, steel plated stronghold wore away my happiness and my self-esteem.  I watched as my sense of wonder turned translucent and ultimately disappeared.

And then loneliness crept in, filling the stale, empty air around me, and discontent started pawing at my ankles.

You didn't protect me.  You crippled me.

With you around every dream turns to a nightmare, and my ambitions are crushed with doubts and what-ifs.  When you're around it's hard to get up in the morning and harder to go to sleep at night.  Any thought of growth is immediately shut down.  Risks are discouraged; creativity is banned.

"But you didn't get hurt," you told me, "I thought that's what you wanted."

I don't want to be safe.  I just want to be real.

Vive la Révolution