brooding

brood: to sit upon (eggs) in order to hatch, to dwell on a subject, to meditate with morbid persistence, or to worry persistently

"I don't think she ever knew that a deep-brooding love hung over everything she touched"- Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

oh the things I do when I can't sleep...make pancakes, talk to Nick when he calls at 1 am and feel briefly better, listen to really loud music (it only works if you can feel it shaking your entire being), watch Fargo and then let my morbidity take over, enough at least to write the following prose.

The alarm clock stabs at my ear drums. 5:30am. The dark blue of the morning seeps in through the blinds.  I open both my eyes just barely, like two slivered almonds on the mask of my face.  I peer down at my ankle and follow my leg up to the crook of my hip.  Another bruise.  Another morning, another bruise.  It's been a year now and the more matured ones have started to heal, bleeding back from their purple-black color into a more jaundiced yellow.  But my entire left leg still looks like an over-ripened banana, freckled with innumerable bruise. I stumble over to the dresser and fumbled through the deep drawer of socks and stockings.  I settle upon a pair of navy blue poke-a-dot tights.  Slowly, I roll them over my leg.  First the toe, then the ankle, then the bruises.  It's like driving a steam roller over a mine-field, you never know which one is going to hurt the most.  This morning it's the little one on the center on my shin, the last of three lined up in a row, three dime-sized spots of hell.  It stings at first, but then a familiar euphoria takes its place.  There's a thin line between pain and pleasure.  Some days, I fantasize about amputation, I just haven't convinced myself yet that life with only one leg would be any better.  So I leave it, and I suffer through an indescribable amount of pain.  I have no explanation for their genesis, they just appear. My only rationalization is that they're there to remind me how fucked in the head I can be, how pathetic it is that, just like my bruises, I can't escape thoughts of you without cutting off a crucial part of myself.  As one heals, another appears.  Everything seems like it's my fucking fault.

hooray for creative writing.

update: okay, apparently I need to make something more clear, because right now my family thinks I've completely lost my marbles.  The above creative writing piece is just that, a creative writing piece.  Apart from the few bruises that I have gotten from roller derby, my legs are not covered in bruises.  The bruises are a metaphor for the character in this story's emotional state.  This is how I deal with the normal ups and downs of life and with my occasional bought of depression. I write and write and write some more.  I mean, I also workout a lot and hit girls while on skates and listen to music and make pancakes, but for the most part, writing is the way in which I deal with things. I am an intense person and intense people need outlets, this is mine.  So please, family and loved ones, quit worrying about me.  And for the love of god quit taking the things I say in my poems and stories literally. I'm fine.