Let me Cry - 6/20/2003

Me: I was so depressed when I wrote this...
Círdan: You're always depressed. Do you ever write anything happy?
Me: *glare* sometimes...I think.
Círdan: I don't think you do...
Me: SHUT UP. Wicked Muse Drone of Doom! DO NOT MAKE ME SMITE YOU!!!
Círdan: *goes and hides in closet*


I'm in my room. Practicing. Practicing till my fingers are numb. "Reality isn't what it seems. My life is not mine. I'm crying time." The phone rings, it's you.

"What are you doing?"

"Practicing." I keep playing, the strings cut my fingers and my blood stains the strings. "Devour me in your wild love. Blood drips from the stars above..."

"Why do you write songs like that?"

"Because, what else would a person write about but their now and their dreams? And so I write of passion and loneliness and a person who can invade my every sense and crevice of my soul."

"Why are you so lonely?"

"Why are you so attached, yet can't tell me your dreams?" A long silence follows. I keep playing, practicing, bleeding on the strings, my fingertips burn and sting. "Pierce me. Poison me. Let me, Kill me..."

"Why don't you tell me the truth? Why do you hide so much from me?" I stop playing, and set my guitar down. I watch the blood run down my fingers, and form pools in my hands, and rivers in the creases of flesh.

"Because I'm afraid. And because I don't know how to tell you, what I'm feeling. I never tell anyone. Because I'm afraid to hurt you."

"Why would you hurt me?"

"Would it hurt you to know, how frustrated you are making me? How many times I cry because of things you say to me, even if they are little things? Not bad, just caring, and it makes me feel terrible, because I don't know if I deserve it. And I'm afraid you'll run away, if I allow you the choice to come in. How would you feel, if you know how many times I sit in my room alone, just thinking, what it would be like, to have you hold me in your arms, and fall asleep with your heart beat in my ear? And how many times I wish you were here to kiss my tears away? And how I want to scream and shout and throw myself against my mirror until it breaks so I can watch my blood run over my broken reflection. And how when I was four, I wished my dad would hurt me when he was angry, instead of fighting with my mom, cause if my parents didn't fight, we could be a happy family, even if I was in pain? And how I lived in my head, for 15 years of my life, watching everyone else live, and trying to make it all better, and how my mind tortured me?" I watch the blood clot and scab over the cuts on my fingers, and I lap at the blood in my palms, listening to see if I can hear you breathing over the phone. But nothing answers. Emptiness. I hang up the phone, and practice being me, and practice my act, again.


Círdan: O_o...One word, THERAPY.
Me: Shaddup.
Círdan: You KNOW I love you!! *hugs Mel* Aww, my ickle Mellikins.
Me: Get OFF me!!! That wasn't about you.
Círdan: *looks hurt* Okay, that's okay, I'm used to being alone... *goes into the closet. Muffled sobs are heard*
Me: Please R&R, my loving audience!