Nothings going to change my world.

I'm sick and tired of just listening to songs or watching movies about someone else loving and wanting you and only you.
I want someone to make me feel like the world's prize possession.
I want someone to make me feel together and full again.
I want someone to hold me.
I want someone to get to know them and let me love them back.
But it seems as if that's fantasy because your crazy illusions of love will haunt me forever.
And your memory built walls shamefully crowning my head.
No one else is trapped in there, that awful, dark, disaster of a mind except me.
I'm all alone.

Photo by me.

I wrote a story.

Monsters. By Tara Brooky.

On any given, ordinary day there’s a new child that is opening their eyes and taking their first breaths.

Innocent and blissful they grow up learning about the harsh ways of the world. 

They turn into clones of everyone else with monsters trapped inside the plastic shell.

The clones march in a perfect line thinking of lies about pretty things to block out the scratching and screaming from the monster tearing up their insides.

After time, the plastic shell is bruised, dirty, shattering.

Most mend it with more plastic, praying the monster will be held.

No soul would dare to let the plastic fall to their feet and set the monster free. Let the monster whisper outrageous ideas into your ears. Let the monster consume you. Let the monster be you. But you do.

Now you are the monster.

Now you are a hideous, vicious creature. People stare at you because the unique things you do. And judge your odd looks and taste. 

You eat others up. They eat you up. You kill. You deceive. You misguide.

Then after a while, you get tired. Really tired. So tired you’re tired of being tired.

No one is beside you to break your fall because no one cares about monsters.

You lie on the ground and start to fade away.

As your ugly body disappears, your hope that another will come pick you up goes along with it.

The music hushes and you die. 

Who's this awful and lonely?

You look like the rain when it falls, the wordless books I read, the bare walls. That's why I stare at them so much, I want to remember your face.

It's been weeks since I've talked to you.
I've been so lame and uninspired my insides are being shredded from all this.

My throat is knotted around my heart so I can't explain any of my thoughts to you.
Or say a word, syllable, letter even too you with out collapsing in a disgusting fat mess I actually am.
We don't know each other any more.

"There's only two kinds of people in this world. There's saved people and lost people"–Bob Dylan
I'm so lost.
I'm not even sure if there is a me anymore.
Everyone seems to like split me open and to pick and choose which parts they want.

I wish I was a deer.
Maybe someone would shoot me before I do.

I miss you, I fucking miss you.
It really does hurt.
When you're all that's in my head body and you don't even give me a thought because you have ten other girls on your mind other than me you'd understand why I want to scream at you.

Something.

There was this hint of something.

I saw it flying around my head, confusing me, too fast to make out the details.

But I knew,

It was happiness.

      

I had hope.

 It left.

You left.

Every body left.

I'm attempting to escape without actually leaving.
But that's not how anything works.

Nothing helps, not music, not you.
You act like this small bad day was nothing.
Oh but you don't know how a small thing can burn everything else up with it.