This world is too much for me.
Its demands are suffocating, they squeeze,
the air out my lungs,
grasp my veins,
so that the blood stops flowing.
The words other people utter,
are nothing but meaningless, trivial thoughts that deafen me,
scream through the tunnels of my ears, tearing the hairs to that point where it’s not
enough to remove, but just enough to cause pain as if they’re being ripped out over
and over and over and oh god, it’s all too much.
They stare and laugh and argue and my body shudders in response. The
neurostimulation I desire is non-existent – nobody understands that my heart aches
not for another person, a soulmate, a love so strong that it could overcome the world
but for freedom, breathing effortlessly without having the air catch at the back of my
throat as I choke on the collection of my own saliva that refuses to trail my
oesophagus no matter how much I swallow. It’s painful, so painful, the dull ache that
follows me regardless, fills my stomach like wet concrete fills a pathway but the
cement never dries. It slips and slides around my insides, furthering discomfort within
until my legs cave in on themselves and I’m left crouched on the floor, dirt
surrounding me and everyone else above me, looking down as a physical form of
hierarchy. They ask, “are you alright?” like a stranger in the street does and it makes
me roll my eyes, an action so pathetic and hate-worthy yet unstoppable because
after all they’re all so clueless and the question in itself is more of a statement, an
acknowledgment of new presence in a room, and not a genuine care for another soul
and their well-being, and the word “smile” is the worst word I’ve ever heard, I want to
choke the word to death so that it’s never uttered again and my faceless face
remains happily solemn without your unnecessary evaluation. What gives you the
right to evaluate my life? For the love of God, you’re nothing but flesh and bones
rotting ever so slowly, destroying the earth some more just like the rest of us. How
dare you tell me what I’m worth? And simply because my right and left brain don’t
communicate correctly, or maybe my muscles don’t receive the messages, so my
cheeks remain flat and colourless, lacking the usual upturned corners decorating
flush lips. Instead, bloodshot eyes scar my face and blistered ink mixed with old
wounds scatter my arms, adding to the overall disarray of my moods which fluctuate
between desperate and depressed. And I’m sorry, so sorry that I don’t satisfy you
because I can’t fake a smile. I dissatisfy myself too.
– Morgan Adams
This piece was written as a spoken word poem.