Whisper

• by PrussianPersephone, Jan 25, 2013, 5:28:41 PM
• age 17

I want to create an aromatic sea of jasmines
and stardust mountains of silver and —

No.

Inkblot skeletons with paper mache
hearts, whose bones shall burn with one glance at the
sun; gravestones of blood diamonds and tears of thistles...

Harp strings ringing in grotesque harmony, screaming
for slender fingers to pluck and caress with devotion.

I want to write

gods

and

chaos.

-

• by PrussianPersephone, Feb 22, 2013, 9:02:34 AM
• age 17

My mind
just can't 
seem to

s h u t   u p.

Too many "fuck you's" 
that morph into 
"I'm sorry's" 
drip off this 
dagger-tongue 
like acid.

Monster.
Grotesque.
Liar.
Erratic.

Try and make it better. Fail. Try again. Break down.

So many faults
that seem to just
turn me into someone
I'm not.

Look into the mirror. See nothing but a clone. Fabrication. No longer me.

I stare and want
to break that glass
so that I can also
b r e a k.

Try and say something. Turns into nothing but rage. Take it out on you.

This shattered heart
only wants to make it
better
and become one again.

"I want to hate you."
"But I can't."
"So I hate me instead."
"But why won't this stop?"
"Why can't you make it stop?"

Stop.

Breathe.

Think.

"...it's not my fault."

Say what you want to say. Honest brutality. 

"H E L P   M E"

No.

It's time for me to

s h u t   u p.

—whisper—



_{...I'm sorry.}

Mirror, Mirror

• by PrussianPersephone, Aug 18, 2013, 1:05:39 PM
• age 17

I can't stand the sight of my reflection.

Every time I see her, I cringe. Look at her - the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the slumped shoulders, the half-empty gaze that stares back at me. She's disgusting. She's a monster.

She's me.

But is she real? Am I real?

I don't know.

Maybe she's the real one and the reason she looks the way she does is because she always sees me and is terrified that something horrible will happen. Maybe I'm the real one and I'm terrified that she's going to let that something occur.

Or maybe we're just the same person and I'm letting my thoughts become too unraveled. There's no such thing as another side to a mirror. It's just a piece of glass that reflects that which is in front of its surface. But then again, what do I know? Not much, if I'm being completely honest. 

There are times where I'll pass my reflection and stop, stare at her, and the urge to do nothing more but take her hand and say I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything I've said to her and everything I've threatened to do. She doesn't deserve those words. I do. Not her. 

I'd like to think my reflection wants to protect me. She doesn't want me to know what's happening on her side of the mirror. Whether it be better or worse than mine, she doesn't want to upset me. Because she is still me and deep down, she loves me for who I am - even if I myself can't seem to share the same sentiments lately.

The few times I do manage to catch a glimpse of something beautiful in the mirror, I have to pause for a moment. 

This is me. I shouldn't be loathing her - me - like this.

Maybe she feels the same and the reason I'm so damn afraid of my reflection is because she knows what needs to be done and I'm too stubborn to listen.

So I suppose I'll keep trying, if only for the sake of my reflection.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...who's the realest of us all?

It's not hatred, it's incredulity.

• by PrussianPersephone, Feb 18, 2014, 9:41:10 AM
• age 17

when i was ten years old my
teacher asked the class,
"if you were god, what would
you change?" 

and i remember
biting my lip so hard
that it bled. carefully,
i wrote about
how i would teach 
kids from an early age on how to
love yourself and no one 
else and that there is no such thing as
an almighty power that will pity
you and answer your desperate prayers
at three a.m. because you're the only one
who has that kind of control.

when i handed it in she just looked
at me like i was the 
monsters under
her child's bed. the next day i
was sitting in her office wondering
why it was so wrong to
talk about what's in your heart at a catholic
school when that's what the priest tells
you to do at every sunday mass and
the teacher asked me
another question, "do you 
hate god?" and i
wanted to scream "yes, yes!" because
how can a god let the world
slip through their fingers like this one has?

but instead i answered,
"no. i just don't think there is one."
and sat in the chair, 
staring at the cross on the wall and
wondering what would happen if we all
just stopped breathing.