The archive of the forgotten

atlas is out of words

Trigger warning: Sadness, bad mental health and things that could be seen as....ungodly or smth

I take a deep let myself slip untill my whole head is encapsulated in the water. I breathe out and listen to the air bubbles as the escape my lips. Push myself out of the water and take a breathe. The warm bathwater caresses my painful skin. I grind my teeth and close my eyes in order not to try to open my scars again, I catch myself scratching them when I am nervous, sometimes even succeeding in making me bleed. I look down at my hands and wonder why my skin looks see through, why I seem to be able to see my own skeleton, I wonder if I am a ghost. A red drop falls into the water, I frown and touch my upper lip, it's my nose again. It has been bleeding constantly, probably because of the dry weather, I chuckle, the weather hasn't been that dry right? I spit out the blood flowing to the back of my throat and watch as it spreads through the warm water. I smile, almost grateful to see blood, grateful I can see supposed pain without hurting. Whithout hurting? Be realistic Atlas!

I dry my hair and look at my own reflection, the blood coming from my nose makes me seem even whiter, I must confess I have been thinking about cutting off my hair. I don't recognise myself at all, so maybe it would make me feel better when I couldn't recognise him at all. As if I am not looking myself in the eyes, as if I am another man in the eye. Maybe than I wouldn't feel this alienation, this pain, this agony. I tie my hair up in a bun and look at myself before flipping myself off in the mirror. Why does this guy look like he is taunting me?

I light my cigarette while I walk towards my bedroom, my nose still bleeding but I am simply holding a tissue to keep it from getting messy, my dark formal shirt with very modest while graphic outlines of stars only half buttoned and messily tucked in. My tight black jeans (which I hardly ever wear to be frank) accentuate my strangely long and thin legs, the wooden floors feel cold as my feet, which almost seem blue because I am cold, softly walk over them. I open the door to my room and lock it as soon as I am inside, I walk to my desk, an unfinished poem is laying there, ready to be admired. I scoff and crumple the useless piece of paper. I grab a glass I still have here and pour myself a glass of whiskey. I look at the clock, yes, it is still two o'clock. I shrug, it must be five o'clock somewhere as I down the glass.

I close the curtains as the sun tries to cheer me up and sigh as I only put on the light on my nightstand, I try to manage the light as best I can, but today everything hurts. My skin, my bones, my stomach, my eyes, my lungs, my muscles, my brain, my head, my fucking skull if that is possible, my whole being. I breathe in the toxins I have come to rely on, to love. I let myself fall on the bed and sit up to pour myself another glass. It tastes heavenly, it tastes like an escape, I wonder whether I could kill myself with it, I chuckle, but that means I have to feel so many emotions before my body finally....gives up. I wish I could drink myself to death without feeling emotions. I close my eyes and when I open them again a tear rolls down my temple. I sit up and take out my bun, my eye falls on my nightstand. I look at the letter from the hospital, they can't garentue I can try those new medecines.....my only fucking hope. I grab my lighter and hold it dangerously close to the letter. I hesitate, can I burn this? Or would that destroy more than I'd think? I begin to cry, I feel like I have no say in my life. I do not need much to be aware of living but I must have the illusion of being somewhat in control. I lack so much control, in my life, in my body, in my memories, and in my mind

It feels so.....I can not find the words for this nagging feeling, This feeling like it is eating your soul itself before beginning with your flesh itself. I hit my head for a few times, hoping to diminish the pain inside by hurting the outside (You might be surprised how effective it it). I need more control, I need more clarity, this reminds me of my life. The way you needed to listen to them, the way you did whatever they asked and later the way you were rejected, or accepted. The way you needed to fit the mold of the family you were currently at, you needed to be the perfect one for whoever decided you could be perfect. I was perfect for a few times, and discovered perfection doesn;t change the fact that you still are what you are. Damaged. I need clarity, I need the to be sure of so much. Because otherwise I will feel this same feeling over and over again. THe feeling my childhood has embedded in the very graphic of my sould, carved out there, into stone, that this is what I am, imperfect but even worse: Unwanted.

I scoff and tell myself to get over it, I stand up and sit down at my desk. I look at the simple thick book before lighting another cigarette burning myself in the process. I flip through the extremely thin paper pages of the bible. Every line I read makes me angry, It makes me feel misunderstood, no one seems to have these bad points, these signs of wekness, and if the do they seem to be.....a bad person, a sinner? It is like they were put through a filter and only the diamonds have survived, why must I be regular sand, perhaps pretending to be diamond. Such sanctimonious beings, I cannot believe there haven't been people led astray, good people, simply taking a wrong step. I put the bible away, frustrated with myself and my stupid hope, the hope of meaning. I cannot survive another type of judgement....

another poem it is. I think, still frustrate so I grab a pencil and a knife to sharpen it. I start, I cant help but be angry at myself, I feel tears in my eyes and wish I could express these fucking feelings, I wish I could scream for help, or even simply accept it, why can't I? Why am I so foolish. The carmine red of pain and accidental blood interrupts my thoughts. I inhale sharply, catching myself enjoying the pain....