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About Deviant Member Caleb23/Male/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 10 Years
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I exist outside of concrete reality. I am not the sum of my parts. i am abstruse. I do not like secrets. And it's your fault.  

Don't tell anyone. It's a secret.

Secrets are meaningless.
Secrets are useless.
Secrets just end up hurting someone—or everyone.
Or you.

I can't hide the truth
Because I'm tired of hiding.

I only told you because I thought you'd care,
But I was wrong, you just wanted something to use against me

This is the truth.

Anxiety fractures through my mind. The newly-formed crevices refracturing light into opaqueness. And
when I look in the mirror I see these fractures reflected like shattered glass mosaics -- abstract.
you can't see through me.
you're part of the problem and you don't even know it. Or maybe you do. And that's even worse.
I am not even sure why, but I  don't like myself. And

I taste ash in my mouth


Devolution:  that's a good word.
I am devolving—and I don't even know into what I am unbecoming.  
I just know I am less than I was before.  
I am more broken;  less me.  
I am less,
and more,
and full of contradictions.
Like an abstract jigsaw, my edges have no reasoning.
I am not a uniformed pattern, there is no predictability.  
Volatile: another good word.
I am an unstable chemical.  
I am one reaction away from exploding,
or imploding,
or melting.  
Unpredictable, I am rapidly changing truths to lies and lies to truths.
Volatile memory, I lack the power to remember who I am.  
I am vaporous, transient.
I am stuck in-between betweens.

And Intrinsic intelligence only goes so far before it runs out of fuel and leaves you stranded in a desert with no way out and you have no choice but to die. And I used to think I was intelligent.

These definitions of me are a reemergence
after the submergence of my the fire of death.

And smoke swirls in the air.
The cool concrete pressed against my back.
I can still feel you
Your lips
You inside me
Your warmth.

I'm not good enough.

coals, smoldering
my organs turn to ash
I am burning from the inside out.
I have risen new but broken.

I'm done with secrets

so here is the truth.

i am gay
i don't like myself
any more than
my family would
if they could admit they know
Renewed Secrets
but no one is going to read this... so i guess it's still a secret
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore)
she started with cutting,

eventually, that wasn't enough,
she moved on to drinking.  
and then she turned twenty-one;

for some people,
alcoholic is a mild term.

and when getting drunk
was just a slight buzz,
she turned to the flame,
trying to sear away the pain,
the voices talking in her head,
(she won't tell me what they say)
and the "awful feeling
that won't go away,"
and the feeling she can't
or won't

"i can't describe it,
it's just the way it is."

and then, after the first burns had become
formed scars across her skin,
she smoked blacks
until nicotine flooded
her veins--
the same veins that used to bleed.

"i just want to do what I want"

how do you reason with someone
who doesn't know what reason is?

"i'm not worried...  
everyone else is worried."

no one listens to a broken record
now she won't talk with me.
You might as well know: I’m broken.
I don’t smile for the mirror—  

I see things differently than others, for instance:

I.  am.  fat.

I know I'm technically not but I’m still fat—
and anyway, who said technicalities matter?

I paint pictures over the reflection so I can’t see my image;
I've lost the ability—because apparently i can’t paint
since my reflection doesn’t look a damn thing like me;

my mind fractures, as inanimate objects whisper lies to me each day

and i need a new set of paint because i’ve used mine up while composing lies across unbroken glass,
smudged with steam from cold showers, i drink in the fog—
leaden lies drag me down
and my mind’s eye sees more perceptively than i’d like,

i’ve been using toxic paint, toxic paint, but the crimson on the counter...well, technically— that’s not paint;

and, apparently, i was wrong— technicalities might matter

because, after all, technically, you’ve never said you loved me,

and mirrors can’t tell lies.


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