cardiomyopathy

Sisyphus holds my hand as I write this. He pushes a rock up an impossible hill, and I clutch his hand as he does, rolling my suitcase of expectations up that height. Control is a craving that itches my stomach, and the best way I can curb it is by a swig of a drink with friends who can be my enemies in just another misstep up that height I’m climbing.

My phone never rings from home, and my friends exist one year ago, living and laughing with me in my head. They giggle at the ridiculous moments and the hilarious shenanigans, and cry in those moments where it hits me that there truly is no one to laugh with me. There’s an anonymity to who I am in university, a double edged sword that lets me begin anew, but also sometimes shrouds me like a bed sheet ghost. Because what is it to be loved if it’s not to be known?

I’ve started imagining myself as a bloodied, mangled dog - and it howls at you. There’s a desperation and sickness to it that I hate, but I’ve also always wanted to mother the unloved. And trying my best to love, I end up scratching the hands that try to feed me, and we find ourselves careening down the same paths again. Hyena eyes haunted with a pathetic passion to be wanted that is so visible that he knows that I’ll fall at his feet for a crumb of attention. I try to love people the best ways I know how to, and when my saviour complex kicks in for the wrong ones, I let myself be the collateral damage. Because at the end of the day, it’s what I am. Damage.

There’s a goodness around me, and it glows yellow with hope and purity. I can’t be letting my rotten soul degrade that beauty around me now, can I? So, I go ahead with my days, putting lipstick on to my mangled horror of a face and pretend. I’m scared of what happens when my new friends see through the cracks and see the horrible black mould that makes me how I am - a sick girl with a sick mind and an agenda. The barrel of a gun down her mouth because maybe that will crave the lack of affection of my lips. A truly horrible sight to see.

There’s sighs in my heart and blood on my fingers where I pick on my nails. The ache in my chest is unforgivingly cruel and I call it cardiomyopathy to make it clinical - to pretend that it is not happening to me right now. Another word lost in the sea of words I drown myself in to create a blanket around myself, letters doing their best to hug me since I haven’t hugged my best friends and I’m not sure if I will any time soon. There’s a stupidity in the track of tears running down my face for a boy, who doesn’t care about it. The dog howls again, a pained cry just to chosen. Holding out scraps of smiles and honeyed words are enough to work on me because even a poisoned tart is heavenly to a hungry animal like me. I’m an open wound and he’s the open packet of salt that I let pour into me willingly.

It’s 9:59 pm and I sit in a room where the walls have seen laughter from a type of bond so new yet so magnetic. And within these walls I let myself cry again. I’m lost and there’s packages to collect and dishes to wash and syllabus to complete. And when the delivery boy asks me my home address, I hesitate longer than I should.