Please tell me it’s all in my head. I don’t want to think bad about you.
- You're so fresh everyone asked the cook what just came out the oven.
I wanna rip my own face off
I’m feeling absolutely filthy tonight, particularly violent, and when I say I want to rip my face off I mean it with the best of intentions. After all, underneath is who I really am and underneath that is something that my “proper mind” cannot comprehend. Its true form is unknown but the mind can make all sorts of comparisons to wild animals and beasts of raging, viscious, vile methods; the true self knows the evil lurks and restless killer thirsts for blood, for purchase, for some way to scratch an itch; and the innnermost savagery, well, it scratches at the walls of its cage and clammors at any speck of light as if the existence of that allowance into its world was a weakness to exploit.
It’s almost easy to shut down, to stop, be unaware and hope the beast quiets out of exhaustion and prowls waiting to try its luck again. The walls that cage it are filled with fresh claw marks and bite marks where that dark and dismal dog knaws at the doorknob, where the chimera shrieks an awful distorted call that echoes, where frustrated primate shreds its bedding and pounds on the floor. I’d rip myself open if it’d stop, but what would become of my world once that terrible thing was let loose?
When that thing is restless and particularly poisonous, the soul feels infected and molding as if its turned sour as month-old milk. It in turn makes the body ache and burn and curdle disturbingly even frothing from grungy hate inside. The minds turns over the thought, the inkling, a sliver of a whisper which triggered the whole of it; the body is just a host to acid and bile and chemicals churning deep in the chest and gut.
It makes the outer me want to rip my face off and scream and bleed and tear at the walls until I’m sore and tired and torn open. With my insides now my outsides can’t I just pick out the thing that roars, rattles the cage, make the darkness that much darker? I’d smash it like a slimey silverfish under thumb, crunch its shell like a conniving cockroach, and smear it on the ground until it wasn’t recognizable anymore. Oh yes, I’d really like that.
I hope the threat was enough because I can feel that ugly usurper retreating and I’ll put another layer of locks on the door, more padding on the walls, and close more doors behind me as I move towards my outer self.
I wish I was my inner self but that’ll have to happen a step at a time, when I finish ripping off my face. My fake face, the face that was made for me and I had accepted as my own when I didn’t know better.
I’ll fix that now that I do know better, one layer at a time.