She’s Alive

​” The late at night drunken rambles of a twenty-something going through a quarter life crisis. “

By Mikey Athearn

She disappears when she least expects it. In the calm, quiet moments of the morning she feels herself fade away. There is nothing to ground her. There is nothing to keep her in the moment. She is beyond herself in these moments. She is transcendent. She is nothing. In the pale light of almost day she breaks apart. There is no longer a burning in her flesh. There is only nothingness. In her deepest soul she craves those moments. She needs them to survive. “I am nothing.”

She stands in the middle of her empty apartment and laughs. She laughs for the lovers she left and the lovers she lost. She laughs for those who are dead and those who are soon to die. She is hysterical. Her laughter breaks through the still nights and wraps around her. The laughter is her only comfort. It caresses her skin and kisses her damp eyes. She laughs harder at the tender touches. Her sides ache and her breathing is haggard. Still she laughs. She laughs for her past and laughs at her future. She laughs for all of the times she cried and for all the times she felt helpless. The laughter hurts which makes her laugh more. She is only laughter. “Let me tell you a joke.”

She never gives her love out gently. It has to be torn from her like a piece of flesh. She fights it at every turn and grins when it is finally given. Her love is not a good thing. It is a promise of future pain. Her love is a disease that eats everything alive. It is chaos in an emotion. It is a quiet poison in the night. Her existence revolves around turning her love into an ugly beast. It is the reason for death and the reason for her life. Her love is not pretty. “I love you.”

She feels it burn inside of her like a disease. The pain is unbearable but it is the only thing keeping her alive. She hates herself. She hates everyone around her. The world is spinning so fast and she cannot stop it. She has lost control. Her feelings aren’t her own. Her thoughts aren’t her own. Her heart beats but she feels nothing at all. She cries out, hoping that someone will hear. There is nothing. There is only her hollow voice in an empty room. She prays for death but hopes for life. Her existence is at an impasse. “Sometimes I feel like letting it all go.”

It starts in her chest, like the prelude to a panic attack that will never come. It grips her heart and injects itself into her bloodstream. She feels it spread throughout her body, taking over everything that she is. The feeling is complete; the need to destroy something so utterly that it can never be loved again. She stares at her reflection in shattered glass and sees the breaks on her own face. It is ice through her veins and fire in her eyes; the bile on her throat and the venom on the tip of her tongue. The moment is pure, primal, serene, disgusting, terrifying, beautiful, and consuming. That is the moment when the mask is gone. Her essence is on the surface and it calls for blood. “I feel like doing something destructive.”

She wants to rip her heart out of her chest. She wants to hold herself out, bleeding and naked, for everyone to see. She wants to scream and force people to look at her. Her heart is not pretty. It is dark and small. It has many cracks and bleeds at the slightest touch. Her heart is who she is. She wants it gone. She wants someone to finally see that she is slowly dying inside. Her heart is shrinking. Her heart is breaking. Her heart is in her hand and she wants nothing more than to crush it in her grip. “It wasn’t that important in the first place.”

She cries late at night. In the calm moments when no one is awake she lets herself go. There is nothing holding her back. She has nothing to hold onto. She is hurt. She is pain. She has betrayed those she loves and has lived selfishly. She doesn’t regret it so she hates herself more. She cries until she laughs. She has turned her back on everything she loves. It feels like ripping out her soul. She would do it again for eternity. “I am the worst thing that could happen to you.”

It is finally the day. She cuts her hair and burns her bra. She stops shaving her legs and wears short skirts. She runs through fields naked and screams at the top of her lungs. She fucks who she wants and stands up for herself. It is the day where she no longer cares. It is the day she lets go. It is the day that she is whole. It is the day she tears her heart from her chest and throws it at everyone. She is finally free. “I can no longer be touched.”

She doesn’t want someone to die for her. Dying is final, complete, absolution, an escape. If you really love her, live for her. If someone holds a gun to your head and asks where she is, don’t refuse to tell them and die. She doesn’t want that. Smile at them, then kick them in the shin. Tell them the wrong address. Give her up. Just don’t die for her. She can never love someone who dies for her. There is no point in loving someone who is dead. “I want to be alive.”