XWF∞

ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ

A Radical Production 

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Upside-down is a hell of a way to look at a room. You turn your head trying to decipher what looks different when it's right-side up. My tenor in XWF was a lot like that. Every time I turned my head to get a better glance, my neck would strain from all the bullshit, and I'd be looking at shit cockeyed while the blood drained to my head again. Funny- I never imagined in a million years I'd be back in it in any form, much less a better one. Scabs on my knuckles tell just as much of a story as the cuts do. Blood might be fresher, but the hardening texture of old only serves to remind me of where I've been; instead of where I am. In the back of my mind it all seems like a bad dream. Did my father actually abuse my brother and I? Why did Dale turn out just like him? Did my wife really die at the hands of some... murderer? Cobwebs cover the details, but the real web is spun by the spider I have living deep inside. The one that poisons my mind when the insecurities of what I could have done differently to save her crawl back in. Or to save my brother from becoming- GODDDD DAMNITTT! I've been hanging in this position for far too long.

No one is coming to save me.

Why would they?

What started as running from myself has accumulated to a sum of divisions.

Divide and conquer as they say. No foot speed can make up for guilt sinking its unforgiving fangs into an already punctured heart.

I become weaker with each passing moment. The enigmatic radical a shell of steaming burnt up ashy mess.

What if I wasn't? Could I muster the wherewithal to be great again?

I'm not special. Depression isn't a torn up cape to hide behind when the world is in danger. She wasn't the first love of someone's life to be taken too soon. I sound so selfish. I am not the reason Dale went from bully to abuser to the unspeakable. So why are these tears running from my tear ducts down my hanging forehead and dripping into the puddle? People cry for lots of reasons. This ball of grief is more than their collective demise. It's about losing my edge. What made me the erratic motherfucker no one wanted to cross. That crossfire would catch flesh and rip through it without leaving scabs like these. Just an empty vessel left limp of whoever decided to run their mouth that week. I am not the be-all end-all of human emotional stability. Shocker, I know. What I am, though, is someone with nothing left to lose. I am dangerous. Now if I can just stop running to nowhere...

No one can get me down from this but me.

This scab's gonna fucking bleed.