De.vile puts up a show for herself

Erratic insanity. Strikes without warning. Once, twice, thrice. My bottom is red from the welts. I scream and scream at my body demanding release. I scream till my system shuts down and there is only an eerie silence in my head as the air around me fills with howls; so I think. I couldn’t be sure. I haven’t felt emptier. Radiohead sings about drunken horrors in a bar and I fish-mouth endlessly.

Once, twice, thrice. Is there ever a sign? A little forewarning? I wouldn’t be termed anything and I wouldn’t be ‘put aside’ but sometimes, imbalance is well, unsettling. I pull a book and throw it on the floor. It doesn’t satisfy. I lift it and let it fall on my leg, a little red mark is all I get. The Bonfire of Vanities. Can be utilized better, I realize. I smile meaning nothing. Nothing at all. After deliberation, I throw it against the wall, again. I watch as the pages crumble a bit. More harm, more harm. Grevious harm. Dirty book. Shitty book. Grevious harm. I jump on it weakly. Too much thinking. I stop, I pause.

Just as you take the mike, just as you dance, dance, dance.
I air-guitar with the chorus.

Swings aren’t explained emotionally. Their transience can only be expressed in actions. I take off my shorts and slap a thigh as I air-guitar. I slip on the book. I hurl it against the window.

Thom Yorke moans. I moan louder.
There isn’t enough exercise, here. This minute demands more exercise.

I scream and hit a yellow wall with my shoulder, thinking of the bizzare Yellow Wallpaper. It hurt, just a little bit. I broke just a little bit. I hit again, flinging my arms far and wide. My muscles stretch and identity itself, each little muscle, uncountable. But that isn’t necessary, to measure. I know each one without knowing which one. All of them painfully straining. Each one screams a little freedom, each one breathes as I stop.

I scream till I’m teary. I stop. The tears stop. My mouth contorts. More tears. I stop. Self-flagellation. This must be evil becuase I cant explain. I think about Poe’s Masque of Red Death. I dance.

Jigsaw Pieces starts again and I stop. I think it requires an entry. All turn of events deserve memory.