razor blades

You dumb son of bitch. You stupid motherfucker. You set 'em up and you knock 'em down. And George Santayana once said, "Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it." And you are the repeat. The rerun. You know the dialogue verbatim. All the stage directions.
You used to listen to Springsteen's Nebraska on the record player and take those razor blades (Red Devil was the brand, no joke) and slice your skin like a pen to a clean, blank page, but you got "help" and stopped the blood. Now the self-mutilation is hidden; the maiming is emotional and easy to disguise. No bandages. No long sleeve shirts to hide those salty red lines. Now the razor blades reside in your heart, your needs, your desires. Your useless and pathetic needs.
You're such a needy fuck. Why is that? Mother loved you too much, that's why. When you were a little boy her protection was golden and just what you needed but now you're a bitter old man at the age of 27 who falls apart at even a hint of rejection. You'd come home from school in tears because some kids made fun of you and there she was: mom, with some words, a hug and a kiss for your wet cheek. Right now you feel slighted and forgotten and you're shaking your head thinking, Not again...No, not again.
Remember those home movies from long ago? Before mom and dad divorced? Before mom remarried too soon and started drinking too much? Before sister fell apart? Before you saw dad cry for the first time? Yes, those home movies where you craved for attention. There you were: a little boy with a stuttering problem, wanting everyone to see you, listen to you, wanting to feel like you were needed. Ha Ha, there's that word again - need. And here you are, that little boy, trapped in a man's body looking for words of comfort and a kiss for your hot cheek. This wet whiskey is hugging you warm and inside those curls of cigarette smoke are words, floating up and away, away from you.
You are on repeat and you will make this mistake once again and again and again and...Some girl will come along, somehow, and you'll open your parachute too soon. You'll display the colors of your heart and she will push you away, away from you. You will want to crawl back into that plane and unpack your parachute but it will be too late; you've already jumped. You will slowly float down to earth with chute unfurled and tears in your heart and wonder, What happened? You will land in a desolate field void of everything and everyone and gather your chute and walk - somewhere - away - but never away from yourself. You're trapped with the razor blades of need and desire and wish and word and regret - and you're bleeding all over the place.

mc