I watch her. I watch her and my heart shatters for her. I am horrified at her behavior. She had taken a turn for the worse, seeming a disease secreteing from all she was. Diffused from her mind alone where she lived at all times of late. Locked up so tight and I was the only one with keys to open it. She fell so far with only I to hold her up and believe you me, I never wanted that to be the case. I wanted her to arise and the strength in her wings to take her far above the feeble minded . She was a butterfly, newly emerged from her chrysalis. She would disagree and call herself a hideous brown and black moth with no purpose further than to irritate those unfortunate enough to accidentally let her in there comfort zone. I sat next to her in her car. I watched her angrily snap at anyone unfortunate enough to belie her demands. I wished she could see me so that she could see the vexed expression on my face. I wasn't angry. It just hurt me that she was hurting and letting go. But, alas, there was nothing I could do...yet.
Maybe I'm so bold to think she couldn't live without me. Maybe there was too much dependence. At any rate, in spirit, I stayed near. I hoped to comfort her. She had reverted to a primal, aggressive state. she could still speak in complete sentences, but the heart was disconnected. Too much pain associated. She went to school and home and nowhere else. She painted black on her eyes and lips and donned her face white. She had died. She wore black always. Never even grey. Always black. she was a telephone, hanging off the cord by a mere circuit. One snip away from losing it completely.
She had killed herself from the inside and was working on the out. She never ate. She mumbled and darted her eyes in paranoia, like a psych patient searching for things they see that aren't there. She makeshifted a lock on her bedroom door, previously without a lock, to keep herself in. Or others out. She slept in fits of nightmares. Mumbling to herself that she killed her Psyche. I'm not sure she was speaking of her mental state, since she would cry over and over "Psyche, my baby" and screams to follow. Her parents could not detain her. She could control herself but she was the only one who could. That's when problems arose. She didn't speak to anyone. Not even her precious little sister whom she loved more than most. She totally cut off and it frustrated me. Death was eating her hope and joy.
"You gave me hope that I'd not lost her
And then thought it rather strange to see me smile-
as I don't do too much smiling these days."
Love never seemed a dimmer light. What is life and what is light? I don't know anymore. I hear nothing but static screaming in my head now. My own voice betraying me, deafening me to any other sound. Adelaide is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Everything dies. Everything good just dies. and nothing can be done. If she doesn't pull through this week, they're pulling the plug and packing her away like a toy in a box never to be seen again. I've become a wretch. I don't look in mirrors anymore. They frighten me now. I don't let people touch me anymore. It feels like barbwire to my flesh. I don't hear anything sweet any longer. The static remains and I am just as dead as she. I hate her. She left me. She wasn't strong enough and I hate her for it. And at the same time, I hate me for hating her. Because I know it's not her fault. Hate, hate, hate. All is full of hate and mourning and nothingness.
Maybe one day. But no. Hope is false to. "Lies of priests and poets."
they can all go to hell.
