Before I Go Blank

Life has been pretty interesting so far.

I don't want to write everything. Just the basics.

I found my style of clothing, as expected. Ethereal or nothing. I don't wish to look like a human being — and I've been looking amazing for a while now.

Growing up, I never cared to look better than a loose t-shirt, jeans, a covered bathing suit, decent shorts, and a nice sweater. But looking good instead of shabby meant more peace. Especially from my mother. She would have just ended up controlling my looks as her own. She never wanted to claim a shabby-looking girl who was an embarrassment to the neighbors or distant family.

I'm only dressing up now that she's too old to want anything to do with me. Her words.

Same old sentence. I seriously love the silence. She should have done that since the day I was born. This silence is irreplaceable — and I'd go so far as to leave my mark the moment she even dared to enter my world. She has her place. It's not in mine.

She's not peaceful by default. A patho when it comes to benefiting herself and controlling the narrative — especially with her husband. Around him, she acts like a child caught by a parent. It's gross. I don't respect the raised voice. The childlike behavior. I remember she used to suck her thumb for comfort growing up. I always thought that was strange.

I think I should stop remembering here. I already have the shivers.

Like most men, her husband has a thing for helpless things that need him. She's unemployed, disabled, practically a cripple from poor health choices and knee issues — and in constant dependency on a mother who mentally wrecked her. My grandmother still supports the decision of her father molesting her and her sibling. Both girls. There shouldn't be any question as to why I don't care to speak with either of them.

It doesn't help that my grandmother is maliciously religious. Go figure. She got tricked into worshipping a man.

I resent everyone who kept making me go to church. I'm disgusted. And even when I went, no one taught about God — they danced like devils mid-possession. No wonder my earliest memory of church is fear. Crying through a glass door when I wasn't even waist tall. Wondering why I'd been left behind in a transaction that was never explained to me.

Not even a grandma is watching you now.

Just strangers who were there to pay money to the so-called body of Christ. Drink the blood of a complete stranger I never got to learn about. Open a page I didn't understand. No real food. Just my tiny body already feeling how things had gone wrong before they even started.

It's a good thing I stopped going before adulthood.

For some reason, everyone wants to be religious — and even when they pick one, it's never about the things that actually matter. Where is the god of wealth in a world that only cares about money? Where are the gods that actually matter? Not the blueprints for a money-grab scheme.

My mind is starting to go blank.

Maybe this is enough typing for now.