Cactus Thorns

When my Abuelo Corona died in the sixth grade, it was cold. His Rosary was set for Super Bowl Sunday, which in those days used to be in January. I remember hearing the news from my grandmother on my mother’s side. My grandfather, the last one I had - because, really, we only get two - was now meeting the other one in Heaven. I sat in bed for a little while to digest the news. It was strange, really. Only three grades ago I was at my grandfather’s (Mom’s dad) funeral. Now was the time to bury my father’s father.

I put on my scuffed shoes and went outside into the back yard, which is much different now. Up against a fence, rusted over, was a cactus patch. The thorns struck out like quills. With pluckers, I took a few out and stuffed in them in my shirt pocket. I brushed the cold soft earth from my knees and stared at the patch. They towered above me, the cacti. And they been allowed to live, they probably would have surpassed me in height forever. I pulled a thorn out and smelled it, making sure not to let the sharp part prick me any. After my brief inspection, I stuck it in my mouth and let it dangle there. It made me feel strong - why? I don’t know.

“Mijo,” his voice sounded familiar. He’d call me that all his life and would continue it to this very day. “Mijo.”

Most sons would rejoice over this. I didn’t. It felt strange and fake. I wasn’t his son more than I was anyone’s son other than my mother’s. She had been the one who raised me. Who taught me wrong from right. Who said men never run away. And yet, he did.

I turned on a heel and looked at him. My face had been puffy from crying earlier. My eyes reddened. I wasn’t  his son and he wasn’t my father, ‘apa, or whatever you want to call him. He was just the man who decided only to pop into my life whenever it convenience him. I spat the thorn from my mouth and allowed him to hug me. His clothing smelt of cigarettes and alcohol, father’s cologne. His hugs were awkward. There was hardly any emotion in them. His hands, used to sooth me by disheveling my hair, were rough and dry. Oil stained with crud in the finger tips. This, I believe, is why I don’t hug. The emotion’s hardly there.

He asked if I was doing fine. He asked if I was doing well. I answered. Lied. I didn’t want him to know that I had been born broken. That there were thoughts up in my head that weren’t supposed to be there. That I only did the things I did - the reason I read and wrote so much was to escape the world I was never meant for. Instead, I muttered a fine and explained my reason for being outside. The thorns, you see, brought comfort later on when I was alone and two or three were sticking into my flesh. The rush of ecstasy that flowed through me was almost orgasmic. I longed for it. It was my embittered medicine.

Three years later, my grandmother (Mom’s mom) died. I stood outside, again in the cold, at looked at the cactus patch. The thorns seemed smaller than I remembered, but I went to work anyway, plucking out only a few. The pain didn’t do what it normally did. It didn’t bring me the joy it has those three years ago. In fact, it only brought me a miserable sense of hatred.

I don’t cause pain to myself anymore because pain doesn’t work. Though now, I wish that cactus patch was still in the backyard.

We All Deserve to Die

I have been having this ongoing dream where I’m killing myself after killing some unknown person. I think my mental health is on a decline and I don’t trust myself around pills, plastic bags, razors, knives, anything that I can use to end myself. I hate being this weak. And while I’ve become kind of recluse by force, I’m thinking of going to this event on Saturday. I’m not sure how I’ll get there - this is where new friends should come in play. Sadly, I can’t make new friends because I lack that ability and chance. I’m not sure. I want to go because it’s something I’ve never done before, but am I only doing it because Jyg is living a new life without me? And what’s with this jealousy? Suddenly I’m looking at photos of her in short skirts and thinking that other guys are ogling her like they would a slut. My emotions are rampant. Something has snapped.

The fates are vicious and they’re cruel
You learn too late you’ve used
Two wishes
Like a fool

And then you’re someone you are not
And Junction City ain’t the spot
Remember Mrs. Lot and when she turned around
And if you’ve got no other choice
You know you can follow my voice
Through the dark turns and noise
Of this wicked little town

I think this sick city is eating me alive. I’m sure it is. It’s like a putrid cancer that latches to our minds/souls and sucks them drive. We are prisoners of our own private hell. Those of us who do go north wind up in Austin, where we just pollute it without ignorance and apathy. We are a horde of emotional vampires, or zombies, pick your choice. We won’t stop until everyone is just like us. And as long as I’ve known myself, I’ve known there are about two people in this world that I’ve met - the black holes and those of us who get sucked into their world. I’m afraid I’m becoming to believe I’m a dying star.

And soon I will devour everything there is to devour. And I’m sure that things will get better as they say, but when the only person who has ever made you felt normal no longer wants to deal with the shit that your life comes in store, then you feel that the rest of the world is worthless. And now I’m thinking what the point of living this life is because I can’t see it any longer.

I damned her earlier. I damned her for her confusion. Damned her for her drinking. Damned her for her friends. Damned her for all things that have befallen on me by her. And yet I cannot hate her, throw her out. I’m her slave, I’ve realized. The pathetic dog who waits around. I’ve hated the weak my whole life and now I’m one of them and I hate myself for it. If I could, I cut the very heart out of my chest and lay on the ground so that the world may stomp on it.

You think that luck has left you there
But maybe there’s nothing
Up in the sky but air

And there’s no mystical design
No cosmic lover preassigned
There’s nothing you can find
That cannot be found
’cause, with all the changes you’ve been through
It seems the stranger’s always you
Alone again in some new
Wicked little town

So what now? I’m not humanisticly suicidal, just off the wire, I suppose. For five years, I was balanced and now I’m like that circus act. One man upon a unicycle with a table upon his hand, glasses towering high and trying to stay balanced. Because when those glasses fall and shatter, I’m not sure what I am capable of doing.

They all deserve to die.
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because in all of the whole human race
Mrs. Lovett, there are two kinds of men and only two
There’s the one staying put in his proper place
And the one with his foot in the other one’s face
Look at me, Mrs Lovett, look at you.

No, we all deserve to die
Tell you why, Mrs. Lovett, tell you why.
Because the lives of the wicked should be made brief
For the rest of us death will be a relief
We all deserve to die.