tangled thoughts
© 2022 - sophie pennetzdorfer
1st edition
publisher: sophie pennetzdorfer
layout and cover design: gerald wahl
printing and distribution on behalf of the author:
mymorawa by dataform media gmbh, vienna
www.mymorawa.com
printed in austria
ISBN:
978-3-99129-972-1 (hardcover)
978-3-99129-974-5 (paperback)
978-3-99129-973-8 (e-book)
the work, including its parts, is protected by copyright. any use without the consent of the publisher and the author is inadmissible.
to the sad people and the lovers of the moon
pain turned into blood, blood turned into ink, ink turned into poetry.
and with poetry,
the pain was finally soothed.
i need it to hurt
and i need
the pain to end.
at what age
did we start feeling
this pain?
when did we start feeling
worthless and empty
and who made us feel such things,
who taught us
that we were not enough
by simply being ourselves?
when did we start to think
that the only way to be beautiful
is by covering our faces with makeup
and starving ourselves
until our bones are clearly visible
through our skin?
who made us stop thinking
and only care about our appearance?
at what age
did our soul start to rot
and why?
we were not pretty enough,
not perfect enough.
so we started to dress all in black,
turning up the volume
of our music far too loud.
we started to burn down our bodies,
slicing them up
like pathologists
who search for
a cause of death
we search for beauty
in the depths of our flesh
like it was something
that once went missing,
like maybe it’s still lying there
under layers of flesh, muscle and skin
that we have been taught to mistake for fat.
we don’t understand
that the damage that has been done
is in our brains.
in our soft and impressionable minds
there has been planted hatred
and a false idea of beauty,
of life.
there is
too much sadness
inside me.
i am death.
the way i can’t keep my plants alive,
how i forget to feed my guinea pigs.
the rope around my neck,
the blade kissing my skin.
i am misery.
the way i make my parents sad,
how i can’t keep friendships.
i destroy everything,
just look at my body.
i am pain.
my dull and dreary eyes
mirroring my withering soul.
my thirst for blood,
my longing for pain,
my craving to join the dead.
i wish
joy was as easy
to find,
to keep
as sadness and pain
maybe “lost”
is just a state of mind.
this darkness
is eating me
the monster inside my brain
is feasting on me
till nothing,
nothing
is left
and emptiness
fills the empty space.
am i more myself
or less myself
when a white bandage
is wrapped
around my arm?
am i more myself
or less myself
when a white bandage
is wrapped
around my arm?
you eat and you eat
in an attempt to fill
the empty hollowness.
you stuff your face
with everything you can find,
then you stop,
feeling ugly and fat.
you are disgusted
by yourself.
monster.
you run to the toilet
and empty your stomach
to the bowl.
you feel defeated,
ashamed of yourself.
you promise
that you will never eat again
because it doesn’t fill
the emptiness,
because it just makes you
disgusting and fat.
you can already see
the double chin forming,
your thighs swelling
the rolls on your stomach
getting more and more,
bigger and bigger,
till you’re suffocating
in your own fat.
when you go to the bathroom
at school
you stare at the floor,
you close your eyes
when you’re on the toilet,
careful not to open them
so you don’t have to see
your fat, fat body.
you are staring at the sink
while washing your hands
so that you don’t have to see
your face.
you don’t dare to look in the mirror,
afraid of what you’ll see,
knowing your reflection
will be ugly,
your dull and blemished skin,
deep purple bags
under your eyes,
getting darker and darker
with every night
you spend lying in your bed,
sleepless,
trying to fall asleep
but not being able to
because you are caught
in that vicious spiral of your own thoughts
that try to destroy you,
they destroy you,
destroy you.
your eyes grew dull over time,
the sparkle,
the will to live
that once embroidered them,
that once was a solid component of them
has vanished
a long time ago.
your once so vivid eyes
are now mirroring
your broken soul.
one can see your pain
shining through them,
this never-ending pain,
one can witness,
by looking into your eyes,
how it eats up your soul,
piece by piece.
soon nothing will be left.
your lips are dry and cracked,
they are bleeding
because you always bite them
when you are nervous,
when you are thinking.
of course,
no one would ever want
to kiss them.
this life,
this pain,
this sadness,
this emptiness
is slowly killing you.
it occurs to you
that, maybe, you were not made to be
happy,
thin,
pretty,
alive.
maybe you were made to
suffer
and die.
devoted to sorrow
and sadness.
and nothing more.
not meant to be alive.
meant to leave, not to live.
meant to die.
maybe the pain
is just a proof
that you are still
alive.
a prisoner of life,
caught in my own mind.
my thoughts are torturing me,
there is no way to escape
other than sweet, beautiful death.
- oh, how i am longing to be free.
but i am locked,
i in my mind,
my mind in my body,
my body in this world.
i do have the key, though.
the key to the doors to freedom,
to eternal freedom and peace!
all i have to do
is unlock three doors
- three doors to be opened, till I can escape -
with the key – a thin, shiny, sharp blade.
the skin
the flesh
the artery.
carefully, i unlock the doors;
i open them all
with one matching key,
one matching key for all three.
as i open the very last door,
a river unleashes, pulsating,
- the river of life -
and rushes out of my body.
in that river, i shall drown.
all the life, all in red flowing out of my corpse.
my body’s set free from this world,
my mind is set free from my body,
and i am set free from my mind.
sweet, sweet death,
no life, no more!
no more life like the one before.
the end.
freedom, no more prisons to escape from.
peacefully, i drift away.
my thoughts keep circling and circling
around things that i cannot change.
my mind is restless, thinking
-i think that’ll never change.
thinking too much,
thinking too little,
not being able to think.
too many words inside my head,
too many emotions to feel.
i am not capable of living this life,
-i don’t think i have ever been.
veins and stretch marks
-like roots- expanding over my body
but the roots are not rooting,
don’t provide the hoped-for support.
like a picked flower
without her roots
i wait for death to come.
for years and years
death keeps me waiting
-can’t it just all end right now?
maybe the roots
are rooted in my mind,
maybe it’s my mind that’s the soil,
but flowers can’t grow
on rotten soil
and rotten my mind is, too.
i don’t know what’s worse:
having to live
when you want to die
or having to die
when you want to live.
so much anger,
so much sadness,
too much to keep inside.
so many feelings and hate!
towards myself,
towards this world.
cruel, gruesome life!
sweet the one who brings relief,
-sweet, sweet death!
but where is the border from life to death?
how to differ between those two?
you read and you read, trying
to get absorbed
into the story
so as to forget to worry
about your own thoughts
that cause so much pain.
counting
one,
two,
three.
will eight pills suffice?
surely not.
more.
three more.
how many sleeping pills are left?
only two.
i take them as well.
i search for any medication i can find.
a handful of pills
-i place them in my mouth, carefully, as if they were sweets.
they taste bitter, but death is sweet, so i take them.
i savour every single one of them.
i wash down the pills with a gulp of delicate water
-so sweet like nothing i’ll ever taste again.
my ticket to escape,
my ticket to death.
sweet, sweet, bittersweet death.
sleep, eternal, peaceful sleep.
outside the moon is shining.
it dips my room in cold, silvery, white light.
the pills will end this pain.
i go to bed, cover myself with my blanket.
a notebook with quotes by virginia woolf is lying
beside me.