& also just being 23


Like Bruises

Woman won’t eat. She keeps on thumbing the purplish slices underneath her eyes, like a plum cut into quarters, sour with insomnia. 

I ended up in the backseat of my Dad’s car with a bottle of wine that you couldn’t yet see the bubbles in, through the glass. Pulling the tips of my nails off on my way to her house. It is strange, in the city we live in, to not pass an ocean, muted by the early evening. At her doorstep I felt rigid from the fluidless trip and we never hug each other in greeting, she had no idea.

I wish for earthquakes, sometimes, in the face of my own dishonesty, my own silence, my quiet ineptitude. If the walls fell down I could tell you I love you.

If the walls fell down I could tell you I love you.

Eat me raw.

Dreams For Days

In virtue of the slew of emails asking 1) If I am dead or 2) If I am near death, I’m all about jumping back on the bandwagon that is Toughnight and telling you all about my pretty feeble attempts at being an adult. Every day. Hopefully.
I went on a lot of dates and they didn’t amount to anything. I was never very good at following through.

I watched Fight Club again recently and Edward Norton reminds me so much of a mix between two boys that I once dated (not at the same time), that the film was ruined for me. Every scene was me reminded of their contracted, climatic faces. Reel it in, I think I would say to myself if I was sixteen looking at twenty-three. What’s that saying? Nobody wants to buy the icecream truck if you’re giving away the popsicles for free. Except that’s all I have, popsicles. Popsicles are a summertime novelty, something to eat on the street for everybody to see. It’s been raining for the past week, I’m inside of an overbearing Autumn with all of these goddamn popsicles.
I’m allergic to dairy, also.

I had a revelation regarding loneliness recently, I hope some of you have already gotten this, or not. I hope nobody else is lonely. It’s not the lack of human bodies in my life, of these I have plenty, sometimes it is awe-inspiring to think of all these lives going on around mine, intersecting each other like highway streets. Mine is perpetually undergoing road-works, maybe, but even the guys in the high-visibility vests aren’t saying it’s for the best, they have no idea what they’re doing. Regardless, I have these streets, so many streets I could go down if I felt the need but it is so rare for me to find someone I connect with.
The word ‘connect’ doesn’t convey exactly the meaning I am trying to. Of these few people I ‘connect’ with, one is a family member. Two are high functioning, only one shares my constant irregularity. And that’s it, at the end of the day (I’ve lost track of time though, so, when is that, really?). When I’m lying in bed at 1am with my hands thrumming against themselves and my body reeling with the shock of another wasted day, I have four people and only one of them isn’t likely to be sleeping.

Lonely – Sad because without friends or company.

Well, that’s not the word I am looking for, then, is it?

"My favourite tree was the Weeping Scholar Tree. I thought it must come from Japan. They understood things of the spirit in Japan.
They disemboweled themselves when anything went wrong."

Sylvia Plath - The Bell Jar

I Shouldn’t Say This

I want matte everything.
Matte lipstick, matte face, matte clothing, matte skin, so matte that the sun has no choice but to go around me and all these bitches hitting on my exes can look straight at me while I raise both unpainted middle fingers.

Nobody owns anybody else but I still want you to fuck me as if you do.