Flashback

28-06-10 1:40am

I’m stuck in this place where my depressed state somehow doesn’t equate
Like, pretty girls don’t dig their own graves at 19.
And maybe pretty girls don’t.

I am choosing to stay bed-ridden.
Induced sleep that doesn’t solve anything,
But you don’t know what my dreams are like.
Dripping with fantastic seduction,
Never-ending good moods.
Not just the fleeting moments of O.K that plant themselves into my week [like weeds with bright flowers].
I rip them out at night, expose their faults and flawed design.
Pick apart smiles that seemed so genuine at the time.

 I wish no ills on my enemies,
I don’t actually have any, so..
I just carry around their ills.
Offloaded on me at some party, someones house.
Pack-mule of a girl. 

————————————

The past doesn’t scare me as much as the prospect of a lazy future does.  

Slipping through and in-between

Me on taking pills for womens libido: “I hope I don’t go all animalistic on this shit”
And you: “You can hump my leg anytime you want”.

Last year feels like a lump in my throat. Like someone should have died. This year already feels like the first hint of a sneeze.

Sex is not an object, nor is lust or passion or the act of two bodies touching. I wish it were something I could inspect. Investigate the flaws I cannot seem to feel. How we can dwell, coupled, in the silence of sleep. The realisation and appreciation of seperate dreams to come. So, people do not actually sleep together, as such. We slumber completely alone.

Dreams may be the only thing completely your own. Something you could justifiably hold. Might as well be objects. Mine are all fucked. You have never been present in one. 

Standing in the middle of a supermarket aisle with fake tan all over your hands

REVELATION. Why do I waste my energy and thoughts on disliking myself, when I just realised I don’t actively dislike anyone else.

Sometimes I listen to myself laughing and think I sound like a little kid. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. But it’s something I bet other people would find fairly annoying.

Last year feels like this year. AND THERE GOES MY HEAD, IN LOOPS. IN WHEELS!

Girls will ruin your life. They will make you crazy and crawl into your skull without you noticing and thenlive there. Like a delectable parasite. They will decorate the inside of your mind in anyway they see fit. And soon all you’ll be able to think about is apple pies and checkered tablecloths.

Fuck yes, apple pie.

Because February Looked Like This

My cat and weighing 7 and a half kilograms – ‘WHY THE FUCK DOES EVERYTHING IN THIS HOUSE END UP FAT?!’

Skinned my knees on my floor again. Why won’t my body just do what it’s meant to. Stay clean and unscathed. Match your metabolism. The slope of your waist makes me involuntarily moan.  

Pharmacy counter. They probably think I’m in here for the morning after pill. That’s how early it is and how dirty I am right now.

I had a guy on the street offer a hug to me because he said I looked down. I would have said yes but I was almost 100% sure my dress had ridden up in my seat. He left looking down. I’m really sorry.

When I was fifteen, my knees constantly had marks on them, they looked like bruises. People would always ask what I had done and tell me how sore they looked. TRUTH : It was from kneeling in front of my mirror all night, every night.

Fixing flaws. Not fixed at all.

D is for delinquent.

When I would spend all my time in coffee shops by myself, ignoring pleas from friends. Writing and not once thinking of what I must look like, with my black coffee and cigarettes and notebook and streamlined pens [FAG]. Those were the hours I looked forward to. And yes, I did go to the library to research Art History. Because I did that in school and was top of my class. Not because I was looking into doing it at uni, like I told the guy that sat down next to me.

Think of something insane and write about it : Women sprouting vines from their fingertips.

The standards I keep are not standards often met. I had my mother on the phone rattling off ‘You can be picky’ while I’m curled into myself under second-hand duvets, the great unwashed. All the while I’m gazing at the muted television in front of my bed and thinking about who I fucked last night.

Something like my sister showing me her legs when I was thirteen. Something so dry-retch-inducing disturbing you scrape whatever you felt at the time to a place you literally cannot reach, yet the physical memory of the event still remains. But it’s not tangible. It’s like a photograph of a pained and posed situation with people you don’t know. How many memories do I have that have no emotional connections?

And why are people trying to tell me that’s a bad thing? Why would I want to remember and re-experience distress?

For once I fell for someone, not just the idea of how someone would be.

Distant & Frequent

Still sick, cancelling plans for my couch and soup. Cancelling plans in the hope you might just turn up. With biscuits to go with all the tea I’m skulling at the moment.

Wouldn’t mind your face on my shoulder in the bathroom mirror. Wouldn’t mind your body wrapped up in my sheets [probably dirty], then wrapped up in me. Definitely wouldn’t mind you wrapping my fingers up in yours, shielding even the smallest parts of me from the bitter winter wind we’re much too exposed to, in our second-hand clothes and my fingerless gloves. Holes in the soles of my socks, holes in fabrics, covered with other fabric with different holes.

Craving warm feet and dry hair for a day. Cataloguing the good times I’ve had this year like pinned butterflies on cork boards. All glittered wings and rare breeds. Never had a half year so full of random little shimmery titbits, like finding gold coins in the bottom of an old bag. Such is my life this far.

SHOT YOUR DAY DOWN

Standing in a bin in the loading zone outside my work, fishing through porn mags for girly ones. Which is worse? Dumbing down your brain with possibly made up sex stories and make up adds designed to make you feel bad or hyping up your bloodstream with probably made up sex stories and pictures of rippled men and toned females with legs spread and fake expressions designed to make you feel good, then bad. That shit doesn’t even turn me on. Lingerie adds are sexier.

In my head I’m playing an anagram game where the things I’m trying to say will come out mixed up into something completely different with the same amount of letters but with a different intonation and a completely changed reaction.

I did a bad thing, a lot. I’ve not seen pain like that so open and unyielding, like lifting the bonnet of a car and there’s just smoke and parts everywhere , fumes clogging up my system when I realise how broken you are.

Been cranking out the good lines all night to no avail, I still think about repeated words and realise how stupid I sound.

When we stop I still feel like i’m swaying, like spending hours on a swing set then trying to walk normally, some uncertain inertia that keeps me floating above the grass and cigarette ends while everyone else walks by, completely unaffected.

Scandal isn’t sexy, it’s just like filth that clings to your nails long after your hands are clean.

Drenched in thoughts of how fast this year is passing and how all the things I wanted to do and planned so hard for are just sifting through my cracked, dry-skinned hands.

Haven’t used your face for inspiration in a while. Making fun of other peoples’ laughs instead.

Somehow or another, at the end of most days I find myself with dirty fingernails. I rarely use my hands except for picking up coffee cups, clutching a bag to my side. Smoking, eating. Covering my teeth when I laugh. It’s like my fingers sneak around when I’m not looking and go searching for places to dig holes. I’m not surprised. There has to be at least one part that isn’t afraid to wander.

I think I’m a time of my life where I should be doing more. I want to learn some more things. I have written lists of what I want to achieve this year. I am most afraid I will not achieve any of them. And then next year will be the same. And next year.

Then the year after that.

Tomorrow I meet up with my crazy sister for coffee. She hasn’t done much in the last 3 years since she was my age. 22 isn’t really that young to me. It sounds jaded. She seems jaded. Then again, I probably sound jaded.

My Dad says I think too much and my step mother agrees in that toneless, fake voice, she only owns one. And it sucks. I think he & she are insanely simple. Like, crazy uncreative. Happy with their lot. Their boring, a-typical lot.

I want a nice hard slap in the face right now. I can’t click myself out of this dull mood.