Never search for a name you detest

There is a girl table-dancing in my future. This girl has half the same face as me. The other half is drawn [charcoal etched and smudged, blurred lines with whorls of thumb-prints like sea-shells. Identity smeared everywhere], tired and dark-eyed.

Still getting wasted, though. I’m not a bad person I’m not a bad person I’m not I’m not.

I was going to walk a mile in your shoes. But we use the metric system. I could only guess how long a mile is. I’d be walking forever. And still feel no fucking sympathy for you.

Worth and write and wrong [you are]

Feeling the lack of substance again, my conversations swell and peak, though. And sure, whatever rage I feel is potent and transparent [think musk perfume, on the corners of my lips and eyes]. Smothering my smile in mercury, my liquid, metallic words.
Deceive and delight.
Did you think I would let you observe the disease of sorrow render me sullen and sultry? Red-eyed and blue lipped? Hah. I have something on the horizon I am fast approaching. What the fuck do you have.
Passion is back, I see.

Nice.

Spit my silvery sentences in your general direction. Let a slip of wind carress them, place them on the outlines of your ears. Feel satisfied and lust-worthy and hunger stopped in its tracks and I shot it straight between the eyes. That’s what you get, I am the ultimate marksman. You’ll see. Oh, OH! You’ll fucking watch what you have involuntarily invoked.

I’m not going to mutter I don’t mind. Call I don’t care. It’s plain to see I do, of course. But what you ruined is growing motivation from its dust-streaked loins. Loins. Hah. Suiting my hair colour. All the bitter little girls come out to play, and it’s not my job to watch for their juvenile trippings. I am just so much smarter than all of them.

I have grace and poise and curves that will whisper the name of men and women. This is just waiting, patiently twiddling its thumbs. Painted nails. Not for your skin.

I am not sad. You poor, poor STUPID females. Say what you like out of jealousy. I have more fragrance in my soul than all the whatever you slather on your heinous wrists and necklines.

Thank-you appetite for departing. And THANK YOU for gifting me self-respect in a smashed and filthy box. You idiot.

I sneer beautifully, even. And I can walk in the shoes you stumble in. Your voice, childish, smashing things over in my head. I just can’t compute how much I have on you.

And fuck you, too.
Waste of space. You know who you are. And if you don’t, I don’t fucking care. You’ll never learn.

T fucking N
FUCK OH MY GOSH WHERE THE FUCK HAS ALL THIS DELICIOUS RAGE COME FROM.

If I cut my hair and never set foot in my mouth, again

Work is always in a wrinkled shirt. Head office guy [looking sanded and orange] down from the big city, looks at me like I should care.Yeah, I really don’t. And I’m not about to start. I don’t own an iron. Go fuck yourselves.

Even if I did own an iron, I’d probably still wake up late/not actually give anything resembling a fuck about the face I’m putting forward for this company. As much as I love the job, I am indifferent to the name in front of it.

Then my sister walks in and I realise sickness stays unless you rest and remove.

I have no time to rest and remove. 9.5 hour days, 6 of those. My Sunday is alcohol lacquered. I don’t have the capacity to recognise the block missing from the jenga tower behind every sonnet I let slip from my dry lips. And she’s still sick, anyway. She’s not even here. What the fuck am I talking about.

If I was callous I’d put one hand on my face and push my smile out. Tell you it’s ok, no really. Because deep down I know I possibly hate your stance and face and speech. And I just have to realise that. Rest and recognise and remove.

Stevia slips and bobs in another mindless drink I paid for [with this money not touched but tainted] And I feel my appetite light another cigarette, flip its legs up and shrug. Yeah, could potentially eat something, but what the fuck are you gonna do?

Nothing renders me speechless anymore.
Actually.. Anything renders me nothing. I am un-renderable.
Tell me you love me; nothing.

When my mother used to leave me with babysitters, I’d get so worked up I’d end up being sick. Almost every time.
Now you leave without a word and there’s no buildup to churn my stomachs empty contents and the harsh real-world lesson I just learnt should have left me reeling, dizzy over the railing.
Instead I unlock the doors to earn in a wrinkled shirt.
And each day I can feel the buildup of words gathering momentum and weight, in the place I leave untouched.

It’s happening soon.

Oh and fuck you. A relentless amount of You Fucking Suck to all people cruel and childish and can recognise my face.
You are so abhorrently ugly.

Roughnight

Please stop telling me you hate me.
Everything you ever did, and now will never do; turns your head away from mine in disgust.

Today at $14 an hour, all I can manage to keep me standing is protein in shapes. No plates of cake on my bookshelf this morning. Spent the evening feeling Absinthe stories play behind my eyes and grass under my knees, strong arms of boys I knew, now men, strung across my back and shoulders. All the vines you ever compared me to, I feel more like a weed now. Something dirty you can pull out but covered in spikes so it doesn’t even feel the skin of someone elses touch. These men pierced their hands with the thorns I find my figure dotted with.

Lighting candles in the dark, with the wind turning my hair into tendrils.

And so I’m hurting everyone else.

But it is for your own well being. Because I can’t even make conversation. Or keep my eyes on what’s at hand.

And you can’t make me feel bad about that. I’m sorry, but I am free to distinguish anyone I please from the furnace that I keep going on a daily basis. Showing your true colours, reminding me of my mother.

And someone else: I, again, let myself be repeatedly vomited on. So I’m licking my fingers and touching them to a wick.

I can’t even keep my eyes alert for more than thirty seconds.
How could you expect me to care for anyone else, when I care so little for myself.

TN

Soppy Stupid Serenade

All I could do was cross my fingers. So tight my bones burned, knuckles red and white. Pulling my back teeth together in an uneven embrace. No arms just curves. Greeting you in a public place, my limbs would link up across your back [maybe like bars. Maybe like liquorish straps. Maybe like poisoned vines or lengths of scents that reminded you of other lovers] , yours would stay almost by your side. Like a red flag to every pair of eyes: I don’t really like this one. I don’t know what I’m doing, really. Should have said something. When our feet didn’t match on the street, because yours were always two steps ahead of mine. No matter how much I changed pace, like you were trying to pretend you weren’t with me. That to passing cars we were two strangers, one just crossing paths with the other. Two young people in a city brimming with just that. Youth and lack of inhibitions.

But I think, now. You have too many. Wise beyond your years, sure. But jaded more than old-soul-esque. Calculated problems stripping layers from sanity you wear between your ears. Been reading things on what to do, now. Every answer says I have to hate you. So, fuck you. Fuck you because I just wanted to rub the frowns on your forehead to velvet. Fuck you for all the evenings I would climb that stupid fucking hill, checking my face on the corner [where the streetlights came through the trees]. Fuck you for never making an effort to meet me anywhere. Or my friends. They don’t even know how your face falls. That one time I lit a cigarette outside, heard you playing guitar through your forever closed curtains. And fuck me for smiling at that. Fuck me for listening to your album and feeling shit about myself, for NO REASON. Fuck me for running and running and running in the hopes that you would comment on my legs again. Or stop to look at me in the morning, when I left again, you dressing with your back to me. Watching my own hand reach out and stop, thinking my hand might burn right through your skin. Fuck me for early morning planning, shaving my legs after ten kilometres. Just in case you touched them.

But also I take all that back. I just hope you will be happy, like I was, with my head on shoulder.