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.

Wolf-whistles

Washing my sheets and reading Lolita, my feet too cold to function, wondering if I should colour my hair back to its natural dark brown, or stick to the dark red I am beginning to be known for.

The roof of my mouth reacts like a wounded animal. Been sucking on Vicks Vapour Drops all day long, those butter menthol ones. They only make me feel worse. Seeing as my appetite has packed it’s normally cake-shaped suitcase and fucked off, the only thing I can manage is Happy Tea and cough drops. Any other time I’d be unusually happy about this. Right now I just kind of hate my body, not for how it looks, but how susceptible it is to illness and ailments. Also how one of my knees is slightly different to the other one. Which means I have a favourite leg. Which really shouldn’t even come into the equation of how I feel about myself.

Lookin’ good, Lefty.

Re-issued penguin books for $13. I feel a new addiction coming on. I got Lolita for $4.07. Sales and gift cards. P.S I don’t care what people say about you, Borders. I love you.

I imagine us with skinned knees in my parents old house, staring at my cats grave with half smiles. Just because we grew up once, completely apart from each other. But for some reason, we met halfway. And maybe all this shit we did during those, what, 13 odd years, made it so we would be standing across the street from each other, waiting for all the cars to stop or slow, so one of us can cross.

Sleeping sick makes dreams with blurred edges, like a dozen half erased frames, linked together loosely with breaking chains. So all I remember when I wake is a feeling of unease and general nausea. That, and your face, pausing above an open book, with a look of painful disinterest in my naked knees and flawed complexion.