Why You Weren’t Around

My bed breathes ‘it’s time’, and I say fuck off I was awkward tonight and drank red wine on an empty stomach and now I’m bleak. Like the whole idea of frivolous youth was a scam. And I had the highest of expectation. My Wednesday night special was the rain on my face like bloodhound eyes. Your performance was poor, my feet toast each other, but your lips are full. Someone I know well breaks a wine glass and I am startled, snatches of conversations just hold hands with the one going on in my head: Why are you here, again?

You weren’t around when I really did need you. I feel bad about expecting you would be. It’s like you just don’t get it. My foolproof sanctuary was set alight, left with me grasping at your jacket sleeves, an inch from making contact. But I could never bring myself to do so. And I still feel bad.

I feel like a fool. When I once had incredible faith in my intelligence. 

And so things continue. And I pick out all my eyelashes again, and exert myself too much and feel increasingly awful about the prospect of a meal with anyone. But I think that just being generally fucking nuts is better than being distraught over death. The pornography of trauma.. 

Ah. Fuck you too. 

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.

Mmm and then some..

Sorry about the lack of anything worth reading as of late. I’ve just been sitting here rocking back and forth in my chair too much. Not crazy-person rocking. Just like:

I am so bored. Why can’t I find a job I will enjoy. What am I going to do in 2011. It’s sunny. No-one is ever going to fall in love with me. Shut up, man, you don’t know that. I wish I had bought apples in town. How can anyone love you if you don’t love yourself? I fucking hate that saying. I fucking hate anyone who says that with wide-eyed conviction to their voice. Psssh, yes, because you can repeat an over-repeated statement, you are instantly wise in my eyes. My hair is almost orange now. When can I afford to colour it blonde. I went to txt you but I’d deleted your number. I want to get drunk. I quit smoking. I want to smoke. You should get rid of that music, dude. Nah but it’s motivation. You should be able to motivate yourself. What am I going to wear tomorrow. I think I’d write more if my writing was nice to look at. Stop making excuses. You just suck. Yeah but it’s not like I’m planning on making this my career. Well, you’re not exactly planning on making anything your career..

But I’m not talking to myself yet. FUCKKKKK.

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.

Woke up drunk. Waved a huge hello to last year. OH WE MEET AGAIN.

Sometimes I remember shit I thought I’d forgotten and it scares me that my memory is something I have very little control over.

“If you tried to put your hand on my stomach it’d disappear”

Venlafaxine because, really, who said you have to have a problem with yourself? And that it’s normal? I know we can’t change society, now It’s too far gone. But society can medicate us. In a way.

Me and terrific-isms. Screaming ‘SMILE’ in my empty house because I feel the need to claw my way back to crazy. The crazy I was in January. The sarcastic then cross-eyed, loose-limbed little girl. Hi. My name is _____.

Sleeping on pillows with no cases. Thinking of how many different heads have rested here. Creepy as fuck, actually. CAN SOMEBODY PLEASE REMIND ME TO DO MY FUCKING WASHING.

In a bar feeling eyes on places like my neck and ladders in my tights. Shudder at the thought of all these bodies in slumber, alone, later tonight.

So lonely, this city can be. Standing in here, you wouldn’t know it. But I recognise the desperate in everyone. For once I’m feeling secure. Like a wrapped up box in a room full of scraps and ripped edges.

I’m keeping that message.

When you’re shy it’s like organs filled with needles. Every eye a magnet. Every touch on bare skin is agony.  

Oh my. Need sleep.

Sodium

Your body so small, I can cradle you in my lap. Promise you your hair will grow back. Hint at hope for the future, an opportunist ideal. One I don’t have. Last year, when I didn’t know you so well. I sat on a wall near my place, just by coincidence, your shadow sat next to me, kicking it’s legs up and down. I’m telling you this, you blowing all the wretchedness you can shift through the gaps in your fingers, I thought over and over how much I might like to stretch into your figure for a day. You quieten down, the shorn curve of your head resting on my naked neck. You’ll grow up. It will grow back.

Stupid things like hating my hands. Stupid things like I wanted to see my bones so badly this week but my skin just thickens. Stupid things like I want your friends to think I’m something special not just nice. Stupid things like my phone has no money. Stupid things like bus money and quitting smoking and hair dye. Stupid things like a picture of myself I’m holding in my head that isn’t accurate but pieces of it are scattered throughout every day so even in the middle of a conversation I’d love to love having, I want to wrap myself in a dozen duvets and bite my nails away.

I’ve forgotten all the quirky things I do when I’m drunk. I am not fun anymore. Still, I’d rather be here than out with you. You know who you are.