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.
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.
Trial 1/Stage 3
Day three is a total mindfuck.
Stimulates the miserable, seriously.
We’ll see what the end of the day looks like though, I guess.
So far, the idea of fasting as an inspirational tool is looking red-hot for 2 days, 3 days = not so much. Picture this ragged looking girl in a massive sweater, slumped on a coffee table- ‘I ASKED YOU TO PHONE ME WHEN YOU LEFT SO I COULD ASK YOU PICK UP CIGARETTES. WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?’ And then picture the same girl but aged 30 years and about 6 inches shorter in a green cardigan with huge eyes, stuttering and picking up her bag to leave again. That’s me and my mother. I felt incredibly bad about it this morning, don’t judge.
GOOD NEWS almost done with competition entries. Plus I found the first camera I ever got.. Completely unrelated.
What you notice first in a person may just be the things you hate about yourself. Things that sit uncomfortably on your frame, just weighing you down. Bringing your eyelids to your knees and your features crease with the effort to brush off the sight of what may just be pieces of ‘perfection’ that you just can’t seem to grasp.
Just just just.
Um, I’m sitting here cold and tired and hungry. Like, my stomach is gnawing at my spine and skin, and I’m also picking dirt from my fingernails because apparently my body hasn’t picked up enough shit from the outside [dirty looks and harsh comments cling to my exterior like a humidity I can’t shake]. All the while I’m contemplating friendships and berocca like It’s actually ok I’m feeling low, because everybody does. And I only do because I have no money and therefore no food and where the fuck am I going with this, I’m so fucking tired I can only think in circles and whirlpools, like the imprint of your thumb [on the dip in my neck], all thin lines never touching just rolling around each other for miles and miles. My palm reads nothing but the glitter of a broken eye shadow compact that smashed in my bag today, simultaneously coating everything I care to carry around with me in an irregular film of light-catching specks. Which is actually kind of nice, except that I didn’t realise and touched my face and so walked around with a smear of dirty sparkles from my mouth to my chin for like two fucking hours.
My body isn’t an hourglass. It’s like a sponge. You can figure that out for yourself. It’s pretty easy.
The corners of my eyes are stinging and my neighbours coughing again, oh great. You should get that checked man, it actually sounds like your throat must be bleeding. And if you have TB or something, you could die. So, yeah. Or just cough in your lounge and not in the hallway, or what must be right up against the wall with a glass [just so I get the full effect of your body-wrecking exhalation]. You think my alarm wakes you? You probably wake yourself up because you’re half-dying in your sleep, just coughing up half of the shit you breathed in that day.
Shit like that really annoys me. Not sick people. Rude sick people. Yeah I’ve been sick before. I didn’t go around flaunting it everywhere.
I might be sick now, my throat hurts.
You’ve been sick for a week, I’m really sorry about that. And I do feel pretty responsible. Making you sit outside on my apartment steps while I smoke and you don’t and there are no clouds so the cold just hangs in the air, in the folds of your clothes and the creases of my hands, which I push between your shirt and skin, separating you from what might be the easiest illness prevention there is. But you only back away slightly, you still let me press my knuckles against your ribs with only a slight change of expression that actually kinda looks like a grin. And that’s what happens. You warm me up from my extremities inwards. Like my lips then my mouth then my throat then my neck then my chest and lungs and then somewhere down the line I’m on fire and laughing, the friction of our limbs kinda just swallowing the cold, I imagine in psychedelic waves. But yeah, I’m getting carried away on the thought of your face. Uh, fact is, you’re sick and I’m not and it’s probably my fault, tea in cupped hands aside.