Wednesday, December 15, 2010


Sometimes, it's hard to remember that you can't save everyone. There's nothing heroic about yourself when you don't give up on an individual, rather it just means you have great endurance and patience. It's really the strength of the individual that's heroic when they finally pull themselves out of the shit they've buried themselves in.

I think the most heroic thing I've done is try to pull myself out of the crap I was born into. As I look back over my shoulder, I see where I have come from, and what I'm leaving behind.

I can't take anyone from there with me.

When I was a child, I thought the strongest woman in the entire world was my stepmom. She was all about independence, never accepting help from anyone and just getting by on your wit and cunning. She was more a mother to me than my own mother was. I loved her with all my heart.

After she left, she broke all ties with me and I'd only speak to her maybe a few times a year. She asked me to call her a few days ago, so I did.

Her position now is farther from anything I would have imagined as a child. She lives in the south with an older man she is only with because she's sick of being alone. He is madly in love with her. She doesn't care for him, save for the companionship and the dogs they had rescued together. I can't imagine what it must be like to lay back for a person who doesn't even arouse you.

She's miserable, really. A drunk. I tell her how I'm doing, my philosophies. This time, she is the one in awe and I feel as though I am the adult trying to lead her by the hand. But... to where? There is no place she wants to be. No adventure she had ever been on where she didn't try to simply end it. See, the child in me wants back whatever disappeared inside of her, but the adult knows that nothing has disappeared, I'm just old enough to see the whole picture.

She's more paranoid than I am. She lives her life under the umbrella of being safe and surviving. That is not how I want to live.

Sometimes, I wish I could just snag her bottles away and tell her to get a haircut because she looks like a mess. But she's more stubborn than I am. The only woman I've ever met who is self destructively more stubborn than I am. She will win battles just to win them, even if it means she loses the war.

But you can't save everyone.

My father has an eating disorder. His goal weight will put him 2 lbs under what would be classified as anorexia. He's only a few pounds away.

My mother relies too much on people and tries to manipulate them for her own purposes because she is sickeningly selfish.

None of my parents fight for themselves.

And then, there's me.

You can't save everyone. I tell that to all my friends who've cried over people they felt obligated to help, but I'm a bit hypocritical sometimes. I used to fold myself into a step-stool if only it would elevate others. I know I could probably do it all over again.

But I know this time, I need to save my energy for myself.

My stepmother told me over the phone as she was drunk that every season comes to an end, and that people stay for only a season. She told me she relieved her childhood through me and that she loved me. She asked if she could tell people about me.

There is a light snow on the ground. But even that will melt and soon, the spring will arrive.

When I hung up the phone, I hadn't even cried. Wasn't even shocked by the fact that I had no mother.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

Crazy Motherfucker.

I woke up this morning around 7 like always. It's like when my body just decides to wake up, no matter how late I go to bed. My 7 o'clock used to be 4 o'clock (no joke or pun intended) so I suppose this is an improvement.

As usual, I laid in bed and day dreamed. My girlfriend is usually on my mind, so I can just relax and think of her and how close to Canada I am. And then I dozed and that's when shit went down.

I was half awake, half asleep. I saw her next to me and at first I didn't complain because this is a dream and there's nothing wrong with being sexed in your dreams. But my mattress started moving. And I felt warmth and her actual weight against my leg and all of a sudden I was coming. I always wake up when I orgasm, always.

But I couldn't wake up this time, though the orgasm was so intense that I thought I would wake up my entire dorm with screams, and soon it was round two and my mind gets fuzzy around then but my entire experience was as though I was a part of a surrealist's painting. And then, it stopped.

I laid on my back. The sun was streaming through the windows and the dust falling from the ceiling was sparkling like rainbows. She asked me what I was looking at, I replied with the question "Did you ever notice how dust glows every which colour when in the sunlight?" And all of a sudden, bubbles began to fall. I would like to point out that at this time, I was completely awake. Lazy, laying in bed, but completely awake. I could feel everything, there was no waking up.

The bubbles fell and I felt as though someone was... asking me if I was happy with the bubbles. There were no words, only.... an intuition of my own. I whispered that they were beautiful and I blew at them, watching a few pop at the force of my breath and smiled happily when more fell.

I wondered if there were faeries nearby and looking up to the ceiling to see a large blue and white swirl lollipop stuck to it without a stick. I thought "I must be dreaming" and realizing this, I pieced together that in this dream, my girlfriend was not my girlfriend but someone from my dreamworld-mind disguised as her. Dreams, could never be reality and I knew that, so I decided to wake up.

I focused on the ceiling and slowly, it started to fade into my dim room, hardly lit because of the curtains drawn against the cloudy sky outside, but then it faded back.

My room was dark. There were no bubbles. No dust. Hardly any light.

I focused on the lollipop stuck above my roomie's bed and tried to figure how I would wake up. It took more effort than it should have, but I rolled over, onto my stomach trying to wiggle my fingers and toes. When all of a sudden, I saw, felt and heard the covers below me move, as though someone was pushing me from the bed. I couldn't move to hold onto anything. I begged whatever was doing this to stop, and it did. I heard a scurrying, like a scamper of a medium sized creature, and soon it started doing that to my roomie's bed.

I watched in horror, moving my fingers and toes as fast as I could, trying to get away from whatever creature was at the foot of our beds, pulling off the bed sheets. I wanted to wake up. I NEEDED to wake up.

There were drawings on my roomie's bed. They spoke to one another. They were loud, so loud, it hurt. The inside of my head hurt. They were all I could hear and soon they were arguing and they were screaming at one another and I was inwardly screaming back at them to shut up, but they only got louder and I swear, if I had eardrums inside my mind, they would have popped right then.

I never woke up.

As soon as I could somehow lift my heavy figure from the bed, I did, and threw myself at the curtains and lifted them so that some light poured in. Then, I grabbed my computer so I wouldn't lay down again and looked at my roomie's bed.


Just plain sheets. Plain striped sheets. I'm... afraid to leave my bed. To find something.

I don't even have the excuse of "I was heavily medicated" to explain why I experienced these things. I just keep surprising myself.

I don't know what's happening to me.

Saturday, December 11, 2010


I'm beginning to feel helpless these days. I've stopped cutting, but in turn another form of self injury has taken hold of me and in some ways, I feel as though this is worse. Cutting can't kill you. Not if you know what you're doing.

My goal has been... to gain weight back. Secretly, I was prideful, felt victorious over my ribs showing through my skin, each meal skipped and each time my stomach grumbled, it was proof that we were being victorious. But I don't want to have to look like those girls, sickeningly thin who's stomach's concave rather that stay flat. Flat, that's all I want. Flat.

The girls I'm attracted to generally have a bit of extra on them. Not obese, but very Renaissance and Roman. I was so happy with my body weight before I realized I had an eating disorder. I was so thin. When I sat, there were no folds in my stomach, I was model perfection. If I wanted to get a part time job as a retro pin-up model down the street, I could have.

But I know it's wrong.

My father always told me that it wouldn't hurt to lose some weight. That I wasn't thin. That I had pudge. Everyone else tells me I'm so skinny and praises me, as if being underweight is something I should feel proud of. Then the mind kicks in and calculates all the information to equal "Stay Thin at All Costs."

My weight has been returning. I'm not 105 pounds anymore, rather, I think I may be more than 110. Whenever I look in the mirror, what should feel like victory only looks to me like failure. My roomie is thinner than me again and whenever I see her walk across the room, the envy that pulses through my mouth only generates shame.

I want this to stop. Just like how the hunger takes away my urge to start cutting again I fear what will take away my urge to starve and how much worse it is going to be. Tara Hardy once said "Do you know how many compliments I've gotten on my collarbones since I started dying?" And it's true.

When you stop cutting, the urge is still there like a thirst that will not be quenched, but at least you can look at your arms and see Victory. But when I look in the mirror and I see that my "Victory" means becoming what I now interpret as "Fat" my only urge is to lock myself in my room and come out maybe once a day for apple sauce and salad. I don't even like fries anymore.

But I force myself. Mind over matter, if I give up I will lose the things that are most important to me. I'm afraid of eating too much and weighing more than I ever have.

My father is 5'9" and he weighs 130 pounds. He tells me he wants to lose just another 5 or 10 and then he'll be content. Last year, he was supposed to be content with 140. His diet? No breakfast. A slice of bread for lunch and vegis for dinner.

I don't want to be just a product of a man's self criticism. I wish I could gain just five more pounds and still feel beautiful.


I think the worst part is how people react when you tell them. I've told maybe five close people and only one has been supportive. The rest act as though what I do is strange or that it's my fault. That all this rests on me and like a switch I can turn it off. I've been made to feel more ashamed of myself by the words of OTHER PEOPLE than by my own thoughts.

I feel like I was more understood back when my poison of choice was cutting.

"I'm not going to help you through this" she said.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Thinking Back

I've been thinking a lot lately. About events that happened to me around five years ago and how fucked up they were. I wonder why I only just started realizing it now.

When I was 15, I was going out with a woman who was 21. And I know that isn't really horrible. I know a ton of people who dated men in their 30s when they were only fifteen. But it wasn't so much the age as it was the WOMAN...

I had just turned 15. I met her online in an IRC chatroom and even though she knew I was a minor, she flirted with me hardcore. I will admit right now that I didn't really like her, rather I was flattered by the fact that another woman was interested in me. She had told me many times that she liked me and stated she wanted to date me. But I was mostly curious about what this whole "love" thing was and how it worked. So I convinced myself I was in love with her and told her so.

My first sexual experiences were cybering with her. I was no longer shy around her, but it was the shyness that she adored so I pretended to be innocent... pretended to be this good little girl who didn't know how anything worked. I was passive, submissive, sweet. Everything she wanted in another person she could control. She stopped being sweet after a few months, if she was sweet at all to begin with. She always had a temper but I let it pass, keeping up my kind demeanor. But when she started insulting my friends, I couldn't pretend anymore, and that's when the name calling started.

I was a horrible person. This horrible person who was prude, raised by fundies, a whore, a little bitch, a slut. And I was still naive, only now I was naive and a whore. She told me I needed to grow up. And when I told her she was verbally abusive, she told me I was emotionally abusive and that shut me up real good.

She'd go for months not really talking to me sometimes. She'd play Sims for hours throughout the day and when I told her I was being treated like a toy to be taken out and played with when she was bored, she told me she needed space. And yet, she wouldn't just break up with me.

Note: She went for two months not saying anything more than "hey" to me per day.

And then came Greg. Now Greg is the turning point that REALLY makes me see how much fucked up shit I just let slide back then. I don't remember if Greg fully raped me. I can't remember anything passed a certain point in the incident.

When I told my girlfriend this, her words of comfort to me were "So, I guess I won't get your first kiss anymore, will I." And my reply, not even seeing how horrible her reaction was: "No, I saved that for you. He could take from me anything he wanted, but my first kiss was for you."

She didn't tell me until a year later that what happened with Greg wasn't my fault. To this very day, I STILL blame myself, somehow. For some reason. Like I COULD have stopped it from even beginning if I wanted to. "If I wasn't such a whore."

My best friend at the time was friends with Greg. I told her about it because I worried for her. Her response was "Oh my god, that's horrible!" and then "But like... I'm still friends with him." I mean, it's bad what he did to you but I don't let stupid things like that intervene between my friendships! Really.

When she stopped talking to me because I finally got upset with her over a small thing, I again blamed myself. I had pined over our lost friendship for years until today.

I wonder why I always tried to sacrifice myself for people who only ever tried to hurt me. I wonder why those are the people I trusted more than anyone else.

Today, I'm still trying my hardest to not be immature or naive. I'm a bitch because I don't want to be taken advantage of. But for some reason, I still fight the urge to blame myself for every little thing. There are days when I try to wash myself clean, but it's as though my entire skin is made of dirt.

I once heard that people who were abused as children are more likely to be raped. Rape. Statutory Rape. I feel like I'm just another statistic.

Friday, November 12, 2010

"It doesn't seem fair." She said.
As if through one sentence all my thoughts from the time I was just a child could be spoken,
and she said them so freely
while signing a yellow sheet that would end my time
in a place I deserve to be.

I sat quiet
in the silence we created,
in a mute shared hope of return.

Thursday, November 11, 2010

"She whispers words of World Domination in his ear each time they meet. But they are words of love none-the-less."

Wednesday, September 8, 2010


Last year, my Lit professor called me a paradox. That was the last time I ever had communication with her before the attempt. Because well, she was right. I am a paradox. My life is spent in a wheel and all I do is spin and spin and spin...

I always have psych outs. It's how I live. I think "Finally, finally it's over. Finally I can be happy and productive and do what I've always wanted with my life." But I'm wrong. Always, always long. Such thoughts used to last for only a few hours. One time, it lasted for 3 days. This time, it lasted for months. Months, I tell you, months.

The wheel always spins back around.

Ah yes, the classic case of bipolar disorder. Fucking beautiful, isn't it? Each pole is as deadly as the other - mania which convinces you that you're on top of the world and nothing can stop you and the depression which is your reality check that reminds you that you. Are. Just. Human.

I'm in a terrible down.

It's almost the third week of college and I've already begun contemplating suicide. I thought I was stronger than that. Thought that all you needed to do was just dream and go but the truth is that I'm just flesh and blood and chemical imbalances. When I was a child, I thought I was a faerie. With all my heart, I thought I was a faerie that became mortal just so I could sing. I never fit in my own skin. This body is too small, it doesn't change fast enough. It's stringed up incorrectly and move funny. It doesn't listen to my nerves and impulses.

When I was five... I thought that if I just died, I'd be free and I'd finally fit. I'm claustrophobic in my own flesh. I STILL feel that if I die, I'll finally fit. That not even gravity will hold me back, the universe has no boundaries. If there is a universe. If I'm not just... that word.

I thought I was until I turned 18.

All throughout today, I've been crying. Not a few tears, but actual bawling. I try and hide it from my roommate (who just left to meet her boyfriend) and swallow back giant lumps that I don't remember feeling since I moved out of my mom's house.

My stepmom blames herself for my bipolar disorder. If she really cared, she wouldn't have abandoned me, would she have. Or she'd actually be there for me instead of swimming in her bottles of Merlot. Insects. That's the name of the poem I've been working on since I turned 15 and it STILL isn't finished. I never can write about her.

See, the thing is that you can succeed at whatever you want... if you've got the skills. For me, it's too late. My voice is already fucked up because of the different style of vocal training they have below the Mason Dixon line that they've been trying to beat into me. They're trying to make me into a mezzo. I can't go high anymore. As a child, I once swore that if I ever lost my voice, I'd kill myself.

I guess I thought about death a lot as a child.

See, there's something inside of me. And its been inside of me for all my life. The Scientologists would call it a thetus, the psychologists call it bipolar psychotics but I always called it Emily and she and I have been friends and scheming since the first time I caught my dad and mom fighting. She convinced me that we were more than normal, that magick was real, that we had powers and that we could do anything. I was always alone. But Emily, Emily was always there talking to me at night, egging me on whenever something was troubling me. Today, I can no longer hear her, but I feel her and she has brought with her other voices that remind me just how useless I can be.

Sometimes, I don't know what is Emily and what is myself. We've merged part way. I feel that if I died and both our spirits were freed of this body, we'd wind up traveling together, stuck at the side like conjoined sisters for all of eternity. Out of all the voices in my head, they can be sorted into two categories. The voice that tells me why bother when we are just going to fail anyway and the other one that yells "GET UP SOLDIER. STRAIGHTEN YOUR BACK, ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER. THIS IS NO TIME TO BE LAYING AROUND WHEN THERE IS WORK TO BE DONE. DO YOU HONESTLY BELIEVE TIME WILL WAIT FOR YOUR SORRY ASS AND PATHETIC TEARS? GET UP. YOU WILL NEVER EARN THE RESPECT OF ANYONE BY BEING THIS WAY. CRYING IS WEAK - ARE YOU WEAK? DO WE JUST WASTE OUR TIME EXISTING? GET UP, SOLDIER! HOLD YOUR HEAD HIGH, NO ONE HAS TO KNOW THAT YOU AREN'T PROUD OF LIVING BUT THEY BETTER AS ALL FUCK BELIEVE IT. GET UP, SOLDIER. GET UP."

I can't differentiate which is worse.

I honestly thought this would be over. I thought I had finally saved myself.

I thought wrong. I am not meant for happy endings.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010


I hate the phrase Gender Queer. Hate hate hate hate HATE it. Honestly, who would want to identify with "Gender Queer" unless they were proud? To me, that's like me identifying as a "Homosexual" or a "Queer". I don't identify as any of those things. Just as "me".

I like my breasts. I will admit, they are one of my favourite features on my body. They aren't large, but they aren't small either and when wearing the right bras, I have the (in my opinion) perfect amount of cleavage to go with my figure.

It was hard enough admitting that I was a lesbian. I'm still having trouble accepting it. More so now than ever.

I was that kid who looked in the mirror at age four and thought there was something wrong with me. I'd strip myself of a shirt and go off and play with the boys - I didn't start wearing shirts at all when I was home until my father told me that 12 was much to old to be going around topless when there are men in the house.

To clear this up before hand, no, I am not a transgender. I am not a man. And I have no desire to be one.

I've never fit in my own skin. All my life, I wondered that if I just died, would I be free? I felt like a spirit trapped in a flesh body, punished to be mortal - If I just died, would I finally be happy?

I stopped this thinking a few months ago. It only led me into depression.

When I was younger... I remember believing with all my soul that we were all just spirits and these were the bodies we were given. People weren't genders... they were just people. There was no such thing as gender, only sex.

I started dressing more femininely when I was 15, my clothing was from the girl's isle and I decided to make use of my body and to learn how to be pretty. After joining the VKA, I learned makeup tricks, started researching glamour. When I want to be, I can be the hottest shit around. Isn't that what learning about your body is all about when you're female?


Yes, I am female. I love my body. It's beautiful and it can preform tricks I don't know if I'll ever be able to comprehend. I am not ashamed of my body.

But being a girl.

I learned a new term last night. I'm on the LLC (Living Learning Community) floor of my campus called the Gender and Sexuality floor. Every monday night, we sit and talk for an hour or so about a topic someone brings up that has to deal with Gender and Sexuality. Last night, it was gender identity.

People would always tell me "It's alright to be comfortable with who you are, Kiska. I don't think of myself and immediately think "girl" either. But don't go thinking too hard." Don't go thinking too hard.

A girl in our discussion group named M brought up the fact that she was Gender Fluid. As soon as she said it, I knew what she meant. To be gender fluid is to feel like identifying with one gender, or any gender at all, is stupid. You're fluid. You flow through things like that.

I feel like the bisexual of genders. You know. You're bisexual, gays hate you, straight people think you'll get over it soon enough and that you're over thinking things.

Over thinking things.

I feel like that's what I must be doing. As if being a lesbian wasn't drastic enough, now I think I'm something that falls under the category of "Gender Queer" as well?

I'm "me", can't I just be content with that?

Why must I always think so hard?

How would people react if they found out?

The one person I told was my best friend, back in HS. I told him that I always felt trapped. Told him that I used to look in the mirror and know something was wrong with me, but never know what it was. This boy was in love with me and I suppose didn't know how to react. He said he would always love me. I know he was slightly put off.

I thought I was the only one who felt this way and chances are, most people don't know that people like me even exist. I am afraid of being judged. I am afraid of even accepting this; I feel so gross and disgusting and strange and queer.

I never wanted to be this way.

K once told me that gender doesn't exist. She told me that gender and sexuality were all myths. I'm not sure I quite believe that.

M is bisexual. She is Gender Fluid. By all means, since I don't believe I am a gender, shouldn't I be Pansexual? But I'm only attracted to women. Always have been, probably always will be. I wonder if I'm a hypocrite.

I wonder if gender is real at all, or if there is even a gender known as Gender Fluid.

I feel like I'm thinking too much. Just letting all the dreams where people ask me if I'm really a man get to me.

I once had a dream that I woke up male. I started to cry. The doctors said "What's wrong? Isn't this what you wanted?" No, this isn't what I want. This isn't what I want at all.

Am I just a person who puts too much thought in anything, anything at all?

We read an article last night about a lesbian who came out to her lover as being Gender Fluid. Her girlfriend paused and asked "Are you going to become a man?" The woman replied "No, I'm not." Her girlfriend paused for another minute and said "Uh, no. I am a lesbian, I sleep with women, therefore you are a woman." And ended the conversation.

I put too much thought into anything.

I shouldn't be this way.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010


So, I've been thinking a lot recently about random things that I pushed off out of my mind a while ago, deciding that topics I will puzzle over and will never find the answers to are pointless.

However, one of those topics is magick and when you're unofficially dating a Gypsy, it's kinda hard NOT to think about it. And so:

Magick. I used to believe in it with all my heart as a child. I was that one girl who believed she was a witch, that one special child born with abilities many others didn't posses or didn't know how to hone. I'd take out books from the library on palm reading (yes, my elementary school library had an entire section on witch craft. Wow.) and I actually performed love spells that would bind me and the boy I liked together. Forever. I'm very happy those failed. I'm guessing it was because I put more thought into peeling the apple I was using for the spell than concentrating on the ACTUAL spell itself. Did I know the rules of wicca back then? Hell no! Our school just had spell books for kids (yes, I'm serious) with pretty pictures and instructions. Yeahhhh.

There was a lot more to it too. I remember going to the beach and singing. Seagulls would flock around me as if listening. They formed a perfect circle with me in the middle. My sister wondered what it was I was doing, but really couldn't care less because for once, I wasn't hanging off of her. Sometimes, I'd dip my feet in the ocean and sing there. I felt as if the ocean could hear me...was answering me. The last time I sang in the ocean, it was the fourth of July, this year. I was still buzzed from VKAM and Ameara told me to sing Mama Ocean for her, since she's landlocked. I did. And I blinked for a second and all of a sudden, there was a beautiful shell at my feet. Blue/gray with gorgeous brown snakelike patterns that look amber when wet. Something passed through my mind telling me that the ocean heard me, that it was responding to my voice, that it was thanking me for the few pieces of garbage I picked out of her a few days prior.

I didn't tell my dad or my friend about the shell. I just took it, thanked the ocean quietly, and left.

When I was four, I met my stepmom. I thought she was beautiful... she was tall, her cheekbones were predominant and high and while she could be childlike and fun, she was also wise and strong. Ambitious. She WAS the embodiment of Sagittarius.

My stepmom was the first person to tell me that magick was real. She told me stories of how her mom was a witch who used to do horrible spells in order to get her way, but stopped when she tried to hex another witch who sent it reeling back and caused her tongue to swell up in the back of her throat. She, apparently, learned her lesson.

My stepmother, B her name was, told me that she could feel things. When she was younger, she used an Ouija board with her sister and it amplified their senses. She told me she would wake up sometimes and see her sister, seemingly possessed, sit up in bed and begin talking to things that weren't there. She told me she had seen demons wait at the foot of her bed for her, holding her down with glares.

She gave me my first deck of tarot cards - a vintage deck from the 1930s (she had forgotten later on that she gave them to me. She still has them) and I fingered them as if they were the most beautiful things in the entire world. I did her reading. It was accurate. I felt as though I had found a new extension of myself. That all feelings I had prior finally had something I could channel them with to make sense out of all the mush. Then came the dreams.

I wasn't me in my dreams. I was someone else. And as someone else I didn't know WHO I was, but I had a different personality and it was just another day in life. Until I fell off a banister, or until a car hit me or until I got so drunk that I died of alcohol poisoning. I wondered why I always died in my dreams until I saw flowers by the sides of roads where I died in dreams from the previous nights. I must have been about 12... needless to say, I was freeked out.

I told this to my stepmother. She had told me that sometimes, before puberty, this happens to girls. I didn't understand what menstruating had to do with having visions of future deaths in your sleep, but no matter. A bit after I got my period, it stopped. The last thing I remember is that one night, I was an older version of a girl I knew and I had died from falling off the side of a fire escape in a city area. I am hoping that this, all of this... was just a child's imagination run rampant.

I'd feel things in my bedroom when I slept. I'd hear the pitter patter of feet running up and down the stairs. Once I woke up and saw a great black cat standing on my ceiling and looking down at me. He seemed started that I could see him (we made eye contact. His eyes were a beautiful gold - almost foxlike) and he quickly vanished. But again, I can cancel this out saying that it's because I am bipolar and again, my mind runs rampant.

Cats. I always see them. When I moved to New Jersey, my stepmother had already left. I hated it here. I still hate it here.

My first night in the house, I woke up and couldn't move. I felt as though there was something heavy on my chest, pushing the air out of my lungs. I thought I was going to die. I began panicking. It seemed like an eternity until I could finally sit up and breathe. This happened often and then one night, I looked forward and saw a cat curled up on my chest, watching me. I tried to scoot away but it was too heavy and I couldn't move. Finally, somehow, I managed and fell backwards off the bed. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was that cat peering at me from over the mattress. Staring at me.

I woke up in bed with the sun up as if nothing had happened. I had never seen that cat before. I doubt I will ever see it again. But sometimes... when I dance around my house and I am neither here nor there, I see many of them, cats I mean. All around the house, diving behind closet doors, sitting on sofas. I double take and then they are gone.

I have had more instances of sleep paralysis here. One time, I couldn't feel my body at all. I looked and there were.... creatures dancing in my living room. I got up and joined them, they welcomed me but I felt more like a stranger and a tricked victim than a guest. I rationalized that I was asleep and tried to wake up, but I couldn't feel anything. When I did wake up, I switched my location for napping and took the floor. Again, I couldn't feel my body. All of a sudden, I had a sensation of flight like I was getting higher and higher and higher and it felt so good, so right! But then I thought "I'm dying. I'm leaving my body - I'm not ready." and I woke myself up. I wonder what would have happened if I just let it be.

I don't feel things anymore.

I don't know when it started, but perhaps it was when my brother started asking me if magick was real. Our mother would always give me looks when he asked, and I will look him square in the eyes and say "Anything is real if you believe in it." He believed in faeries. It drove my mom mad.

I think I lost faith because I didn't have any answers for him. Yes, I felt things. Yes, I believed in faeries, I believed in mermaids, I STILL believe in mermaids... but where's the proof? How didn't I know that these feelings weren't just a fantasy to escape to in my head to get away from all of the bullshit? I began to put my faith into science.

I ignored everything I felt around me. Told it to go away, told it to shut up. Locked myself indoors, only came out to go for a drive with friends and stay at their houses. At one point, I forgot how to call upon that tingly sensation I'd sometimes get that would surround my body. I'm not sure but, I think that's magick.

But at the same time, it could just be a self awareness.

See, I can't tell my brother that something is real, because I feel like I'm lying. Where is the proof? I try my hardest to be an honest person. I dislike lying. I feel like the scum of the earth whenever I do because I do it so WELL.

The last time I felt magick, I had just finished saving up for a second hand keyboard at a thrift shop. I put all my soul into saving up for it, you have no idea. I was numb to magick at that point and just moved on. But when I got to the counter, they told me it was already sold.

The pain I felt... I had gotten my hopes up that I could FINALLY record, FINALLY write on a keyboard that WASN'T broken, that I could FINALLY reach my dreams, that all the struggling had paid off. But it wasn't true. It was another lie. And I should feel stupid because I fell for it again.

I felt a power inside of me, a burning. An anger, a hatred. And so, I went home and locked myself in my room. My mind was a tirade of chaos, calling upon all the magicks I ever did and did not believe in and told them that if they were real, they would not have let this happen to me.

I told them that they could not exist.

I haven't felt anything since then. Nothing. I feel... human now. Different, less magical then I did as a child. Mundane. A lesser being. Worthless.


Whenever I am in a forest, I feel somehow connected with the earth. I cry whenever I see a tree cut down. I dive at bugs and save them whenever they are going to be stepped upon. I protect sprouts as if it's my life's mission. I never was this passionate when I still believed.

I feel as though I have a bigger connection with plants than I do with humans. Plants and animals. As if that didn't make me sound like a hippie.

I cry when trees die, I cry when I see roadkill. But I never cry when something horrible happens to the people I love. I didn't even cry when my friend Gabbi died.

Yesterday, I tried to astral project, but I got lost. It was pitch black and all I could hear was music. I think instead of going up, I accidentally went down into the deepest part of my mind. Neat, but not what I intended to do. I later scolded myself saying that astral projection hasn't even been proven and I was stupid for trying.

I miss the feel of being connected.

I'm stuck in the middle right now. I don't know what to believe. I do know though that I am scared and I fear the existence of magick. I got lost in it last time I believed in it. It took over my life. I was careless with my day to day living and started failing classes because I was too busy day dreaming about open fields and partially cloudy skies. Spells I would do when I got home. Soils I would ground myself on. No, I was never trained. I know next to nothing about wicca. But I could feel it. Or rather, I could feel SOMETHING.

Perhaps magick doesn't exist. But I do believe that there is something... alive about the earth. That we are all somehow connected with her. With the earth, with the stars (even scientists can not deny that we are all made of star dust).

The two things I still believe in are Mermaids and Astrology. I wonder why I can't be black and white on this subject. Why I can't rationalize anything here.

And this is what I've been musing about. I've been tossing and turning about it for the past nights. You see, I've been speaking to and hanging out with people who live magical lives as of late and they seem so happy...

I can summon that tingly feeling to my hands and it's stronger than ever. I just don't know what to do with it.

Friday, July 9, 2010

I've been having a lot of dreams lately in which I am raped or molested by older men.

At first, I didn't see the connection. I just had my third one in a row this morning and to be honest, I'm a bit hesitant to fall back asleep. But I realized as I was brushing my teeth that these dreams started when I picked back up writing my song about the time my 'friend' tried to rape me. Funny, when I think back on it I don't feel anything (probably because I try not to think back on it), but in my sleep, am I really that terrified?

It sickens me that something that happened four years ago can render me as weak as having problems just sleeping.

The only other connection between my dreams is that when I try and reach out for help, I can never receive it. One time, there WAS no help, another time the cops didn't believe me and this time, I was either too ashamed to call for help or 911 and 0 were down.

I wonder what my dreams are trying to tell me. They aren't vague dreams either - while they happen, I feel as though I am truly awake, which is strange because I am generally a lucid dreamer. But are they telling me I am ashamed? That I could have done more if I wanted to?

What happens in the attic... stays in the attic.

Monday, June 21, 2010

20's Fashion!

Upon request, I have been asked what 20's fashion looks like.

As I start writing this, I understand that this is easier thought of than explained, so please bear with me if my explanations are "WTF" or inaccurate.


The flapper.

The flapper is, I believe, the most popular 'fashion' to ever rise out of the 1920s for women. I'm dressed as one in the picture above. Ideally, I believe they were thinner... not saying I am fat. Simply saying that they were those girls that were boxy, short, and had very few curves. Flappers were the girls who were tired of all the Victorian era rules. "Your dress has to be THIS long, you hair has to be THIS long... blah blah blah..." Like having short hair? Thank the flappers. They were the first ones to chop off their hair into a bob and then finger waved it. As for dresses; flappers would wear dresses that went up above or teasingly on their knees. The bottom part of their dresses was very loose and would flap around when they danced. Hence, they were called flappers. Wear heels, dangly earrings, red lipstick (Shiny, not matte.) Let the lipstick drift more on the dark red side, rather than VeVa red. Remember, she dresses up like a time period a little later.

Another good thing to go by is the musical Chicago. Yes, that's 1930's, but the prohibition was from the 20's - the 30's and I believe that is the theme for the Shanghi Mermaid.

Makeup! Black eyeliner black eyeliner black eyeliner! BRING OUT THOSE EYES. I do not believe they drew on the waterline just yet, however the top lid was a MUST with black eyeliner. Make it dark, make it deep. I suggest liquid eyeliner. Also, black mascara is a must as well, even if you are blonde. Flappers liked to keep their eyebrows very thin - some even shaved the damn things off and drew them on! Don't mutilate your face if you don't know how, though :] Their faces were VERY powdered and were often described as looking whiter than death. Or like vampires, even. Also! Cheek rouge is a MUST. If you want to REALLY look like a flapper, apply your makeup at the shanghi mermaid by looking in a compact to do little touch ups. Flappers were known for whipping their makeup out in public, which at the time was very scandalous.

I suggest looking at pictures of Greta Garbo from the silent age of films, before her work in the 1940's or late 30's. Also look up the black and whites of Jean Harlow.

Hats! One of the popular types of hats is the one I am wearing above. Shown here. Women would stick all sorts of pins in their hats. Jazz it up. Make it you. This was another popular hat cut. Sometimes instead of hats, women would wear head bands. I couldn't find any good pictures of women wearing them, but they looked like this.

Jewelery! Dangle, dangle dangle! LONG necklaces that you can wrap around your neck twice, if possible. Remember, we want things to flap! Long dangly earrings, bangles to go on your wrists.

If you want to cover up on the train, you can wear an old fashion coat. If you need more of an idea on 1920's female fashion, remember that it was brought on by the enthrallment of the orient. Oriental print was IN at the time, sometimes women would even wear oboes on their dresses. Here's another example I found. If you need help, google 1920's dress. I've done just about all I can do. Any questions, ask away!


Heels. Fuck. Just.... this will give you a good example of shoes.


Easy. Wear a black suit with a white button up shirt underneath and a tie. I'd suggest a pipe, but I don't know if smoking is allowed in there, and if it is, I will hit you for joining in. I'd suggest looking up the black and whites of Ricardo Cortez

John Gilbert

Or Robert Montgomery.

All look the same to you? See? THE MEN HAD IT SIMPLE.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

I'm so fucking stressed right now and my body refuses to cry.

As of late, I have become self destructive again. I've refrained from most self injury though. I will admit, I slipped up a week or so ago when I couldn't find my razor and I tried to slice my leg open with a sewing pin. But I'm terrified of needles and the feeling was violating if anything, so I only scraped and didn't draw blood. It was reckless anyway - I didn't even sterilize it. I was frantic from the loss of my cutting stash and was willing to do anything, anything to let my skin breathe.

Whenever I get the urge to break anything, I tell myself that those mountains in the distance will be tackled when the time comes. It holds off my stress for a while. And when it returns I tell it the same thing and it goes away once more.

But now I'm at those mountains and there are many cross paths interfering with one another.

1. VKA meet. Veronica still hasn't gotten back to me about the location of the shanghi mermaid - I had to find the time of the performance myself. So many people are relying on me for this. I feel like, if anything, a giant failure. And really, who could I blame? Veronica? She has her own life, I'm not her responsibility. While it is not my fault, I still believe people will think it is.

What's more, I'm terrified about my checking account. I'm low on money. I'm scared something is going to go horribly wrong at VKAmeet and I'll over draft again. I can't afford that. I can't. I think I just won't eat while I'm there. Sides, Dad tells me I'm fat. I can go without a few meals.

2. My dog. I don't live at mom's. Cleo loves me, but I can hardly see him now, as I'm busy at home. Mom's house isn't a good place. It scares him. Mom won't believe me. I feel like a horrible being for falling in love with my dog and bringing him to my place. My mother literally has a killer's instinct. I am worried for Cleo's life. After all, she almost killed her sister once, so why wouldn't she kill my dog.

3. College finances. I'm a vocal major. I won't have the type of job that will just pay off loans and I'm going to be 100K in debt after graduation. God, if only the entire world knew what it was like to always want to hang yourself.

4. Meds. I'm going to be put on them soon. I've heard enough horror stories to know all that can go wrong.

5. I've begun to hate myself. How arrogant I've become. I feel stupid. Uneducated. Disrespectful. Lazy. Pathetic. Pointless.

Saturday, June 5, 2010

My mom.

It's no secret that I dislike my mother.

Today, my friend Pablo and I told his parents that he was transferring colleges and needless to say, they threw shit at hm. They refused to cosign a loan and refused to acknowledge the fact that they wouldn't be paying a cent for his college education.

When all hope seemed lost, he dropped me off at my place. My mom confronted him asking him how it went and offered to cosign for him. I was speechless. We shared a giant hug and things were going along great.

Then mom made a phone call and decided to have a drinking party at her friend's house. She then turned to us and told us to babysit my brother while she was gone.

Pablo said he couldn't because the driving curfew for provisional license holders is 11 PM and she'd be back after that, around 12 AM. Well, mom and I debated this a bit in Spanish and we decided that we'd take my brother job hunting with us and we'd meet her back at the house at 10:30.

Mom didn't call until 10:45. I could tell from her voice that she was drunk, if not only tipsy. I asked her where she was and her reply was "Oh, you didn't call me." Of course I didn't call her. Forgive me for trusting her to once be on time.

Anyway, she told us to pick her up. I asked where she was and she told me she was at so-and-so's house. I told her I didn't know who that was. She said it was next to another so-and-so's house. I told her I didn't know where that was either.

"Oh yes you do!" She said "You've been there before!"

"No, I have not."

"Well then, I'm NOT coming home." and she hung up. The fucking bitch hung up.

So, I called back and finally, she gave me directions. I hung up on her before she could ask for anything else.

So, we get to the house and my mom is outside in atrocious wear. Her eyes are glazed over and she is most certainly drunk. There is heat lightening flashing every 5 seconds.

Mom doesn't look happy at all. She refused to get into the car. She asked me "Where's Andrew?"

"He's at home sleeping. Get inside the car."

"No. Get out of the car. NOW."

So, I do and she begins telling me how I'm unreliable and how she's disappointed in me. I tell her that we're only a few houses away (for SERIOUS) and that she's left him alone for HOURS. This was only for a minute.

She wouldn't have any of it. She says she's not coming home and I brought this upon myself. She turns to leave when I lightly grab her arm and she fucking STUMBLES into me. I ask her how much she's had to drink.

She stops as if she really has to think about it and says "Three glasses". Which means somewhere around five.

I begin to plead with her to please come home. She asks me if I'm going to be there and I say "no."

"Well then, I feel VERY manipulated." And she gets into the back seat. She then realizes she left her keys inside the house and leaves the car, knocking on Pablo's window. "You know what? I'm very dissapointed in you too! To think I said I'd cosign a loan for you! You are a very, VERY disorganized person!

"I'm walking home! Goodbye!" And she walked away.

The car ride back was the first silent car ride Pablo and I ever shared. I was reminded of when I was younger and my mom was drunk all the time.

The most horrible part of this all is that mom is only this pissed because she's drunk. She's making mountains out of molehills. But tomorrow, it won't matter because she's in DENIAL that she's drunk, so there's no persuading her to think otherwise.

Pablo said he never expected her to cosign, really. That she'd bail out on him when he showed her the paper. I didn't say that I actually trusted her, only to have my trust trampled again.

I told Pablo I hated her today, and I think my little brother heard me. I can't hide how much I abhor her very well these days.

Mom kept calling me by my brother's name when she was drunk.

I wonder why I was born.

Monday, May 31, 2010

Goodbye Asylum.

So the Asylum has fallen.

I feel like I could quote a shit ton of EA's lyrics and throw them back at her, but I'm refraining. I WILL be mature about this, I WILL... lashing out solves little to nothing...

Why does this bother me so much? It's just html. It's just BBCode. Pretty, but that's basically it. I guess I felt as though we had finally achieved utopia. You know, the Asylum would have been just fine if she went and left it alone. But in the end, it's her house and we were all simply guests she invited in. Now she's taking her house back. I guess when she said 'we're taking back the asylum', she was talking about herself. Who knows? She could refer to herself in first person plural, just like I do.

This is hilarious. It really is. It's book worthy and I think I will do something with it. It's tragic, it's nerve wrecking. God, who cares WHY this is a bad idea for her, we ALL KNOW why this is a bad idea. But I won't be some bloody musician's plaything and financial support if she just reats me like SHIT. I'm stronger than that, I'm BETTER than that.

God damn, what have I feel doing. Idolizing a woman who can shred on violin and write good music. Yeah, you know what? She's good. But I'm good also. Hell, I could be better. What have I been doing, standing still in time. Going broke buying her shit when I could have bought a Korg by now.

The truth? When I become famous, I will NEVER do something so horrible to my fan base. I will treat them properly with the respect they deserve. NOT like pets. NOT openly using them for marketing purposes.

I am stronger than this. I am so much stronger...

Saturday, May 29, 2010


There is a misery in being old that I never wish to understand.

My father and I went up to CT today, but stopped off to visit his Aunt and Uncle along the way. Aunt Esta and Uncle Wally are rich. Rich rich rich. They live in an upper floor apartment on Park Avenue and have servants. They tour places in Europe whenever they are bored. Of course they'd be members of a high class country club in Weschester county.

No car in that lot was under $60,000. Everyone was high class. Everyone. The place was real ritzy, the majority of the servers were from Europe. And they were ALL gorgeous. Two of the girls were even my type and made me blush whenever I looked over which is AMAZING because I am incredibly picky. One red head from France and a girl with Indian origins from the UK. (She even had a London accent!) But I get off topic.

Anyway, we were eating with my Aunt and Uncle. The entire time, Aunt Esta was talking about people who had died. "Well, my best friend had died from cancer last year in November and see that woman there? That's so-and-so and her husband died three years ago. And that woman there is So-and-so, I invite her to eat with us because she's widowed. This place has really changed. Back in the day, I would dine regularly with all my friends, but they've all died or moved to Florida to die." And so on.

After eating, they decided to lounge around outside by the pool. I was watching my Aunt tremble as she walked (for, she was diagnosed with cancer and the chemo has taken a toll on her) when we bumped into her friend Tippi. She joined us and we lounged around, the servers fawning over us, always checking up on us. Bringing us drinks and being amazing. I was shocked over how my Great Aunt and Uncle were complaining about the service - we were being treated like Kings.

My Aunt complained about a lot of things. The kids in the pool and the fact that Tippi wasn't covered by the beach umbrella - she called a server over there to adjust it a few times. Tippi finally said:

"You didn't have to do that Esta, I'm fine."

"I'm here for you, Tippi."

"I know, and I treasure that more than anything in the world."

"You have no one left, Tippi."

"Yes but, what can you really do about it?"

Monday, May 24, 2010

I'm incredibly frightened right now. I have to monitor my mania because I keep going up. I...

I really want to get laid O-o

I seriously want to fall in love right now and have mind blowing hard core sex. I am slightly horny, I just feel so efhuikjnesdgfhviukjewgdsvihu;kjwesd

I just booked a trip to phili today that I can NOT afford. To take pictures of the VKA. I signed up for all these fic exchanges today all due in the same week. God, I want to get laid.

Like, now.

And I'm at the state where I will jump on the first person who introduces herself to me.

I've been thinking.

I had always been good at acting. My face would shift into any facial expression I could conjure, my voice could quiver with withheld agony and I'd create a dozen new people to take on. I never noticed all that could slip away. Hell, up until recently, I could cry on cue.

Yesterday, I was out with a very good friend of mine on a friend date. All was well, we were merry. It was great seeing him - I hadn't seen him in months. Then the topic of my ex was somehow brought up. That's cool, she's not an alien topic to me. I talk about her all the time between mutual friends.

I told him I had never put my hands under her shirt. He paused and he was like "I did" and I paused but then died laughing. (He meant prior to when she and I were dating). So, I laughed, told him he was wonderful, but and uncomfortable feeling settled inside of me. I felt it all the way home and it kept me up last night while I was in bed.

Why did I care? I dislike her immensely. The fact that I ever wanted her disgusts me. And yet, muted within, I feel that same hollow echo. Not as green as envy, not as red as anger... but brown. I realized that I hadn't felt this way for a long time, not since he told me it would be best if I just stopped thinking about her. Slowly, I began layering myself. It was the only way I couldn't live in a maddening agony every second of my life.


Now I'm this. I can't shift my face, can't quiver my voice. I'm slow to think, my memory has gone to shit. I don't think at all, I just am. I push away all thoughts as if they will be the end of me. I scream my current feelings in all caps but forget about them moments later. Like I have two selves - safe and cold, or lively and agonizing.

Can I really handle being lively at my current state? Sometimes, I feel as though these thoughts are just the mania doing its job. I don't want to wind up worse off than I am.

I will admit something though - I'm mostly afraid of turning warm again because something inside me tells me I will fall back into infatuation with V_ again. Though it makes no sense. She's a bitch, lazy, taking, fair weathered, a liar, self absorbed, selfish... What IS it about her that drew me to her?

Damn damn damndamndamn, as I type this, I feel my self destructive agonizing me clawing at within my chest.

See my predicament? God damn. Like the only way I could get over her is to throw myself at someone else.

Fucking mania. GO AWAYYYY.

Wait, actually.


Saturday, May 22, 2010

I'm not going to assume I know what's up with me.

My mind is racing. I'm immortal one moment, helpless the next. I want to say that this is still part of a very long 'mixed phase', but I feel as though I've lost all knowledge of those words.

I'm going to exploseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee he heh ehehehehehehehehehehehe fuck.


1. Make this list. Do not get distracted.

2. CLEAN YOUR ROOM. It's a hell hole and something tells me that this just adds to the reasons of why I'm so glitchy.

3. Set up a space for sewing. The sooner I start this, the sooner I can dress as I was always meant to dress - as a woman from the 1920s and 1930s

4. Do friend's essay that he is paying you to do

5. Study music. You wont get anywhere in life if you don't prepare for your dreams

6. Mind over matter. I know it's tiring and it makes you want to hang yourself, but if you don't think about it, nothing can go wrong.

7. Don't downtalk yourself. Don't say "This is just another burst of mania that will leave in a second" because even if it is, oh fucking well - you're doing SOMETHING, aren't you?

Alright then!

Oh, and also - get some fucking clothing on.
I want to break shit.

I really, really do. And I've always known I wanted to break things, just never realized that this impulse is constant.

My tightening grip on a door handle, the aggravation when I push open shower curtains, how I tug the covers around me when I go to bed, yes. This is what it's like to stop yourself from destroying everything in your wake.

Upon more thought, I am considering a conclusion of this being one of the reasons I self injure and one of the reasons I am immensely suicidal. It's when I want to rip things apart the most that I begin wondering how painful it would be to hang myself and start shredding my leg to bits.

It's been implanted into all of us that when we're in a house or restaurant, we must use our inside voices. We must be careful when handling knives and we must be gentle when handling fragile objects. My remaining impulse has always been to shatter them, but I've controlled it. Of course then I would turn to destroying myself.

I'm violent, I will admit. I enjoy rough housing; I've always enjoyed sparring with people and when I'm alone, I fight graphic battles in my head. I sometimes ask people what they imagine doing when they're angry or upset. They reply that they beat people up in their minds. I wonder what they'd think about me if I told them I torture my victims, whether innocent or guilty, in graphic detail before killing them. It's the only thing that can calm me down.

But after a while, I run out of energy and my father calls me to do chores around the house and every object I place I want to simply throw down, to see it shatter into hundreds of pieces before turning to the walls and beating them in with his antique metallic jugs or chairs. Destruction, destruction destruction destruction! That is what I want, what I need! I feel as though it may be the only thing that can save me from myself.

I've been eying more plastic bags, I have them laying around my room now just in case. I left a suicide message on the answering machine of my stepmom's cell phone the other day before I attempted. But the endorphins kicked in and I ripped the bag from my face - it's amazing, the defenses your body sets up. I had been expecting it the third time and STILL I ripped the bag from my face. It's as if deep down, I don't really want to die.

"Life gets better" they say, yeah, but then it goes to even worse shit than before. "But you have so much to give" but you aren't giving me back as much.

Fact: I'm a brilliant writer.

Fact: I'm a brilliant singer

Fact: I pick up on things faster than others

Fact: I am hilarious

Fact: I make people feel good

Fact: When I dress up, I am gorgeous

Fact: I am talented enough to influence the world

Fact: None of this helps me at all.

Yes, this is all wonderful. But none of it makes me happy. Not for longer than a day at most. Everyday I am living an infernal existence and I have NO REASON for feeling this way. I am miserable. I force myself out of bed, I force myself to stay AWAY from bed (right now, I am failing), I cant tell anymore when I'm up or down, death seems like a much better option that life.

Sylvia Plath once called this sort of existence a 'bell jar'. And you know, she's right. I don't think she could be any farther from the truth. I'm always being watched, you know. But this predicament is one sided and I can never join in.

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Suicide Hotline Trial 2

Second time was a lot better than the first.

The lady on the other end was very caring and affectionate. She didn't stop between sentences, she was human.

She made me promise not to hurt myself anymore today and she was so nice, I may just hold onto my promise to her.

She told me to tell my therapist about all this, but the truth is that he worries so much. He might contact the hospital and I don't want to go there. What would he say if he knew I tried to suffocate myself today 3 times? Stupid endorphins - if it weren't for them, I'd be comfortable and dead by now.

I told myself over and over my mind was just playing tricks on me. Perhaps drowning would be a better alternative to plastic bags.
I'm not okay.
My garbage bag had holes in it. I didn't notice until 7 minutes later when I realized that while breathing had become harder, it wasn't getting any worse.

I feel light headed, I am dizzy, but I have no means of obtaining another garbage bag and my razor is too small to cut through more than a couple layers of skin.

It's funny - as I was laying there, I was comfortable waiting for blackness. Anxious, but mostly comfortable. I then began to think "All the poetry running through my head, wouldn't it be wonderful to show it to someone one day? To let people know what it's like to feel your breath becoming more forced, how your head perspires in sweat from the heat of your breath." Even in death, my mind is my enemy. Tempting me to stop.

But, alas, my bag had holes in it. Alas, alas.
I've left everything undone.

I have a million regrets, but not enough to stop me from wanting to do this. Breathing hurts me now and my bones are shattered from being thrown against the ground and ceiling. There is more obstacle for me than road. All my life, I've wondered if it's worth it.

Not breathing feels more comforting than breathing for me right now. How lovely it seems to not breathe at all...

I no longer with for legacy. Just sleep.

I don't expect the world to understand.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Suicide Hotline

Guess what I did today?

If you said 'Called a Suicide Hotline', then you are correct!

How I feel about them? Well, take a look.

Suicide Hotlines are basically people who probably need no more than 4 years of college trained in psychology operating a national hotline. The woman I spoke to was very nice, but here's the thing - I could hear her technique.

She was very young, first off. I'd say she was around... 23-25 years old. The technique is basically to distract the person who is suicidal until they don't feel that way anymore. My favourite part was when she told me the people around me would care if I died.

I replied "That's the thing - I don't CARE if they'll care. When you're dead, it doesn't matter."

"Do you think no one would care if you died?"

"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that when you're dead, whether people care about you or not is irrelevant. I know it's incredibly selfish, but I don't care at this point."

Again, she tried using my empathy against me. Oh, but wait. I don't HAVE empathy so it was a shitty tactic.

At the end of our conversation, she then used this tactic "Can you promise me something? Promise me after we hang up, you will not commit suicide." I can understand that this is protocol for ending all suicide hotline conversations. But it's not like I'll hold onto this promise as if it's the only thing I have in the world. My friends, I am sitting on a blanket. Under that blanket is a high quality down comforter. Underneath that down comforter is a bed that I screwed a girl on until she screamed her lungs out. Rather than having NOTHING in the world, I can have ANYTHING in the world. Treasuring a promise doesn't quite work for me.

But I told her "I don't have the time to kill myself anymore. My friends will be here soon." She was hesitant, but it was better than a 'no'.

We hung up.

End conversation.

Meh, it was worth a shot.

Monday, May 10, 2010


Battered between the floor and ceiling
I no longer have bones to break anymore.
How pathetic it is to complain about something so simple as breathing
My mind is a plague of destructive and murderous thoughts
Whether against others or myself
I have forgotten what it's like to feel carefree and happy

Even the voices have left me.
Even the one I had grown most fond of
We spoke only once but
She was the ideal girl I had painted since I hit puberty

Life is hell
Life is a nightmare
Life is living amongst the living but not living yourself
Life is a sham
Life is sadistic
Life... is something I was never cut out for.

Why me.
Why these genes in this combination
Why this soul in this body in this situation.

Someone begged me today not to kill myself.
He said it was alright to want to as long as I didn't finish the job.
He is my best friend.

And the horrible thing is: I think I'm past the point of caring.
I wonder if I should be thankful for my vanity.

Yesterday was Mother's Day. As a gift, I had gotten her the lipstick Ruby Woo (Which she applied incorrectly and tried to hide her distaste for it). We both agreed it looked better on me... I was sort of hoping that she'd give it back to me.

So I had this lovely lipstick on my lips and because I was cold, my mother let me wear her olive windbreaker. Usually her clothing is much too large, but this jacket was only a little too large and to be honest, it looked kind of nice. Really nice, actually.

We spent a good 3 hours gardening. The lipstick began to wear off and while mom was off doing things, I took a good look in the full length mirror...

The jacket opened up at the top sort of like a military uniform would. I unzipped it slightly so you could just see the back lace of my shirt underneath. At the angle I was standing at, I could see a tease of my collarbone and a bit more before it ran under the security of my jacket.

I thought "If I die, this will all go away." The gold of my skin, the black of the lace and the olive of the jacket... what a beautiful combination of colours it was. The shadows and the highlighting intensifying it all the more.

I love colours. It's one of the three things that can turn me on (the others being sound and words).

I wonder what would have happened to me if I didn't try that jacket on.

Sunday, May 9, 2010

I'm sick of the ups and the downs, I don't know where I am anymore. I'm confused, I'm energetic, I'm depressed, I'm excited, I'm a wreck I have no future.

I've never been so bad in my entire life. My leg is a cross hatch of red my mind drifts to any method of suicide, which is the least painful way to go. Which would kill me the quickest so I can't be caught. Just to end all the ups and downs, just to get of this roller coaster ride, I just want out.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

I hate my bipolar disorder.

I don't find it fair that while some women are raped on a daily/weekly basis, children watch their families murdered before their eyes because of their totalitarian government, people are dying from hunger because of poverty and I just lie in my nice cozy bed all day in complete and utter woe. How pathetic I feel, as I lay here.

All my life, my dad's family has preached to me about being self efficient - my stepmom, a person who I loved more than anyone else in the entire world, was the most self dependent person I ever met in the entire world. So why this? I know I'm smart, but each day I sit rotting away, I feel my intelligence rotting with me...

I read half as fast as I used to. I can't remember information from hours ago, fuck it, I can't even bare to get out of bed. Me typing this is my attempt at dragging myself out, even if I'm only sitting up.

I write my blog always. Even when I'm not at the computer I hear words. Words words words words words. I like words. I always have. I just wish I could do more with them than complain.

A lot of bipolars have it worse than me so why the fuck do I wallow so much?

I wish I could be more like Katy Hepburn... All her life she was motivated by "I'll show them....I'll show them... I'll show them..." Mind over matter. She just kept going and going and couldn't bare to stay still. It sounds simple - if after the first month of constant moving forward, will it become easier? Will I become numb to this undertow...?

The Bell Jar

I gave in last night.

I couldn't not. I was expecting my mania to last longer; it usually last longer than a week at least. But it didn't. It was a very short burst. It was almost feeling... 'normal' and teetering on the edge of mania.

All of a sudden, my solid ground turned sand and I began sinking. It was maddening. I was in the car with my father when it happened and as soon as I felt it, I stopped mid sentence but then picked up where I left off. Usually my mixed phases last a few days. This one only lasted a few hours.

I tried to distract myself. Read funny comics, spoke to people. I hate my scars so why would I wish to create more? But I kept feeling that pulsing... that feeling dragging me under and pushing up against my flesh screaming to be released, and really - what could I do?

I told my friends goodnight and went to my locker-bureau. I couldn't find my razor.

I was sent into a frenzy of panic. Where was it? I moved aside all my clothing, eventually emptied the damn thing and still could NOT find my razor. Eventually, I found it on the floor with my clothing. The desperation turned my want to cut into need.

In the end, I discarded the old razor and picked up a new one (which in the end, turned out to cut so much cleaner) and sat on my bed, beginning to draw out the cuts. I always go slow at first and don't break the skin. Ironic as this sounds coming from a self injurer, I'm scared of pain. I hate it.

After a while though, pain DOES become bearable...

I made a few cuts on my inner thigh and watched the blood dribble to the surface. I slowly began making my way outward. I slowly gave in to where I truly wanted to cut - my leg. Not my inner thigh, but my leg. I didn't fucking care if it would be visible while I wore a bakini, I just... I NEEDED it.

Let me tell you how amazing it was. It was a hell of a lot more comfortable than my inner thigh! But then it began nicking... nerves, I believe. I couldn't help but gasp at how amazing it felt... (to think slicing through skin could actually bring pleasure) and as the pulses of ecstasy died down, I thought "Now I know why people believe in their own madness... this must be how it feels to be mad."


The other day, I was in the car with my sister. I hadn't seen her in months because she goes to school in Ohio. We decided to have lunch at a nice Thai place; my Pad Thai came with some egg in it, but I thought that the harm was already done, may as well not complain and just eat it. (In the end, I couldn't eat the egg because I felt so sad). My sister began talking to me about the women in Ohio who were trafficked. I did the stupid thing and asked her what trafficking was.

"It's sex slavery." She said and I immediately understood. She then began saying it was prostitution which I countered with "No, it isn't. You have a choice to prostitute yourself to an extent. Sex slavery, you're locked away and brought out to a surprise person each time and then thrown back into your cell." She then replied that as a prostitute, aren't the conditions the same?

"Yes." I said. "To an extent. In the end, you always have the final say. There is a DIFFERENCE between trafficking and prostitution, Leah. Otherwise, both actions would have the same name. These two words aren't synonyms."

We began talking about other things when she saw me push the egg aside. My sister gave an obviously dramatic sigh.

"Oh Sarah, why are you a vegan? You should put your efforts towards a more worthy cause..." Oh no she wasn't - "Like, save the whales if you have to - but what about all the homeless and trafficked women in Ohio? Why not save them..."

At this point, I put my hand on her knee and smiled a quirky smile. "Leah, I'm going to be completely honest with you - I like animals a hell of a lot more than I like people."

She gave me a smile as if she knew what was best for me and replied "Yes... and that's what's so sad."


I began reading Sylvia Plath's "The Bell Jar." It's strange... to see someone writing down words that you've thought and felt for practically all of your teenage years in the exact words you've thought them in. Sometimes, I do believe in reincarnation.


Tomorrow is Mother's Day. I spoke to my sister on the phone last night, before I did anything. I told her not to pick me up this morning. I told her "I'm going down." and there was silence from her end.

Finally she said "But is that really what's best for you?" I told her that when I get like this, all I want to do is sleep and sleep... "Yes, but is that really what's best for you?" She asked yet again, and then pushed forward. "I think it's better for you to be around other people. You shouldn't be left alone."

Exhausted, I replied "Leah, when I'm out, all I'll want to do is sleep. I don't have the energy to pretend right now."

"Call me tomorrow. And tell me then if you want me to pick you up or not."

Doesn't she understand that I hate being around people when I'm this way? That THIS is when I get bitchy, defensive. This is when I want to be alone but when she, my mother and my brother are all together, it's constant tug of war between the three of them and I have only two arms.

She always speaks to me as if she knows better. Because she's sat through ONE psych class, she knows what's BEST for a manic depressive and I hate to bitch, but while she's been sitting through one semester with only one or two weeks covering manic depression, I've had it for YEARS, so fuck off.

Maybe if for ONCE people left me alone, I wouldn't feel so awful.

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Ex

Here's what's pissing me off.

I considered my last relationship another failed relationship. But in a way, I felt as though it was the greatest failure of all. Sure, unlike all the others I never loved her - hell, I didn't really care for her. She could have died and if she left me a fortune, at least I'd have the money, But here's the thing - feeling that way was WHY I consider if the greatest failure of all.

I despised myself after the breakup. Yes, I wanted the breakup as badly as she did - even more so. I couldn't stand to be around her. Was she a bad person? No. I didn't think so. Did she do something to hurt me? Not that I knew of. I just couldn't stand pretending. At night, when she'd come to bed, I'd be in one of my deepest downphases. She wouldn't take no for an answer, I had to satisfy her before she fell to sleep. The entire time, I just wanted to curl up and cry... I would see her out of duty of being a girlfriend. It was a qualification. It came with the package.

She told me she knew what bipolar disorder was. She told me she understood.

She told me a lie.

She didn't know the word 'downphase'. She didn't understand the extent of mania. She didn't realize that sometimes... sometimes I could just fly...

We started dating when I was coming up from a downphase. I think she was used to me becoming happier and happier. But then I fell. She told me she would be there to catch me. I was just stupid for believing her.

I could see it then... and I can see it now... her telling her friends that I'm just not there anymore. That now she has to get me in the mood to do any experimenting. How she shyly tells them she she's never been able to make me come... though that was mostly her fault. It doesn't matter how aroused I was, she was just god awful. She doesn't know that the one time I came at her hands, it was because I was fantasizing about someone else... someone who doesn't even exist. Someone with pale hair and blue eyes. A ghostly palour and the warmest most beautiful smile... a character I created in a book. The lover of my main character I stole my name from, Kiska. Her name is Fakir. In the book, Fakir grew up and changed... but in my fantasy, I focused on when she was still untouched by the icy cold understanding of fate and how it is inescapable. I came at the thought of her smile.

She broke up with me because I was never around. Well gee, I wonder why. I don't think it's unrealistic that I wanted to avoid her and how dirty she could make me feel. (I had told her multiple times that I wasn't in the mood... that I didn't like always necking and that I'd prefer talking. She'd reply that we had been talking for an hour already.) I broke up with her for the obvious reason as stated above. And because she was arrogant. And because she was racist.

I just didn't realize how large of a hypocrite she was.

Even in my upphase, I was worried. My Mother is a notorious cheater. When happy, I am a lustful person. I always desire touch. I was scared that since her blood ran through my veins, her actions did as well... I had told Ryssa this fear of betrayal and she laughed saying "As long as you're worried about it, it means you will try your hardest to not be like her." I never found anyone I would cheat on her with, but I made a conscious effort to think up scenarios in case I did. In the end, I would always resist. Perhaps sometimes I'd come close to giving in... but I'd be good. Part of this fear branched from my first ex who always told me I was a horrible person. Again, it's my fault for believing it.

But then I found out...

She told me today. Ryssa, I mean. She told me she kissed her roomate while we were dating. And it wasn't a platonic kiss as in the VKA, oh no, she really really liked this boy. I'm sure she dreamt about running away with him.

I laughed it off, a bit in shock. She told me she didn't know if I considered it cheating. I shook off the answer with "You always said you hated bisexuals. Now you're turning into everything you hate - tell me, are you French too?" All her racist comments about the French... they drove me insane. I doubt she had ever met a French person.

She laughed it off and finished the conversation. It took a while for it to hit me.

I hated myself ever since the breakup.

I blamed myself. Sure, I knew she was being a hormonal arse, but still I blamed myself. I felt as though there was something wrong with me, that it was my bipolar. That NO ONE could ever love me because I felt this way and in return, I could never love them. Never feel connected, always feel that that short coming was from MY end. These scars on my legs because I felt as though I was scum - she knows not internal solitude. All this time worried and beating myself up over what I held inside, what had not yet happened and she had already gone through with something I dreaded not even having the balls to tell me.

Not even having the balls to tell me THAT is what gets me!!! Lack of communication from my side? Bull shit! Bull FUCKING shit! I TOLD her when I wanted to kiss Veronica... if she said 'no', whether I would have done it or not in the end I would have told her the next time I saw her.

How stupid I feel.

No, I never liked Ryssa. No, I never cared for her. No, I would never date her again. But that doesn't stop me from feeling like a blundering idiot.

Surely it makes sense to feel this way? It's events like these that remind me that it's safer to just keep my distance.

What if next time, I really like a person? And I do all those things that I did with her?

What if in the end, the outcome is the same?

I feel as though some part of me that must be still alive would scream out its final agony. Scream it as if EVERYONE could hear it and when it realizes they can't, it will just scream some more...

My future has no room for a lover anyway, so I'm safe.

Music. Stick to music. We don't have room for a bloody lover.

Sunday, April 25, 2010


In all my recent dreams, only two things have been the same. One, I have attempted/succeeded at dying and Two, for some reason, someone always brings up me being a man.

My dream last night was no exception. For some reason, I dreamed of VeVa. I was in NYC for some reason (I'm assuming) and met up with Veronica. We were talking, laughing, went for a ride in a car and talked some more. At some point in the dream, Veronica asked me if I was actually a boy. My answer was fumbled (for it usually is when I am sleeping) and I answered that "Yes, in my dreams I am, but maybe... maybe I am really both." but she started freaking out like "Crap, I kissed you. How could you lie to me like that? B will throw a fit, I can't believe I actually kissed you..." and I was aggravated, confused and a bit scared, so I ran from the car.

Really pathetic dream, eh? I think I died that time from a razor blade, but I can't remember.

What I CAN remember is that each time I attempt to die, I start getting scared, but only AFTER I made the fatal wound/ swallow the fatal pills/ etc. It's like "Crap, this is really it. I'm really going to die. No more chances. This is it - this is the end." But then afterwords, I get... calm. Like "It's over. No more problems, no more expectations, no more responsibilities. No more wondering what is wrong with me. For once... I can just be." And then I die. But I always wake up. Always.

This time, I woke up to the sound of my mother's voice, loud and obnoxious with two other people in the other room. I opened the door and called out if they could just be quiet, it would be wonderful. It was after 12 o'clock. My mom's reply was "Sure!" And I went back to bed. She didn't quiet down at all. Didn't even attempt to. So I went to the door again and got the same response. I waited ten minutes before doing it again and after that, I couldn't take it anymore. I got my clothing on (the Kiska is most comfortable nude) and walked out the door.

There she was, sitting on her couch and - I KNEW it - with a glass of wine in her hand. She and her friends looked up at me, looking mock frightened, but mostly amused, and said "I'm sorry Sarah - funny times are happening." and then I just threw it at her.

"I am trying to sleep, I asked you nicely THREE times, you have TWO young boys sleeping in the next room! Shut up, you're drunk." She looked up at me like "WOAH" and her friend (who up until this point, liked me very much) said "Sarah, she only had two glasses..." I began to tell her that she was drinking before she even arrived when my mother cut in.

"That's not the point. You have NO right to speak to me this way like you're my mother..."

"Well, nothing else seemed to work. Perhaps I should give this a try."

"Sarah, go to sleep."

"Oh, I WOULD..."

And I stomped off back to my room. She knows I hate noise when I sleep. Whenever I visit, this is usually the largest argument we have. And it's not even that she's talking on the phone or with friends, it's that she blasts the TV and her mini DVD player even when she isn't watching it. What's more, she sits RIGHT IN FRONT OF IT. The entire time, she complains that she can't hear it, but then contradicts herself saying her hearing is fine. We had finally come to a compramise. She plugs ear phones in her ears when she's watching her DVD player, which is wonderful because she sleeps with it on and when it isn't on, she complains she cant sleep.

So I get to bed and she and her friends start speaking in spanish... as if I can't understand. My mother starts.

"The little killjoy..." She says, as I hear her and her friends place their glasses on the table (Which are still right in front of me. On the table.)

Her friend (who we shall call B) continues "I understand where she's coming from, but she didn't have any right telling you to shut up. I wouldn't have allowed it." They continue talking about me, loudly until the conversation dies out and changes to something new.

If they really understood where I was coming from, they'd understand that sleep is my only solace in the world and they are gleefully taking away from me that only thing that makes me feel sane.

Now, as to why I am still here, at my mother's house when I so clearly hate it...

I came here to go with my brother to Washington DC. It was aggravating, but in the end, fun. My brother had never been there before, he's eight. It was aggravating because he has all the symptoms of having ADHD (I hope this is not true. If so, my mother doesn't believe in mental disorders and he's ALREADY doing horribly in school... ) and my mother walks about 5 times slower than me. She always complains. We always have to wait for her. I felt like the parent between two polar opposite kids.

But I took my brother to the air and space museum. He loved it. I believe that in the end, it was worth it.

I spoke to my mom after. I told her that my diagnosis sheet was written up. Because of this, she should do her part and start helping me with my college. My mother replied "No." Saying she didn't have to. In the end, she told me to apply for financial aid (Which I HAD) and if they didn't help me, then MAYBE she would.

Do you see what this is?

It's fucking blackmail. I have to keep her happy... for a maybe. But what other choice do I have?

She then said that if I do work for her on the weekends (Yes, EVERY weekend) she'd give me $10. It's not much at all. But I need it. I need every fucking dollar I can get my hands on. Yes, this is how desperate I am.

That's why I'm still here. For $10. Bloody hell.

But after last night, I do not know if I'll receive ANY money what so ever. I fucking hate her. It's the truth, no exaggeration. I hate my mother.

I hate how she stole all my father's money (I'd be a millionaire right now, if she didn't), I hate how fucking manipulative she is, I hate how she's the embodiment of the Catholic sin Sloth, I hate how she used to be a druggie drunk that abused my sister and I - even our CATS, and now that she's found God, she believes that all is forgiven, and the worst part? I hate that she's related to ME. I hate that I feel her in my BLOOD, I hate that I look in the mirror and see the shape of her face, I hate that some flaws inside of me come from HER and I HATE HATE HATE that I have to live with this. I have had dreams where I murdered her. I have had many.

My brother is the only reason I come back. He misses me, he needs me. I teach him things my mother wouldn't even dare, he is not my child but he's the closest thing I will ever have to one. I take comfort in the fact that he is more like me than he is like her.

I want to be alone. I'm sick of people. My shoulders are tired. I can no longer be not selfish. I hate that all my blogs mention suicide, but honestly, these days suicide is all I can think about.

Sometimes, I'm scared that if I don't kill myself, I'll kill everyone else.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

More Poetry Drabbles.

3. As a little girl
I fingered the knife wounds in your legs
Enchanted by fascination

You had told me the very woman who held you in her womb
Chained you to the radiator
and left you to bleed out your very life from shrieking flesh.
But not before returning to cast your brother aflame.

I thought I had it lucky.
Never questioned what was sure to be a normal life
Until stated by my Grandmother the fear imprisoned in my bones
At the mention of my mother.
I thought
"Isn't this what a mother's love is?"
Because as long as I didn't have permanent indents in my thighs
I could be forcefully locked away from kin
and do no more than lie and dream of nourishment
For up to three days.

4. Magic doesn't exist at the end of the world
And it certainly doesn't exist over the edge of a bridge.

It wasn't supposed to be this way.
You see, like any boy, he only wanted approval and good fun
Like all the other kids his age.
Fun is in the eyes of the beholder.

Almost every culture has it's own ceremony
For coming of age.
So why should a gang be any different?
And this group of cowboys only accepted men.

So the boy stood as instructed with a sack in his hand
Warmed by the heat and scurrying of fur
Weighed down by mewling, a rock
and the knowledge that this mistake would haunt him
for the rest of his life.

And as life slows so he may deflower his ears with
the sound of a splash
His eyes register an event that no six year old should even dream of.

The boy was now a murderer.

5. My Father once asked me
If I now despise you so much
Why did I ever want you?
And I took the easy way out and replied
"You know those relationships
that make you want to slap your forehead and say
'What was I thinking'?"
And we were both content with my lie.

But I wasn't thinking
I was feeling
Gracing my fingers across her lips
As if I could feel the catacombs of her soul
But I didn't know
and it never occurred to me
That NOTHING is buried in a wall aside from dead bodies
You can't coax love form a decaying corpse.

The vampyres were more romantic in your books
And so plastic
Plastic enough to glow rainbow in the fucking sunlight.

Did you read Carmilla?
Beauty her only glamour
Even which could not conceal the repugnance of her soul
Looking to be her very dusty maggot infested corpse
Decomposing behind a stone wall


We may dress vampyres up to be pretty
Give them souls
And hearts of sappy 16 year old romantics
But this is only the modern stereotype
And the truth is what most people are never educated to know.

So when my father asks "Is she is so wicked
Why fall for her in the first place?"
I reply
"Because I was never taught to know any better."

(In the catacombs of your soul
Are the bodies you have and will bury.
And I am only one of them.)

6. There are no faeries where I live
I know this to be fact.
No slyphs riding on the back of Guinea fowl
Or hiding behind eroded stone after tugging at the whiskers of a cat.

They'll never travel form their tiny homes
If I left them milk by one of the few trees
My landlord hasn't chopped down
For the sake of profit.

In this ranch
On this farm
I feel the starkness of dead time
With no magick to propel it forward.
My cat,
the only entity to remind me of the life that has been lost.

You see, I am a spiteful spectre
As vindictive and unforgiving as father Time himself
Or at least, how I imagine Him to be.

These cushons have faded from the dazzling emerald
That lit up the room like pixie dust
when my Grandma was still alive.

She told me
That you're never too old to believe in faeries.
For who are we to say that something can not exist?

And I remember the cicada wings
she used to bring me with my morning yogurt.
how she would say a faerie shed them
for more beautiful ones
And tried with all her very soul to make me believe

Ah, but you see
There are too many words to remember when you're feet in the ground
So, years later, when Fate herself deceived me
Each time I emerged from the vacuum of my house
I didn't understand that this was just her test and my trial.
So I pulled forth all my memories of cicada wings and brick mansions
And shed them with my lack of compassion
Called upon all the magicks I hadn't visited since childhood
And told them that they

And to me... I suppose they don't anymore...
Just like I'm not even a memory to them.
Solely another human that sits on its faded wrinkled throne
Wrestles fate
And murders.

Random Poetry Scribbles

Just wrote these down. They are unedited and suck, but it's an idea of my writing. These were from random prompts I got at Loser Slam.

1. You are an exit wound
A reminder of misfortune come to pass
The awkward girl wearing shirts
long enough to hide her knee caps
but refusing to wear a dress.
The boy crying over the loss
of his cancerous Grandmother.
A black umbrella opens in my chest
If only to shield from the remembrances
What had passed
The scent of oversprayed perfume
In a closed apartment room.

The good part about living in your car?
The air tastes of pollution and dirty laundry
And I have never been here before -
for once, I don't need Lithium
And I am at ease
I don't know how old I was
when the music stopped
And I woke to static
When I tripped over morning light and stumbled down cells
Time has become meaningless
And I wonder why you allow this bum to occupy your SUV

You always woke up swinging
I wonder if you felt empathetic with me
and blamed yourself for making ready my pendulum
Darling, I was swinging before I even met you
You were just there to watch it fall.

It was supposed to be a summer of love
It was - just, not for you
15 years later and broken in a sewer
Gripping with the life I had lost
Pink pills and broken promises
Remember, remember, remember...

Monsters... don't live under the bed anymore
But in every shadow
Up every tree
In the head lights of every car that passes my way
Honey, I am numb to you
Numb to your regretful eyes that fail in relaying apologies,
Hands that untangle my knotted hair
And deadened to lips that tearfully whisper apologies
From 15 years ago.

2. She is the sand and yet unseen
You don't notice her
Her head is just another stone
Legs just two more pillars of soil
I am relieved you don't realize I dream of her
When in your bed
Feel our connection when you beat me down -
to you, her chocolate eyes are just two more shadows wandering where they don't belong
They comfort me.
Only to her will I surrender
Her skin may be the shade of Filth
But her tongue is legions more fertile than the desert in your mouth.
With her kisses
I can finally breathe.
Her fingers excite my ever nerve like a carpet filled with static,
you have only ever tried to hold me in place.

She needs me
but in a way unlike a child desperately groping for his property.

You are a wasteland
And I no longer with to see our ruins.