Thursday, November 26, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
nothing has changed.
sometimes there are twinges, cramps, knots of pain in my belly.
sometimes i think i see blood on my sheets.
when i bring them to my face, they're pristine hospital white.
the notion that i've failed without even getting a chance to try doesn't dim
you send me a message, like a teenager. i'm too angry, i'm too hurt. you just sat there, last time i saw you. you sat there and let him rip into me like a rabid dog. you sat there until finally i tore myself away. the words that left your mouth were as awful as his.
you promised, you promised you were always going to be on my side.
and today you send me a message, like a teenager. "i don't really know what to say."
i'll tell you what to say.
"i shouldn't have let that go so far."
"i'm so sorry."
"are you ok?"
"how can we fix this?"
in this whole fucking debacle, people have overlooked most conveniently, how hurt i am. i am bleeding, i am bruised, i am limbless. this is physical, because if i think about how upset i am, how sad, how angry, then things will get worse. you've caused enough damage.
they talk about how it effects them. how it pains them, the void between us. i find it hard to care, when my throat still feels ripped raw from the things i was trying not to say.
it would have been easy for me to be as rabid as you two. i'm known for my viciousness. which is why everyone uses me as target practice.
i don't think i can be bothered anymore. i'll call it in, i'll let you see this as a victory.
but i don't think i'll ever let you in on any of my plans again.
it hurts too much, thats the general thrust of things. too much to make anything good happen
Monday, November 16, 2009
all the times it could have been different.
was it my fault? when i tore down the sky, when i condemned God. when i opened my mouth. when i bought into repetition as a literary device of merit. was it my fault?
as children we were emperors, lords, ladies, baronesses, paupers, theives, sailors, pirates, military men, mermaids, pilots, librarians, accountants. we had vast possibilites, value, worth, as children.
endless filler. because as an adult, the possibilities and the value and the worth are harder to grasp if the dollar doesn't give you wet dreams.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
of course, other times you act like such a fuckwit it's hard to see how you managed out your front door alive."
Saturday, September 26, 2009
it ended with a bloody fist and a bruised ego.
it's always been violent, with me. you need to remember that. it's always been violent because somehow i got violence confused with expression and decided to always wear a scowl.
you used to be so hungry for fame.
i've always been wolfing down the infamy.
it was pretense that brought us together, it was me who tore us apart. because i don't like being lied to, i don't like being cheated. don't try to slide the queen of hearts out of your shirtsleeve, she's been in my wallet for years.
i don't have cheekbones, talent or motivation. what i do have is miles and miles, gallons and gallons of bile and venom and vehemence because that's easier, isn't it?
you should know. you've got the same.
it was your fightclub against my lessthanzero
sometimes i catch a glimpse of you, in a sweaty club, in a darkened bar, in a brickcrumbling alley. sometimes i think you catch a glimpse of me, despite my best efforts.
sometimes you think people want more than you can give. you're wrong. they don't want what you have to give. they just want to know everything about you, everything that makes you you. they want to understand, because if they understand, then they can own. and if they can own, then they can be powerful.
don't you get it?
so you tried to destroy the dream you'd built. while i tried to reenact my nightmares.
we failed, miserably
victory never suited our complexions
my personality has always been a lie – i can spin them faster than i can say them. it may be that i don't want people too close, so i let them befriend someone else. maybe if i didnt, maybe you and i would have gotten on better.
except for the fact you do exactly the same thing.
we were always reluctant recalcitrant twins.
steeped in alcohol, spitting our teeth on the ground.
i started as an itch under your skin and a deadline in your eyesight
you ended with a bloody fist and a bruised ego.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
i'm very tired. very very tired and if you asked, i'd tell you i was beyond tired, whatever that means. i can't see a point to all this anymore. after all, when no one thinks what i'm doing is worthwhile - why should i? and i know i used to talk about supernovas and i used to get back up so quickly, but there just doesn't seem to be a reason anymore. its offputting.
a lack of affection has always haunted my household.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
and you know that you never believed in regret or hindsight, but maybe maybe maybe another shot at all this, and you wouldn't mess it up so badly. maybe you'd be different.
the words stopped. they stopped and they stuttered. a giant blockage that made me think maybe this wasn't what i wanted. a fat girl told me i was ugly. a french boy used his fingers in ways that should have been illegal, and whatever it was that i took in amsterdam, it damaged me. i wanted to be a child again, even though i knew i couldn't. i wore dresses, party dresses, coloured dresses and hoped that my small stature would have me mistaken for a three year old, and someone would hold me until the universe stopped hurting. when we were younger, everything was easier because we were deaf, blind and dumb. the innocence rolled off us in waves, in hurricanes, in kisses. now when i look outside myself, the world seems stupid, seems doomed and crazed and like nothing i do will make a difference. i never wanted this, i never asked but it is what it is and once i would have said i'd fight it tooth and nail. now though, i'm much more inclined to button my lip and say nothing.
because now i am a joke. i am a jester. a fool. people look through me with eyes of scorn. i have failed, spectacularly so, and they want to make sure i never forget it. recovery is not an option. i threw myself off my pedestal, caught my limbs in thorns and still refused to lower my head. there is no room for people like me. for heretics, for intellectuals, for academics, for dreamers. people laugh at me when i open my mouth and fanciful ideas come out. i am surrounded by the self conscious insecure awkward, and i am the easiest target available. because now i am i a joke, i am a jester. but they forget that i was always a fool.
it's becoming apparent that i don't like anyone i know, and that they don't like me. so i'm getting vicious, i'm getting nasty and i'm tearing myself a new hole in the world. i spend hours sobbing on my own, and no one ever comes to stroke my hair. so i'm getting vicious, i'm getting nasty. i'm getting single minded. i'm getting back up and i'm getting stronger. every wall i put up has been knocked down - by me. because no matter how bruised i get, or how sad, or how hopeless, i still want to win. more than anything.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
i could have done more. i could have done more, i should have, and then we could have been brilliant. instead i dallied, i dawdled, i daydreamed and now. now you're cold and I'm shivering. i didn't think this would happen, because i didn't ever think. i thought there would be battle, that there would be war. i never thought that maybe it'd all be my fault. that the bruises we sported would have been my handwork. christ, how was i so childish about something so important?
and now you're dressed in white and i'm curled in the churchyard, my gut cramping and my heart spinning.
look what i've done. everything we said we stood for, i ruined. i lied and i betrayed you. i turned traitor the way i draw breath - involuntarily. you thought it was a joke, that i was cloaking myself in the stereotype of troubled little girl. i thought it was a joke, that i was robbing the darkness. now though, now surely you must see that i was a lie from the beginning.
the discourses i vomited on religion, on faith, on fear, did they have any merit? please tell me that i've left something in your mind, a constant question that will make you work harder, make your trust tougher to earn. tell me that i've improved you, by hurting you. in this modern morbid world, you were always too tender.
when it kicks like a sleep twitch
five days. five days since. well. it's easier to say five days since i've slept. i could tell you about the physical effects - how the past two days have seen me throw up any food i try to put in my body, how people think i've been punched. but you aren't interested in that. you want to know what happened. i could lie, tell you something pretty, tell you that global warming has got me scared. tell you i'm on contract, waiting for destiny. but i've lied so often that it's gotten boring. the truth feels like cold water now - y'know, when you drink it too fast and your chest seizes up. like a vice. it's refreshing, in it's own way, i guess. different to the numbness on the back of my tongue lying brings. sorry, i said i wasn't going to talk about the physical. i can't help it. my world's based on the physicality of things, so that i don't have to deal with the emotional bullshit talking things. deconstructing stuff. i'm not very good at talking about that. i'm not very good at talking, now that i've been awake for five days. this morning i found myself incapable of focusing on the newspaper; the headlines rearranging themselves to form satanic messages of grief. four days ago i felt my mind turn to lead. an hour ago i felt weightlessness consume me. i can't give you any excuses. none that you'll believe. but it's been five days, and i'm awake. it hurts, it must hurt the way being a god does, where i can feel everything and it hurts. i can't wait until this is over, i'll sleep in gutters, on trains, in libraries, on supermarket floors. when this is over, i'll sleep like the dead.
every little piece
the first time someone forgot my name. the second time someone acted like we'd slept together. the third time someone attacked me for being a burglar. with a teapot. they missed, but when the teapot hit the wall, the spout shattered and left my cheek scarred. the fourth fifth sixth seventh eighth ninth billionth time all blend together, and now i'm used to it. i must have one of those faces, one of those personalities that just aren't very memorable. it's weird, because my clothes are bright and i make a point of making eye contact - the old "make them watch one hand while you're robbing them with the other". people ought to remember me. but they don't. and because they don't remember me, they don't really care about me. it's not their fault, don't get righteous on my part. there's clearly nothing for them to remember. and that's where the humour and the hurt come in. it;s hysterical, because people make such bizarre assumptions - that i'm a witch, a vagrant. but the hurt, when someone thinks i'm a long lost sister, a dead mother - it's a wall of grief because i'm not that person, and we all want me to be. because if i was, then i'd be remembered and loved. as it is i'm just a continual disappointment. so i've learnt to hide in the shadows, i've learnt to look at my feet more than people's faces. and then you come along with your wretched shining armour knight complex, and look at me, and its a guttural sound trying to claw it's way through my body, it's more than grief, it's desolation. you won't remember me in the morning. and in a week, i won't remember you. you'll blend in, number three hundred and seventy eight billion.
i'm getting far too good at lying.
i can't keep this up.
Friday, July 17, 2009
I'm such a comedian. In an hour he'll be clean shaved, in a week the hair will be better. And it hurts, violently, the way things don't matter, won't matter. The way things are changing without us noticing. The way I'm changing.
A year ago, I wrote him dialogues so that we could avoid arguments and be a cliched disaster couple. A year ago, I left and the words went with me. I've been telling everyone, in my loudest voice, about how I don't write reams and reams of words anymore. If you want a cut to the core in a literary form, you'd be better talking to Stephanie Meyer. I told everyone, over and over, that it was because I got scared, I got fear, I got it all wrong and I got it all bad.
Here, hurting all over with sleeplessness, cat scratches and the sight of someone I missed, I'm left wondering if maybe all that happened was that I found a new way to turn the words, so that they weren't a weapon, they were an ally. But looking at his fucking stupid haircut, and hearing white noise instead of his garbled attempts at being one of the intelligensia, I'm hurting for something old, wishing for something new.
Monday, June 22, 2009
we never noticed that we were heading in this direction. we blinked once, twice and found ourselves outsiders. with our stockings caught on the brambles, we are fast becoming careless, catching our elbows and ankles on the corners.
we are always the desperate. hidden behind our fringes and fear, all we wanted was to be looked at, really looked at. puzzled over. conversed with. we are curled in the dark alleys and illicit novels. and all we ever really wanted (apart from the world) was a meaning that was never within our grasp. or maybe it was, but we were so blinded, are so blinded by insecure habits that we can't steal it. we don't want to be fucked up like all the other wannabe artists, we are fucked up by natural clumsiness and years of absent mindedness. any art we made was not product of our problems, but hamfisted attempts at killing those problems. (some of it was pure rage though.)
and we were born in the early hours of the morning, so we are always awake at sparrows fart, hoping for rebirth. we are bruised from thoughtless pinches, our fingernails gnawed. unlike our peers we suffer from undersexing, underpants wet from thoughts we are only thinking, never actualising. our hearts pump cold blood and warm whiskey, and our bodies move to dirty beats. so that we could embody all that is evil within us.
and we chose to do this, because what else are we going to do?
Friday, June 19, 2009
And that sentence there, that tells you everything that's wrong with me. My fascination with self sabotage and violence, my addiction to destruction and god, my lackluster way with words.
In the dark of the night, I ripped the ivy from the side of the house and tangled it around my little hands. I watched the clouds all night, and felt so small. When the sun came up, the morning dew drenched everything, everything including me. My body covered in ivy burns and icy dew.
(Sometimes, sometimes I'm so pretentious the only that balances me out is my abject failure. )
I walk along the waters edge, because that's where the wind is strongest and where the temperature is lowest. The tip of my nose goes numb, and my eyes water. The act of freezing. I think I do it to stop the badness taking over my body. They thought I had cancer once, spreading through my womb. I laughed and laughed when they told me, because. Because I would have cried if it were true. But I knew it wasn't.
It was pure badness, growing through me. That's all. Making me destructive, pretentious.
So I learned to hide in the corners with my teeth buttoning my lip.
introductions don't mean anything.