we are (performance)

we are the black eyes and the tired make up. we are the children of the late nights, the dirty mornings. we are amnesiacs, insomniacs, but we are not maniacs. we are the left behind, the forgotten, the children hiding under the staircase.

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?

all these things that you don't know

at 1.54am with bleary eyes and bleak heart, I began to wonder if difference really existed - my sleeplessness is worst when the deadlines get vicious.

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.

xx

introductions don't mean anything.