on your own merit, this time

the moment love has passed
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.

it kicks like a sleep twitch

the thieves and murderers i used to hang out with are faded now. occasionally i use them as shock value, the way they used me. sometimes i feel a clenched fist on my hip, bricks at my back and brimstone breath on my neck when i'm sitting on the train. often, my breath quickens and i have to tear at my nails to stop myself falling over.

i'm getting far too good at lying.

i can't keep this up.

film for the future

He stumbled in, all pointed inelegance, studied exhaustion. and a fucking terrible haircut. I hadn't slept for over 80 hours, everything was hysterical and hypertense. I was hysterical and hypertense. That's my default setting. He auto-patted the cat, named after a friend of his that I hate, let the sleeping dog named for my pretentiousness lie sprawled. The only pet in the house he paid any attention to was me. Me, the picture of modern youth. The television played static, the dog muttered in tune. As a dry hand pulled at back of my neck, I demanded to know why his hair was such a fucking disaster.

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.

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.