it doesnt really matter what the circumstances, everything seems to lead to the same end: self destruction, in some form, is nearly inevitable. im tired of being here and im tired of being me. im tired of the things i do the things i think the way i talk the way i look.

aggression

i feel threatened im sorry, im not psychotic but i am a little funny things are a little off things are getting a little worse i need to try harder i need to be somebody.

Pathogen

the poison i swallowed
the sun in my veins

i feel the sickness twisting around my insides. my body is corrupted my flesh is infected i swallowed poison i put it in my veins the virus is in me the virus is m.  i am self destructive to save myself like something fighting like something sinking  i am tearing at my organs i am holding myself in i am killing i am dying.

i guess i ought to be grateful to have been blessed with a body. it works. i breathe. i think. i have a brain that can do better than i. if i had ever wanted to strive for anything i could have done it, im sure. but all i see is triviality. i think the only way to shake that is by making something real but i dont think im good enough.  and even then there is the futility of the human race, endlessly circling itself.  the life on this planet is interesting and maybe worth something but i find that more in the plants and the water than i do in us.  i think perhaps there is something in the spirits here. but what fools we are. we created a god who looks like us so we could feel divine. you are worshiping yourself. if there is a god they are not like you. there is no god in what we have created. i believe in something but not your god.

Nightmare

z and i in the street something happens my head hits the pavement hard but i get up fast hes gone im screaming his name run across the street where is he panic shaking terror realizing i cannot be alive myself without him.

open me up

i am holding myself in hard all my muscles are tensed in an effort to save myself i am scared open me up breathe air into my lungs open me up i’ll die

fool

i want to be stuck in your head

Pathogen

give me chemicals
disinfect/infect
make me contagious
the virus is in me
the virus is me

Halloween

disarray

 i hadnt seen him in a while i never thought i would again but there he was.  i can deal with the feeling. i can deal with him, sort of.  sometimes i am not sure if i still love him or if i just love what he was to me before but he makes me feel like im dying whenever hes around.  i know how to shove these things down inside me so no one sees but they are ruining me. 

i feel i wouldnt mind if i wasnt human. how much have we destroyed?  people have created so much to distract from the fact that they are fucking useless. skyscrapers and bridges and highways; schools and offices and apartments...there is nothing in it but our drive towards progress but the idea of progress is a lie we have created terrible things and done terrible things and we can't seem to stop.

im drunk i feel perfect i never feel perfect but i do now.
i lost weight
found out painful things today
its fucking funny

i cant manage anymore
im fucking up in almost every way i can think of
im losing my grip i really am

things look a little different tonight

im sorry

"He cites as an example the unexpected meeting of two acquaintances.  In one brief second before the bland mask of politeness shields the face, and unedited response to the other person flickers over the features.  That, to English, is a moment of truth.  Similar moments exist in nature: times of heightened reality seen and felt but quickly forgotten unless held captive and made tangible in a work of art. "

peoples' lives breathe through. i like to sit and think on long car rides, about them, about myself.  in that state i feel unreal/real, my mind rising and falling like the sea.  yet in the end i still dont fully understand.  if i treated other people with the same vicious, two-faced nature i treat myself...

maybe ill just paint creatures that are ghosts like me
i promised myself once i would make dreams for people but i dont know
i dont know anymore
i want to do more; i want to change.

hold it in i do not care if you cannot breathe i do not care if you die from it

After the Flood, We

We must be the only ones

left, in the mist that has risen

everywhere as well

as in these woods

I walk across the bridge

towards the safety of high ground

(the tops of trees are like islands)

gathering the sunken

bones of drowned mothers

(hard and round in my hands)

while the white mist washes

around my legs like water;

fish must be swimming

down in the forest beneath us,

like birds, from tree to tree

and a mile away

the city, wide and silent,

is lying lost, far undersea.

You saunter beside me, talking

of the beauty of the morning,

not even knowing

that there has been a flood,

tossing small pebbles

at random over your shoulder

into the deep thick air,

not hearing the first stumbling

footsteps of the almost-born

coming (slowly) behind us,

not seeing

the almost-human

brutal faces forming

(slowly)

out of stone.

by Margaret Atwood

friday the 13th is a day for witches

i ought to get out tonight and get lost

disaster
i say nothing but
you hear it all

The world holds us dimly.

sometimes i want to scream "i am mine i am enough i am whole" but the fact is im not i am reminded of this by all the things i hold close that do not belong to me at all.  i cling to things i clutch them desperately running holding them to my chest running and fighting everything around me but it seems most often that it is not enough.  i do not belong to myself i belong to everyone and everything else.  i feel sub human i feel inferior.  i am inferior.

trying to hold everything in its hard its hard my world lies inside of me but sometimes it feels like someone has slashed my stomach, blood and organs showing, slipping out and im trying to clutch them inside with my bare hands, as if this will save me from my imminent death. 

strange that something so terribly important to me, ingrained in my memory, should have such little significance to you that you could forget.  one moment, your face turning to me, only us, your hold over me.  how long ago? 

keep thinking how i thought a change of place would change this feeling but i am more trapped than ever and i am starting to think that no matter where i go it will still feel dead.  i will still feel dead.  

The Reaping

From the familiar stones in the earth
take our daughters
tame our daughters

no more waving
no more waiting

cut their hair

they lean
they fear

our daughters from the stones
are bound
hand and foot

our daughters from the stones
are cut
before blooming.

We can only make our own waves
                             our own warmth
                             our own light

Loyal to the wave, one is drowned
                             at the level.

Yielding to the flame, one is consumed
                             by the fire.

Lending importance to light, one is condemned
                             to the dark.

After death, silence.
Speak now and watch the others stare.
Say nothing and listen to your own despair.



Sorry I do not know who wrote this I found it in a book at the library about Native Americans.

another party probably the last. at least i felt alive.  as we smoked in the back she played a song  and thinking about this summer, its been lovely in its own way, but i started to remember last summer too.  less pain, only a kind of melancholy.  its gone and soon this will be too nothing like it ever again.  never again.  its hard to deal with everything moment to moment then suddenly its all over.

i think i would not mind if i could feel drunk all the time spinning and beautiful

i think i cannot accept reality

i've never felt so hollow so terrible how much more suffocating self absorption how much i dont want to eat tomorrow or ever my mouth is sticky my throat constricting on itself i forgot to keep things in pull inward turn in on yourself forgot it wasnt true he doesnt love you he doesnt love you he doesnt love you

people teach you what you want and you fall for it you fucking fool youre being used youre being used youre being used

i want to be beautiful yet i find myself struggling hard against the idea that i ought to be.  i dont think anyone should be criticized for what they wear or how they look.  trends revolting just designed to keep you buying things.  the idea of a flattering article of clothing is so blatantly manipulative its sickening.  the idea of what looks good changes all the time.  in trying to flatter your body all youre doing is following everyone like a dog.  its futile.

and i would like to question why this idea exists that a girl should look good.  from the time were small we learn the need.  show off your curves but stay slim have big boobs and a big butt and small everything else why is there a stereotype for an attractive female or an attractive male why should we ever decide that one type of person is beautiful and another ugly its not true stop believing it its not true i do not have to be thin i do not i do not

but at the same time i treat myself as an exception i must be thin i must i must i must

please click through photo for source

Sometimes I hate myself with such a depth I can hardly comprehend it.  I do not know where it ends or where it begins only that it is a part of everything like a limb it is a part of me.  Sometimes I forget the hatred is there - its not gone but I am accustomed to its presence.  I only feel it when it becomes more wild or desperate or painful than usual, like now.  Maybe its from the outside in or the inside out but it doesn't really matter in the end.

Sometimes I think I am not really meant to get along with other people, only listen.  Everyone has their own secrets.

I can't manage and I've always known I can't I cling to things but soon I'll be old and demented and what could be excused when I was young will become inexcusable I will be alone with cigarettes still only watching and listening to other people and holding in my sickness.

So loveliness reigned and stillness, and together made the shape of loveliness itself, a form from which life had parted; solitary like a pool at evening, far distant, seen from a train window, vanishing so quickly that the pool, pale in the evening, is scarcely robbed of its solitude, though once seen.  Loveliness and stillness clasped hands in the bedroom, and among the shrouded jugs and sheeted chairs even the prying of the wind, and the soft nose of the clammy sea airs, rubbing, snuffling, iterating, and reiterating their questions- "Will you fade? Will you perish?" -scarcely disturbed the peace, the indifference, the air of pure integrity, as if the question they asked scarcely needed that they should answer: we remain. 

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

bad night good morning i guess found out some things about a long time ago i could have gone without but i cant cry anymore a few dry sobs and no tears smoking in the dark i hardly seem to feel anything anymore or i guess i do but its not like it used to be

but i went to the bookstore and i bought some nice things i got an old magazine on the woman's liberation movement its rather beautiful.

infinite
stop shaking out lies
like a dog

Please click through photo for source.

a beautiful night a lovely party i wish i could be there forever forever forever.  but its inescapable: i will never go back it will never be the same.  and the reality is it gave me nothing except a fleeting experience of perfect happiness and now regret because as always i cant hold on to things i cant let go of things.  but i feel nothing nothing nothing.  what a lie im just sad.

Laguna

a day in Laguna
the world is nice sometimes

they have nice churches there

Her hand cut a trail in the sea, as her mind made the green swirls and streaks into patterns and, numbed and shrouded, wandered in imagination in that underworld of waters where the pearls stuck in clusters to white sprays, where in the green light a change came over one's entire mind and one's body shone half transparent enveloped in a green cloak.

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

It's as if people are talking to me in my head.  I hear their voices and words without consciously creating them.  I was trying to sleep and I couldn't, though everyone else was, because while the room was silent their conversations were still going on in my mind.  I got caught up in them, tried to stop it, then it started again.  Too loud for sleep. I was so tired.

Her skin was the color of white jade.  Or maybe it was the color of a summer peach.  Or maybe I am only remembering my mother as another classical tale, all those phrases about ladies with voices as pretty-sounding as lutes, skin as white as jade, their gracefulness flowing like calm rivers.  Why did stories always describe women that way, making us believe we had to be that way too?

Amy Tan, The Kitchen God's Wife

White is the night
ghost skins in streetlight

Please click photos for source. 

dont hug me or hold me or touch me i dont want you to feel my body

Don't really want to think I don't want food but I can't stop eating a disgusting way to be eating is disgusting I am disgusting my legs look like tree trunks but I am not even so beautiful as that Can hardly imagine living without this feeling though always thinking about what I have been eating when I have to stop when I've gone too far when I'm doing alright but even then in the mirror fat fat fat that's all I see and I tell myself there's salvation in starvation but I can't imagine never eating again its ridiculous how much I think about, depend on food for happiness when in reality it only makes me hate myself with a wild and desperate passion I wish there was an easy solution If I had been born differently, I would be thin already.  3 years and I've cut back more than I even imagined I could yet my body is unchanged.  My body is a cage.

Strange night spent at our place, inescapable.  Pulled a beautiful heist lit firework walking home in the middle of empty streets made ourselves a playlist mixed drinks smoking in the driveway throwing up on the front lawn spilling secrets like a broken bottle and back in, sleep it off.

Cocorosie - Ana Lama

Ana Lama 

Fourth of July was strange.  Walking as people set off fireworks and things - smoke and sparklers, sound and life I'm not used to outside at night.  But sadness is destructive as an avalanche and happens as fast and as unexpectedly.  Finally I couldn't be awake for it anymore.

Daphne Runs

Daphne runs, fades in and out of the trees.  Swaying slowly, boughs bend.  In and out of trees.  Vines, ivy clings to her ankles.  Daphne fades in and out like a radio, loud and then to silence.  Willow by the river.  The brush scrapes her wrists and cheeks.  In and out like a television.  Clarity and then nonexistence.   Silence under leaves.  Fading.  Her cheeks are white petals.  White noise.  Wet petals, wet blooms.  Running, fading in and out of the trees.