and I can't make it go away.

and so I sit.

and wait.

wait.

w             a                    i                               t

and maybe

if I wait long enough

it will pass

bella (L) n. nominative, plural  : her wars  

delights&angers (I guess that's the way it's supposed to be):
please heal me
I can't sleep
thought I was
u n b r e a k a b l e
but this is killing me

( under here )

And I feel that tiredness again. Not the sleeping kind, but ... since I was about 10 I've pretty much taken care of myself. My mother was either working full-time and not home until 10 or 11, or unemployed and drunk. So I'd get up, make my lunch, go to school, come home, make afternoon tea, make dinner, do all my cleaning and anything she hadn't done, do all my own laundry, hang it out to dry, bring it in again (and maybe hers too).

She bought the food, until I started working when I was fifteen - then I started buying most of my own, catching the bus, coming home with heavy bags of groceries. I remember that night she was drunk and I'd gotten home with all these bags of food to try and eat, and she said I was selfish because I wasn't getting anything for her. My mother, who was my guardian and carer, told me off for being selfish for using money I earned to buy food. She had government money, for her and me, though apart from food I didn't see any of it. She never bought me clothes - it was always my dad, when I saw him once or twice a month, if I asked a lot.

So since year 7 I've been pretty much been doing everything for myself - cooking, cleaning, budgeting, organising, making sure everything is done and seen to and paid for. And that was when I was 11. I'm almost 25. And I'm just tired of doing it all. Always, always me. I wish there was someone to just do the washing up, or clean up when the cats make a mess, or sort out the washing, or to sweep the floors. I'm so tired of doing all of that on top of studying, on top of the most complicated maths and physics I've ever done, on top of me being an emotional nutcase.

I just don't want it. I want someone else to take it all, and do it all for me. I want to come home to a cooked dinner, to have someone else do the cleaning for me, to not have to worry about paying the bills or getting the real estate agents to fix the leaky sink or whatever else needs doing. I don't want this any more, I don't.

Some people say they moved out early, or they do those things too. It's usually not the same. I know it was a lot that way for Bee. 

Sometimes I get sad about my upbringing. I wouldn't change it, not for making me who I am, but I get sad that I didn't get to live at home until I was 20 and have my mother do the washing up and cleaning most of the time, only having to worry about the money I had to pay for the car or food or going out.

It just makes me really, really sad.  

darkchaosfluids.livejournal.com

remember that? man, why don't I write anymore? too many quantum equations and algorithms. 

when i woke gasping in water with his fingers down my throat he held me close for safety and wouldn't let me leave. he told me ghost stories that I never believed and I let him take my virginity with his skilled fingers & body. nothing else mattered.

we held hands in darkened theatres watching movies with subtitles that made me think about life. we never introduced our families; i liked it with just me and him in the house reading books and playing music. he played the guitar sometimes but never when I was in the room, so I'd sit outside the door, closing my eyes and pressing my cheek to the floorboards as i listened to his deep voice.

he was twenty-six, a few years older than me. he made me feel safe, and not alone, even in the pitch black of night when the house made noises and the devils worked. i think we both felt a little bit weird, like outsiders who were never going to feel comfortable around other people. we had friends but it was never the same - drinking and laughing and falling down and getting back up again wasn't the same.

i don't remember his name. it was something i had to forget. he told me, you can't die. you can't die. and i promised him i wouldn't, but he never gave the same to me, and so his body was buried and i went home to my empty house and i cried.

close your eyes & fall back with me. 

where we are going there is no
wait. stop. 
beneath your stained fingers and bloody toes, under your softened mattress that smells like sweat and myrrh, open your secret locket and tell me where you will die.

there's a little girl in a plain white dress standing next to the lake where the fish once swum. the cat has wandered off and laughter echoes in the background but she sees only water and earth and sky. forever, forever it stretches, and she cannot see that far. toes in the water, artemis calls to her, beckoning her to leave the safety of her torture chamber. the light refracts; she splits in two. 
on the very edges of space, where photons dance a slow waltz and nothing exists, there is a place called home. from the front window you can see the lawn of stars mottled in patches of blue and green, orbs of close planets like miranda and ariel hanging like lights from the limbs of darkness. in the mornings it is evening, and at dusk we embrace the day, and everything never changes and is always something else. death visits on tuesdays to feed the cats and sometimes he lets me sit on his bony knees or try on his cowl if I promise to close my eyes. the witch down the hall is young and pretty with long white hair and a blush on her cheeks - we swap recipes and kiss under the full moon at four a.m. when I go to sleep I crawl into my little river and wake up a girl on the bank.

Christmas Eve 2011 and I've finally accepted that he's an abusive partner. Not extremely, but his substance and alcohol abuse brings it out.

If we are arguing he frequently aims to hurt me by saying untrue and insulting things. He gets angry that his substance abuse upsets me and vilifies me for not wanting to frequently drink. He's a cunt and he will not change no matter how ideal he might be sober.

I will not be used.