last night I dreamed of violent wars between children who killed and tortured each other, zombies, more torture, orphaned joeys in their dead mothers' pouches, and lots more of the children.
my brain is messed.
I GOT A HUNDRED FUCKING PERCENT ON MY MATHS PROJECT! You have no idea how major this is. It's all these calculations that depend on other calculations and if you get one wrong everything is wrong. You have to explain theorems and combine matrices with pythagoras and it's not hard just complex. AND I GOT FULL MARKS! Man, I am on cloud 9. I have more study today that I WANT to do. And then Jem and I will go out and do something tonight. Don't know what, don't care, just want fun!
you are standing there, so beautiful. shivering, standing, so singular and solid and real. have they told you?
where is the girl? how am i to know? how am i? i really don't know these things, you know, you should ask someone who knows, someone who cares.
i was born in nineteen eighty-seven. eighty-seven.
do you know how angry I am? how violent? ninety percent of the scars on my body come from my own anger. rage. violence. everything i channel into myself, like a reverse-cycle gone wrong. i need it - i cannot express it. paint the concrete with others' blood? the work of a psychopath, a sociopath. i am neither - some may disagree.
the work i have done on my body is far more expressive of my personality than any smile or photo or word. it is dark, i suppose, but it is also light.
any person who has ever met me would not see this, i do not think; i am "bubbly" and "friendly" and "lovely". i am not violent and vindictive and destructive. my arms seem to say something else about me, something which is not true. perhaps it is sadness - perhaps people like to think that. and i would not say i was not sad. but the force driving the deepest, widest scars was utter rage. anger. hate. destruction.
that is what makes me happy - the destruction of my own body. it is not about pain - it is about the beauty that can be brought about by destruction. by watching a body grow sicker and more scar, creating a beautiful, hideous work of art out of loathing and hatred. it's beautiful.
i am angered easily; i feel rage easily. perhaps it is merely a facet of fear - this is quite easily the case - but it manifests in anger and this is what i am talking about.
i'm rather well, at the moment, but this rage rarely leaves. that's why blades helped - i could let it out and feel the release. now, what else is there? bruises with solid objects? crass and non-permanent. i'd be disappointed with myself.
work tomorrow - must sleep. sleep deprivation is a good way to hurt myself, but i actually am trying to hold a life together, so i endeavour to keep my job, which i rather like.
**self-harm trigger warning**
Sometimes something wells up inside of me and i feel like going into a razor-wielding frenzy on my body; a bathtub full of blood and me cold and spattered in red. I don't know what sets it off, but it feels like something that hurts so much i won't let myself think about it.
I don't like the lack of control; i take valium everywhere in my wallet just in case. I'm on my way to the city and it's burning in my legs - i'm contemplating taking something except that it seems utterly ridiculous. I'll soon be busy and forget, i just need to get to forgetting.
oh god oh god oh god.
sleep will come soon, albeit medicated, and i can rest and escape until ... until i wake again.
i'm so cold.
if i don't stop this shit soon i'm going to end up with more holes that won't close.
stop, stop, stop.
written: 15 august, 2009
she was dying.
smiling, listening, biting her nails. and she was dying. her soft brown eyes betrayed it, but he wasn't watching, instead pointing out here, where he lived, and there, where he went to school. she watched his beautiful hands glide over the wheel effortlessly, paid attention as one fell to sitting on the gearstick, a hangover from the days when he had driven a manual. he talked and she drank in every word, peering out her own window every now and then to see, in the fading light, families settling in for the evening.
she was dying, but this made her feel alive, made her feel as if he really cared for her. the way he stole glimpses of her as she talked away when he was done, as she agreed with absolute sincerity and added her own superfluous views and opinions. later, they saw a movie, but he didn't want to hold hands. that was when the pain began, when she began to realise how close she was. the smile clung on harder, bit into her teeth and made her eyes water. her heart was already failing.
she didn't see him, after that. not knowing why, she let herself continue dying. the colour faded from her olive skin, her hair dulled and tangled into witch knots, and she began to waste away.
he never visited her grave; it was easier to pretend she hadn't tried to cling to him. her parents wept. but inside the coffin she tosses and turned, still dying.