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31 March 2012 @ 05:56 pm
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. 

{can't stop what's coming}
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.

24 December 2011 @ 09:16 pm
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.
22 December 2011 @ 12:18 am
Drowning. Drowning. The water gets heavier, it seems, pulling me down from the inside. It hurts and seeps and it won't be long before it leaks out of the cracks.

I don't know what's real inside me anymore. I keep being told I'm wrong, and wrong, and wrong, and I just can't understand.

Nothing I do will be ever be enough. I want to bleed out. I want to survive and show how much stronger I am. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know how to deal with this pain. Blood and blood and blood is all I know. Why am I so horrible and disfigured? If not in body then soul. That's why I hate myself - because I see what only those who have loved me see - a stygian black pit. I am nothing. Worthless. What I give means nothing. I am never enough. I wanted to be more, but I wasn't. Am not.

I have a work Christmas cruise tomorrow. Then razorblades and alcohol and sweet little deaths while I am still alive. I don't want to die. I just need to carve out the pain.

Nobody sees when I try. When I do things right. They just see every fuck up. And I see that. And I hate myself.
20 December 2011 @ 01:38 pm
I’m almost sure somebody has poisoned my coffee. I don’t know who, or why. But the funny aftertaste, a little too bitter and chemical-tinged. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Things aren’t safe. Things are going to get much, much worse.
11 December 2011 @ 04:48 pm
"I'm not like other girls you know," she said, her gaze not dropping his. "I'm not like anybody you know." Then she looked away, out of the window, and rubbed her arms for warmth. It was silent for a moment, music playing in the background, and he reached over and put his hand on her leg. 
"Neither am I".
She laughed disbelievingly, without looking back at him.
"That's what they all say. How do I know? Neither of us does, really."
"But what if I'm right?"
She lay back against the wall, tilting her neck back and looking at the roof, then turning her eyes back to him.
"Then this will be fun."


soul feels:: blah
03 November 2011 @ 11:05 am
there's a place, you know. this place, right on the edge. neither light, nor dark. you can see through the pitch black and know what's waiting for you, but you aren't scared. never scared anymore. nothing to fear. and on the other side, everything else. everything you dreamed of. everything perfect and glowing and serene. but you can't choose. you're walking the rim of the moon, and she refuses to choose.

jerkface confuses me. not jerkface, him, but the word. it loses me. but so much does. I'm walking this line and asking: what will you choose, little girl? but we both know the answer. you turn around and step backwards into the - what if you keep walking the line. eventually the earth rotates and you cannot run at the speed of one thousand and sixty kilometres per hour, can you?

I feel that I should make the last hole myself - seventeen is a good number. wholesome. wholly. I'm starting to feel cold in the morning, coffee-starved and blank-eyed, but I'm sure I can hold on. it's an art I'm well-practiced at.

my sister wrote to me, and my smile was real.
soul feels:: cold