Losing things

Dad: We must examine the process of losing things.
Me: Why?
Dad: Think about it. Somewhere along that process, if you broke it down, you'd find the exact moment, reason, and way you lost something. You lost something important, something that mattered. You failed.
Me: ...
Dad: Well, you'd probably be able to stop it next time.

No, I probably couldn't. It's not exactly something you can get back, is it?
And I didn't lose it all on my own, you know...

What talking is

Watch the erosion of my soul,

slow and sure,

but I'm smiling. 

The shovels treck in,

digging out anything important enough

to make me sick in my head. 

It's good, it's okay.

I don't even notice the pain

when the drill starts up and finds

an easy hole in

to my mind.

Pumping out a blended mix

of memories and thoughts into

a large museum, where they'll hold a special showing just for

the people that hate me. 

It's good to know

they care that much as

the seats are full and they're letting people in by the dozen

standing against walls and sitting on laps.

Let's see what she's made of,

voices whisperyell from the audience.

I ponder for a second, until it's gone.

No! Get your own thoughts!

I lost myself somewhere along the inky pages and dark analogies

Night time falls and I find myself reading through my notebooks, trying to see what someone else might.

Who would they think me to be?

Who am I to them?

Frantically; I look through the pages quickly, whipping past the writing I so carefully layed down across the lined pages. All I see is words. Purple, black, and blue ink too, covered from margin to margin. 

Certain pages with faces, both scared and depressed.

But none of it's real enough to me. 

I grab my pen, write out six, seven, twenty three more lines.

None of it's real enough.

Four more, six more, nine more lines. Twelve words here, then seventeen. The more there is the more it says, right? The more words the bigger the explanation the more I am to the world.

Even though I'm not real enough either.

I wonder what someone reading this might think.

Who I am to them.

But I know it wouldn't matter, because these are just words and there is no person behind them. No feeling, no reality. Just words, no pain.

None of it's real so you can stop caring now. 

None of it's real, right?

Things always go to such complete shit it's almost funny.

Something's wrong

Thoughts pounding around, empty. Meaningless chatter. Those thoughts are fucked.
Head's spinning, body's spinning, going to fall sideways and hit the ground so hard everything will be dark.
Can't eat anything, it'll come back up. Revolted.
Head aches hard, twisting around.
The skull cracks and brains fall out, but you can still feel everything. Glassy eyes, closed by hands cold.
Dirt falls in around you, spilling over your rigid body.
Move your hands up, try to. Try to hold your head together, stop the pounding. Stop the shaking, rattling up around you as everything surrounding crumbles.

"Are you okay?" someone asks, placing their hand on your arm for support.
You look up, startled. Head spins, spins, SCREAMS. Swaying back and forth, the lights dim.
"Fine," you say. "I just..."

...Gotta fall over and play dead.

Cross my heart, hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.

Stick the needle in my eye
This will hold it off tonight
Crying out in fear, not pain
Searching for the cause at blame.
Knuckles bruised and bloodied in
Tiny cuts and tiny sins
Each ring sounding off a sound
FUCKING FLYING; hit the ground.
Nails too long to grab a hold
Get the shivers when it's not cold
Tell them things are going well
Seems that's just why I fell
To the bottom, I am stuck
Too banged in, all fucked up.
That's just landing, broken in
hit glass sheets much too thin

Crossed my heart and I went blind
I was running out of time
Couldn't eat, couldn't try
All I could, was hope to die.

Faeries are devious liars

Today I am a paper bag princess, twirling around in an over-sized tank-top/dress.
It's off-white, with a row of faded flowers along the bottom lining.

I think only of soft touches and song-birds singing; the thick green grass along the valley floor creating a sun-heated bed where I will rest my mind and sleep.
It's so silly to think I've been searching the night-sky for light when daytime comes around every so often. Daytime, where it's bright-blue skies and flittering butterflies in the softcotton voices whispering faerie tales.

I let the silence of my words be a lesson to anyone who meets me.
It's the easiest thing to do, as my voice is too quiet to be heard.

Pointless and alone,
I rest my head and day-dream at night, because no matter how soft the grass, how lovely the night-stories, how warm the air...I cannot fall asleep in this lie.

My thoughts

I realized today how hopelessly sad I am.

I already knew I was sad, I mean, but I realized just how sad I am.
I was talking to someone from Before.
And talking to them, their humour, their happy-life...it all Reminded me.

I remember the times when I was sad over little things. Over losing something like a sweater in a park, or getting in a fight with my friend, or falling off of something and getting hurt.
The days when losing something was not my virginity, when getting in a fight with my friend did not mean they carved my name into their skin with a razor, and I didn't wish to fall off of something and get a cut so big I bled to death.

It's interesting.
I realized that before, if someone told me they sliced their skin up and smeared the blood across the pages in their notebook, I'd be scared. Scared, worried. I'd think they were horribly twisted, before.
But I've done that now. I don't even consider it anything.

Before, I didn't even think it was possible to get so sad you can't cry anymore. I didn't think things like rape happened, really. I knew they did, but they didn't, really.
I didn't think people carved things into themselves, or died, or killed themselves, or got killed in hit-and-runs, or lost friends or craved death or got admitted to psych wards or went to hospitals to be fixed.
I thought those happened, I mean. But not to my life. My life included fighting with friends, going out, having fun and laughing.
It included drinking slushies and going to the beach and for bike rides and hanging out in front of the school.
And talking, and smiling.
And most of all,
being happy.

Now eating is a choice, cutting is a must, talking doesn't happen, simple as that, and everything is fucked.
But not literally.

I was happy before, I think.
I remembered the feeling today.

I think I'm falling apart.

Falling apart, breaking down, deteriorating until I'm completely out of my mind.

I realized how twisted things got without me realizing. How sad, how pathetic.

I realized today that I am nowhere close to happy, to normal, to fine.

I want to kill myself so badly.
That's not okay. 


None of this is okay.
I need to stop.

The art table

I am stencilled into skin, scissors grazing along the cookie-cutter metal.
I made paper promises to My Girl across the art table, holding hands under.
But the paper might burn and the scissors might slip.

We can't lie at the art table, though, because art is everything that's left.
We're a movie, a sad story written on fading pages. In cryptic poetry, leading up to the last paragraph.
But if it fades too quick, no one will read the words we so desperately want to say.

The cold metal is shaped in an angel, supposed to be our saving grace. Looking out for us, but the sharp edges bite into our skin. Red paint pours out in lines and circles across our knuckles and thighs.
We'll use that to paint a pretty picture, and hold it up for the world to see.
We'll be Real Artists, slaving over the art table, all day long, with our paints at hand.
"I'm trying to get the blue paint out," we'll say, not knowing that the soupy air around us is what's really turning our paint to a bloody red.
With this colour, all we can paint is war scenes. Battles and death, you know.
It's not our choice.


At the art table, we pass secret notes underneath, holding them in our warm vs. cold hands; together.
The words, images or thoughts encompassed on the paper do not matter.
Really, it's just the fact that we understand.
I know what you mean when you draw a silly crab in red.
It means something's pinching your head between it's fingers, ready to squeeze tight.
But no matter how hard you hold coal, it doesn't change to diamond from it's black ash.

Wintergirls reference.

I can't believe I ran out of answer first.

Sickly smiling.
Did I lie? I think so. I think I was lying when I said I wouldn't, because I will.
I can.
I'm going to.

Yeah yeah yeah whatever

I'm drinking again, I'm going mad.
I'm going to go mad.

Fuck it's so fuzzy, so dark, so poster-ized, pulled down to the bare minimum, so I can see everything but the details, but it's the details I know so well.
What's happened to me?

This isn't me, is it really?

Bad and self-destructive

What's bad and self-destructive?

Drugs. Drugs are bad and self-destructive.
Smoking. Smoking is bad and self-destructive.
Cutting. Cutting is bad and self-destructive.
Drinking. Drinking is bad and self-destructive.
Burning oneself. Burning oneself is bad and self-destructive.
Bruising oneself. Bruising oneself is bad and self-destructive.
Hitting one's head against a wall repetitively.
Taking fire to your skin and not moving it.
Letting yourself fall in with "the bad kids" and finding yourself in sketchy ravines buying drugs.
Exercising until you pass out.
Intentionally rubbing your skin until it's raw.
Slamming doors on your fingers again and again.
Holding ice to your skin just to make it hurt.
Not going to school.
Isolating yourself when you really, really shouldn't.
Hating yourself.

But I don't know. Some of these things aren't all bad...

A poem I wrote while I was away

RUFUSE
the poison
 they say is the cure
  DISARM
   the weapons
     they make you
       use here
         STEP-BACK
             from the cage-walls
                 and try to sit down
                     CLOSE your eyes
                          and rest on the ground.

What does another day mean to you?

There's certainly something profound about waking up, knowing you're still alive.
"Success," you think. "Another Day."

Is something the matter?

Would you know if...

IF, but did something happen?

Thoughts spinning around, around, around, in circles, never ending? 

No, nothing is infinite. This too, shall pass. 

We say that, don't we? 

Sure, but is something the matter?

Thoughts spinning around, around, around, in circles, from POINT A to POINT B. Then, back, and over, because it's the same thought. 

If it ever happened again, why, I just might...

Hey, are you okay?

I'm fine!

On the bus, I tap my foot in slow, small, circles. The girl sitting across the bus from me watches, tapping her finger every time my foot completes a circle.
I wonder, if she's doing that consciously or not, but don't care to ask.
In my head, I see wrists being held down, spread over a pillow, almost-bruises forming where no one's going to look for them. I stop.
"Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it..." My head tries whispering this to itself carefully, easily, with every turn of the foot, but I end up stopping altogether and squeezing my eyes shut tight.
The act itself of closing my eyes does nothing, as far as making it go away goes, but I pretend it does and bite my lip until I feel a sore, raw pain set in.
Then I open my eyes, thankful for the sunglasses I have taken to wearing.

Some things...they hurt more.

Certain words set me off

Like fireworks, and all you need is a tiny little flame to send explosions up.
Only the explosions are silent and hidden, and only really inside of me.

But they show.
If I wore shorts, they would show.

It hurts less if you do it yourself, I've found

Fear the world, young believer.
It's going to break you one day, and if you're already scattered about in small pieces, you can at least escape it.
Break yourself, so no one else can.

I'll be gone for a little while, I think.
I don't know what to ask of you, but I'm just telling you I'll be gone.

In the spare time, feel free to message me.
On facebook, or leave comments.
I like coming home and seeing people haven't forgotten about me, but if you choose not to, I understand.

Au-revoir.

Break even

You ever felt so insecure that you 

sat alone, staring at your hands

and picking at your fingernails?

Ever felt so lost that you didn't even try

to figure out where you where, even 

though you had a map with you?

Ever felt so disoriented, that you stumbled

out of bed and fell flat on your face?

I have, 

and I haven't.

The possibilities are infinite, but do they

divide evenly between positive

and negative?

I'm wondering. 

Honourable mentions...

#1- The kid with the Charcoal Eyes. Now, there's definitely something endearing about eyes that are completely black. Only, his weren't. But somehow, they were. It's like, his skater-clothes and calm, collected personality didn't even compare to his eyes. They were just so capturing. So, so capturing, that when I found I was staring, I didn't look away.
And the thing is, neither did he.

#2- Perky Paper Girl. The cute blonde who stands outside Bay Station handing out free papers. Yesterday, she was against the wall, and she walked up to me and handed me a paper. We made eye contact, and she was so...happy. I took the paper, said thank-you, and moved on. But when I looked back, she was still looking at me. Smiling.
So today, when I got out of the station, I walked up to her and took a paper, straight from her hand, and our hands brushed. Her words told me to have a nice day, but her smile said so much more. Besides all of that, our hands brushed! I know for a fact she meant to do that, because she had the same smile I did, and I meant to do that. Besides all of that, she's absolutely gorgeous.

#3- The Old Man who Held All the Doors for Me As We Made Our Way Into the Station. He was a very kind man, very caring. Wearing a nice shirt, and well-worn pants. He said, "It's my pleasure to hold the doors for such a lovely young lady." And no, he wasn't a creep. He was a genuine man.
I trust my judgement.

#4- Madonna Asian Lady. This old lady, probably in her 70's, who's hair was starting to turn grey, probably, had dyed her hair bleach blonde. And, she's supposed to have black hair. I don't know, but I think her eyebrows gave her up. She definitely caught my attention, and kept it.

#5- The Painting of The Distraught Bird. Outside Bay Station there is this store dedicated to naturalistic paintings. Or rather, paintings of nature and nature's creatures. So naturally (excuse my pun), there were a lot of bird paintings. And there was this one of this strange-looking bird who had the most disastrous face I'd ever seen. It looked like a lion had just ripped off the lower half of his body and was holding him down by stabbing a claw into the remaining part of his body. If I had money, I would buy ten copies of this painting. It's genius.

Because, Teagan.

Somewhere in a notebook, I have a pressed flower.
It's my favourite flower, a daisy.
But I lost this notebook long ago, and for that, I am sad.

I made cookies.

I don't know what to do tomorrow. Oh, I mean today. Technically, I mean today.

I'll take my brother to camp, and then...just hang around the city the rest of the day? It's going to be HOT out. Too hot for whatever it is I'm going to wear.
Yesterday, when I dropped my brother off, his camp counsellor, Emily (who was previously my camp counsellor for years, and years) said, "I don't know how you're going to survive in jeans, man. It's sweltering."
She, herself, was sporting a pair of short-shorts.

I just nodded. I didn't know either. We moved on, talking about summer, until some more parents came up and started pestering her about their child's allergies. From behind her over-sized sunglasses, she gave me the "help me" look.
I don't know why I've always made friends with older people.
Younger people just...aren't really my type, I guess. As friends.

But getting to the point, or back to it, or whatever...
I'm going to get lost tomorrow.
Or actually, maybe I'll just ride the subway all day.

That's exactly what I'll do tomorrow.

If you know so much, why the fuck aren't you fine-just-fine?

If you're so experienced, why are you just as fucked? 

Thinking

I'm thinking.

Considering something, just a few things. Thinking about the crash. Thinking about darkness.
But that's boring shit, isn't it? That's attention-seeking, and shallow, and played out. Right?
But see, that's honestly what I'm thinking about.

I took the bus today. Went for a walk far away somewhere I could get lost.
And I did. I got lost, but I already was, mentally.
The subway's too confusing, anyway. Maps and stations and I fell asleep, so I guess I musta missed my stop.
But it's not like it matters, because I just got off at the very last stop and looked around, and all I saw was fucking shacks and dying-trees.
And that means jack, but it hit me, that I was really, physically lost.

No, I didn't break down and cry. No, I didn't ask for help.
I just sat there in my lostness, and thought.

And I thought about exactly the same things I'd think about if I was sitting in class, or at the beach, or on my couch. It doesn't matter, anyway. You can go ahead and take a guess.
I was thinking, about the same things I'm thinking about now.

I think I'll go ahead and quote Mr. Shakespeare now.
"To be, or not to be. That, is the question."

When Mr.Teacher was talking, about Shakespeare, he asked, " 'To be, or not to be. That is the question.' What do you think Shakespeare meant by that? What do you think it was about?"
And in my mind, I thought, "Suicide. The killing of oneself."
And I was right.
And so, I'll shut up now, and let you do some thinking of your own.

Seriously, give it some thought.
Are you ready to make the deal with death, or are you going to toy with lady luck and hope for the best?

Triggering. You may not want to read this.

"To provoke an emotion.


Something, in this world, anything, other than pain and hatred."

Look at this picture above for a few seconds. Doesn't that look... riveting?

Tell me now that that's not gorgeous.
Tell me now that that's now something to strive for.
Tell me now, that that's not a feeling.
You know, when you want to take the sharpest thing near you and tear your skin to irregular shreds?

Now look at this one here.
Have you ever felt like this? Like curling up in a ball, closing your eyes so tight, and never having to face the world again?

Hang your head, you are shamed.
Are you not?

All right, world, you fucking twisted bastard, you. Tell me I'll regret it and make me fucking believe it.
Pull my hands away from me, tear my thoughts out of my head.
Come on, asshole. Go ahead!
Show me that there's a reason to wake up tomorrow other than pleasing everyone else.
Prove it to me.

Make me feel something -anything!- other than this.

Look again. Come on, then. Direct your eyes down a little.

This isn't really happiness, is it? This isn't really fine.

And this?

And this?

Never mind the completely psychotic prospect that it's understandable, because everyone has their reasons. But this is getting out of hand, is it not?
No, actually, it isn't.
It's this weird thing. For me, I mean. It's this weird compulsion. It's not that I even want to at this point, I've never wanted anything but one thing.

It's like smoking for me.
Only this does way more than any simple substance ever has.
It's...so weird. I said that already, I know. But it's almost as if it feels good. When the razor bites in, it almost feels good.
Punishment, some people call it. Reward, others.

But it's mesmerizing.
And every single time...it's perfect.

Just don't do it

I think it's awfully funny when people apologise for things.

No, not funny.

I think it's stupid.

I've decided that all I really have is me. No one else particularly cares much, so I can rely on myself probably.
And I will, and it'll be fine.

Anyway. I'm off now.

Silent solitude

I don't really know what to say now that I haven't already covered.

Everyone's sad so it's not a big deal.
Everyone goes into depressive states sometimes, so it's not a big deal.
Everyone's considered it.
I know everyone has.

So really, it's not a big deal.
Silent soldiers die every day, you know?
Support the troops, and all that.

But also I've been thinking, and I think going to sleep and never waking up would be perfect.
I'd be happy in my silent solitude of slumber.
I could dream.

I think my only fear is that if I fall asleep into that slumber, I won't ever wake up and it'll be nightmares for the rest of my life. Forever.

And you know, god, I really hate nightmares a lot.

Soul-mate

If you think about it, everyone's hiding something. Obviously, anyway.
Some people are more obvious about it, and some people hide it better than others.
But everyone is pretending, putting on a mask at some point, and walking down the street, out of the house, into their cages, like nothing is wrong.

At some point, we've all lied. We've all said we're fine when really, something is bothering us.
We've all pretended to be tired because we didn't feel like explaining why we're upset.
We've all done it, so it's not a big deal, right?

And anyway, if everyone jumps off a cliff, it's a perfectly good reason to jump off yourself.

Boring ranting whatever.
But it's whatever.

I've been thinking what I'm going to say when my soul-mate moves back. What I'm going to tell her. What I'm going to hide.

You know, but all this thinking has convinced me that I shouldn't say anything.
I'll hug her, tell her I've missed her, and go on like she never left...
But I won't tell her what I really want to tell her.

And if she asks, I'll just say no.
I'll say it's fine, cool, perfect, and I'm just tired.


It'll be fine.