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."