ramble on.

so, let’s try this again. 

i’m hoping not many people will care enough to read what i say on here, thus allowing me to feel like i can say what i want and not worry what anyone will think. then again, the internet is public property, and people piss wherever they please. what’s to stop anyone from pissing on me? i suppoe a private journal would suffice, but i’m too lazy to print every photo i like and paste it on a page of paper, and i often forget i even have a journal to begin with and end up writing shit on facebook that noone cares to read anyway.

this is easier. and i’m a sucker for the quickfasthereandnow.

done, done, and done.

marriage? fuck that shit.

well that didn’t last very long.

the bends

i crave. and it is
not so simple, as
wanting sugar or
sex. i want

to feel. to know that
by feeling, i am
alive, am living, and
not only existing.

i have scars. a constellation
of masochism, skin that
screams with abuse, flesh
that speaks of addiction.

i lie. i’ve closed every
door, and broken the 
remaining open windows.
my body, once a

forbidden zone, now
nothing more than
open territory, nothing
more than faded flesh.

i lick at wounds that
will never heal, and
i stay quiet until
he’s taken off all of

my clothes, then i wait.
i know it is coming, 
i know what will happen.
i hope he will love me, but

they never do, those that
i let in so easily. they
play, they talk, they
quietly leave. and when

i’m alone, all red welts
and dried blood,
i tell myself to cry. not
for the men, but for me.

i am the one that is 
lost. i am the girl
that is easy, i
am the girl that love

won’t touch. too tainted,
too pale, too much to 
hold. i throw up my future,
and try to throw away

the thought of being.
just living, or existing.
i am there, i am here, 
and i am nothing.

but that wasn’t always
so. i was once worth
something. worth, even,
everything, as most

little girls are. all
red, ripe apples that
plump and sticky
fingers toss into the air.

all giggles and a mother’s 
shoes, harlot lipstick or
blood-colored nails. no
thoughts of ending what

has become my excuse for 
breathing. the breathe is
only there, now, because
i am, too. and i am

only there because my 
veins have not been
prodded and poked enough.
the syringe is full, and

now i am full. the tourniquet
tight, the displaced smile
back on my face, as i push
the plunger back into its place.

my needs have been met,
and another track mark
joins the rest, my trophy case
of scars and addiction and

everything i once thought
was real, all the truth
i ever knew, just lies based
on fairy tales i listened to.

i may not be that little
girl, but when i smile,
when i twirl my skirt
before it drops to the floor,

i can feel, i am human, 
and a little more. death
can wait for another day, 
because my happiness is only

in the way i am torn
apart as i play. the apples may
rot, and mother’s shoes
are now too small,

but i have not been
forgotten, not when he
touches me, and 
sometimes not at all.

there you go again.

“if love is a bridge, we’ve built it wrong.”

remember lincoln logs?

i’m rebuilding my life with a deck of cards instead of bricks. i’m adding paint and glaze over every problem, and it’s starting to peel away. 

misc.

i hate a lot of things, but i love a few things, and you are one of them.

here we go.