Fractured

This was supposed to be well thought out and fluid. About the words as much as anything else. But I know already it'll be rash and irrational, like my hundred mile an hour head. And blunt and revealing and everything.

Even if you take just a second to consider how this feels...

Where others are smooth and sleek I am fractured. Split into parts as disjointed as they come. All about the but what if... but what if... but what if...

Fuck that. That is what I should do, because no one can be ruled by what ifs. What ifs coming out of your car crash ears, tainting everything, rotting away.

And nobody gets it. Nobody blinks an eye when I pour like rain. When I bleed a river. Unless, unless I pour and bleed in their deluded name. Because it's fine if it's not their problem, yeah? But you know, they are good people so heaven forbid that you suffer because of them.

But what if... but what if... everything is warped and skewed and distorted until you don't even recognise the alien in your mirror? The monster under your bed? The voice croaking its way from your dry cavern throat? Where do you turn? Who do you trust?

There are branches to snag my skin at every point, tripwires at every junction. Clowns sing and dance maniacally before my eyes, but at the end of the day I'm too well to do anything but survive.

Stumbling and shattering along and looking not even for help anymore, but just a glimmer of selflessness. A recognition that this has mostly come to light because of the dark days we travel through. We had spring summer and autumn and now we are firmly in winter. A never-ending solstice of agony. It is. Agony. And I've screamed so loud I've lost my voice. But there are limits and rules and fears stopping my aide.

In my mind there aren't limits or rules or fears for this. I'd do whatever I had to. Whatever I could do.

When you find yourself fractured, your first thought isn't to put yourself back together, to carefully pin the pieces into place. It is to wonder how you broke in the first place. How you can hit rock bottom. How you are still functioning in this hell.

18 year old me looks on in the shadows. She has shaken completely free of those apron strings. She is finding confidence. She stumbles but the dust from the ground doesn't stick, she can shake herself off and carry on. These things are but a minor check with life for her. A sign that she cares. She is always wide mouthed aghast and what she sees now.

Enough intellect and intelligence to give me vision, turned around on myself, corroding my flesh slow enough to keep me alive and tortured, instead of blazing a trail that's shiny and new and means something.

See how you'd like it if you've been told you have a gift, but somewhere something went wrong and now you're destroying yourself one agonising piece at a time with it. But what if... what if...

And imagine your skin so weak and thin and sensitive that every brush past makes you bruise, every touch makes you bleed, every single interaction with life batters at you.

You can care all you want about getting better, but sometimes you just want... To at least not feel that your being is tiring. That you are understood or at least seriously acknowledged.

I don't know what I know anymore. Love is the only good thing I can clearly see, the rest turns me to dust.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

screaming

I am screaming into the wide open space. Got words for no-one's ears. Not any more. Broken into little pieces by everyone, and listened to by no-one. No voice, no sounds, just shady outlets full of obscurity.

All the critisms have finally worn me down. Worn me out. There is nothing but games and sickness. And I am a pack-horse for it all. Used, abused and kicked to the kerb.

All I hear are excuses, disease and mind-killing bullshit. I am there when it is convenient. Things that are as clear as day ignored. Talked at, talked down to.

And this is where being kind and selfless gets you. Dripping prozac nightmares. Itching and crawling with the need to feel something real. To bleed real blood. To cry real tears.

To fade away, not burn out.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

limping like a lame dog

Like dead no faced Chinese baby dolls. Strung up by wires, contorted and crumpled. Fixed to grimy walls. Like some macabre Christmas chain. Rusted blood crusted to skin.

Bleakness like cruising through a slum. Kids pissing in the street, throwing lame dog shit at each other. Despair in every set of eyes. Where there are sets of eyes and not just one. The other rendered a hole by worms and maggots of infection.

The other side of the fence always has the greener grass. Until you find every shadow of your mind occupied by skeleton death rattles. Of bony cold skin touching your hand. Death still walking, though god knows how. She has given up. She pisses she shits she drinks. She sleeps and she abuses. If she wasn't such a coward she would have sauntered into the fast lane traffic years ago. And yet she clings on while others die and prosper. With those cold cold witch fingers that turn your blood to ice, bacteria ridden, she'll pass it all on.

And yet others live feeding off the bullshit that occupies their minds. Vomits from their throat in absolute assurity. They make something of themselves while the rest of the world is in the depths. Dead babies littering streets like fag packets. Abandoned by law, their screams turn whimpers extinguished by the frost of the night. Alone and tortured, and they haunt my mind with their chubby cherub cheeks, growing bluer with every nightmare.

A twisted story of every wrong, never finding a common thread, just wavering on the water, bloated and face down, with a million others. Til they sink like stone. The selfish fuckers.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Fantasising

You dim the lights and sit me on the bed, run your fingertips through my hair and cup my chin. Instinctively I lick my lips, dampen them slightly and watch you watch me do it. You draw your face closer to mine, like you are leaning in to kiss me. And yet you don't. You gaze into my eyes and I see yours are full of love and full of desire, gentle and tender with a barely concealed fire. Tonight, you tell me, is going to be all about you. I shudder involuntarily at your warm whisper, the intensity to your voice, and you take the opportunity to pull me in further.

Finally your lips are on mine, and your fingers are buried in my hair. Your other hand reaches the small of my back and holds me firm while you plant tender kisses on my lips. I return the kisses with urgency but you hold me back, showing me such tenderness I feel happy tears pricking my eyes. Slowly your hand brushes through my hair, your thumb stroking my cheek, you pull back and you look lost in the moment. I realise I must look the same. You return your lips to mine and this time your kisses are more teasing, my tongue flicks over your upper lip, soft and gentle, and you moan. You pull me in tighter and I can feel now how much you want this, how much you want me. Every little lick of your lips makes you jolt, and you press deeper and deeper into these glorious kisses.

Eventually you pull back and bring me to my feet. You gently lift my top and cover my stomach with tiny kisses, you pull the top up, and your kisses move too, over the swell of my covered breasts, my collarbone, my shoulders as you remove my top and throw it to the ground. Still standing, I slowly unbutton your shirt, looking to feel your soft skin on mine as you bring me close for more delicious kisses, your hands moving over my back, still slow and tender with every movement. I can barely stand with longing, and you gently lower me to the bed, unbuttoning my trousers and slipping them off as you go. You stand in front of me and remove yours too, before lying beside me and stroking my hip, the curve of my thigh, tracing your fingers over my back, and up to my shoulder, where you plant even more kisses. My skin feels electrified by your touch, every inch is alive with desire, as you kiss your way to my breasts, gently unhooking my bra as you do so. You gasp as you release them, and your mouth goes to my nipple, lightly licking and sucking. I am growling low desire-filled noises as your mouth works over one nipple then goes to the other.

Moving down over my stomach you hit the tender areas around my hips and I buck and shiver as you kiss and lick. I can see your hardness twitching through your boxers and I am desperate to feel you inside me, but I can tell that won't be for a while. Your fingers slip under my panties and you deftly slide them down, getting close to my hot aching pussy with your lips but never touching it.

You stop to take me in, like I'm a tall cool drink on a scorching hot day. You whisper sweet everythings to me as you gaze at my skin, my curves, and gently run your fingers all over me. You tell me you are controlling your desire as you want to please me so deeply, you want me to feel like never before. Your hands cradle the cheeks of my ass as you pull me in once more, and your fingers begin to do the talking...

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Awakening

I am a dog who deserves nothing but pity. A bitch that should be put down. And the day I left Lisa was the day I had to take some respect back. I was gonna fucking make her pay. And with my fingers splaying her holes I whispered bitch is gonna bleed. For her sins. Before I sliced her right open with rusty razorblads. Join the dots. Holes. Whatever. She cried, that day, when I casually walked away. Tossing my hair and spitting on her grave. Bitch is gonna bleed, I heard her say. Before she came at me with a hacksaw, gushing blood like a burst dam. Her face contorted with evil she ripped into me as best she could. I told her, don't you see I made us even, look what your naive stinking mind has done now. I bled every day for you whore. Every fucking day. I crumpled to the ground, wanting to be the better person. Yet still chanting bitch is gonna bleed.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]

Nothing of Consequence

I put on my makeup. I put on too little, or I put on too much. I eat, too little or too much. I smoke, too much. I drink, too little. I sleep like the dead, or I sleep like I'm on a cliff's edge.

Dressing is an effort, sometimes I just find the first thing, crumpled in a heap, and wear it. Sometimes I change 10 times before I am happy. Washing is an effort, sometimes I forget the arm that holds the sponge. Sometimes, I forget my mascara, or my deoderant, or my perfume, or to brush my hair.

My eyes feel dead but I am told they're not. My mouth feels desert dry, yet still I can speak. My legs feel heavy and weighted, except I'm walking. I ran half way home. I wanted to curl up on the warm grass and cry it all out of me. The tears flow so freely from my eyes that no-one notices any more.

I walk, and I am hazy, my vision is blurred. I am alien. Behind my sheet of glass. Stifled underneath the bell jar. The bulls look at me, and I imagine their eyes to be evil, they stare and I wish they would stop. I cross the road in front of the traffic, wondering what would happen if I lingered a few seconds.

The days blur together messily. My food doesn't fill me, my drinks don't quench my thirst. I smoke and smoke and read. Read anything. Books which whisk me into their world. Blog posts which have lain there for weeks unread. I am disturbed as I try to block everything out. He gets annoyed with my non-being.

I wonder if this is how he felt in those silent days. That lifetime ago before he found the rocks amongst the storm.

Every chat is laced with poison tips. Waiting for me to inelegantly brush past so they can dig in. I dramatasise, but no-one is listening. I am invisible now. Is it for me? Is it me? Is it for everyone else, these dramas, this sadness, emptiness? Or is it just me?

If it's not, then I guess this is a cry for help. Can anyone possibly do anything now, seeing as I don't know what to do myself, or what would help? I need someone to do it all for me. I feel small. And lost.

The Teaser

A hot, sticky, Indian summer of a day, just like the inside of her thighs as she strolls towards you. at least it might be beads of sweat, or it might be beads of nectar. Who knows? But you want to find out, as she strolls past you, brushing your arm gently with hers. Making each hair stand to attention. And your groin heading that way too.

Those shorts are much too tight for a guy's concentration, you growl in her ear. Depends what you're concentrating on, she purrs back at you. Right now, you tell her, all I can think about is reaching Nirvana. When do you finish?

It's your lucky night, she brazenly replies, I'm done in 10, let's go for a ride, my moped's out back.

You down a frosty one while you wait. The beads of condensation gently snaking their way down the bottle. Ice-cold when they hit your fingers. But not hers, you bet with yourself, hers could burn your hand off.

She hands you a helmet, flicks her hair at you and says let's go cowboy. She straddles her bike and you get on behind, closer than you need to, your hands firmly finding her hips. You wonder if she can feel what else is firm, like holding her at gunpoint. Her push back suggests that she can and she likes it. You grip tighter and she sets off.

Too soon you reach another bar, she dismounts, clips off her helmet, and shakes her hair loose. You stand there, suddenly unsure of yourself, until she juts out a hip, and asks, well, are you coming or not?

You sit at the bar and she orders two more cold ones, and two shots of something sickly looking. You watch her gulp it down, chase it with a mouthful from the bottle, and you see her shoulders drop.

As you echo her movements she takes your hand in hers and asks, you up for a fun night tonight? Of course, you huskily reply, as the burn sets in your throat, I'm up for anything.

Two hours later you find yourself unable to piss straight, seeing double, wondering how she managed to drink you under the table. You severly doubt your ability to show her a good time at present. But god those legs go on for miles, and the dancing and grinding to the heavy beats has got those beads cruising down her thighs once more.

When you get back out, she's bought a couple of bottles of water, she tells you to down it, we have places to go. You obey and head out of the packed bar. The night air and the water have their effect and you feel more lucid now, more in control, as you walk behind her, watching the sway of her ass.

She drives you to the beach, and walks you through the soft sand, at the waters edge she strips off all her clothes and damn does she look better than you imagined. She's about to make her way into the water when you shout stop, there's something I need to know first. You drop to your knees and enjoy the look of surprise in her face, you bring your tongue to the inside of her thigh, and gently snake it up. Stopping a modest distance away. You taste the definite salt, and the sweet nectar you imagined. You get to your feet and she asks, did you get your answer? Yes, you grin at her, I found out what I needed to know. Good, she says, come on then. And she walks into the water.

You rush to pull all your clothes off. Too many zips and buttons and a slight issue with coordination hamper you, but doesn't put you off your new goal. Nirvana, here I come, you think as you turn to face the gleaming water. You look for her, your eyes taken aback by the light bouncing off the weak waves. But she is nowhere to be seen. You run in and then dive, looking for her, search for a glimpse. Fearing something bad. You emerge without triumph, and then you've spotted her resting on a distant rock. Your swimming stroke has never been so strong as you make your way towards it. Towards her.

When you get there, however, you see it was a trick of the light. A cruel illusion. And she is nowhere to be found. You keep diving to see her, surely she is hurt, or playing a twisted game. But there is no trace. Eventually your tired arms give out, and you head back to the shore. Exhausted and bemused, you close your eyes, and wonder when you'll wake up.

[Posted with iBlogger from my iPod touch]