An Experiment in Filth

Fractured

2009-09-10T07:10:00.000+01:00

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.

screaming

2009-09-02T22:16:00.000+01:00

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.

limping like a lame dog

2009-08-31T23:46:00.000+01:00

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.

Fantasising

2009-08-13T17:36:00.000+01:00

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...

Awakening

2009-07-23T23:59:00.000+01:00

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.

Nothing of Consequence

2009-06-24T10:11:00.003+01:00

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

2009-06-13T23:28:00.000+01:00

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.

The everlasting

2009-06-10T12:48:00.002+01:00

He subscribes to the mantra of 'I only see what I want to see'. He is no seer, as he crushes darkness night orchids under his bloodthirsty feet. And her pep lasted only a deuce, before being one of those force-wilted flowers.

He wonders when his life became not his own, and when the explosion will happen. The mishmash fusion of the unequally fissioned. Tick tock, tick tock, ticktockticktock.

[beat]

She wonders when her life became not her own, and when the velveteen curtain will descend. The fade to black. Tick, tick, ticktocktick.

They prophesise, they lie, they deceive themselves. No saints, no angels, no martyrs. The everlasting.

The day dawn break heralds the end of another sleepless dreamless night. The end of distorted visions, of smack slammed doors, of oozing, seeping soul disturbances. There is no respite here.

Despair. The everlasting.

more darkness

2009-05-10T21:40:00.000+01:00

Does the dark light not scream out at you? Blinding you. All consuming. Faces in pain. Faces of pain. The secret life film. The creepy disturbed soundtrack. Pause. Rewind. Step forward. Delete.

Every picture will scream anguish. Dead eyes. Dead lips. Deadened sounds and dulled motions. Every picture will resonate sorrow, echoing infinitely.

The little bird you find under your garden shed. Quivering from feline terror. Breathing hard in cool sanctuary. You can see its heart thumping through its chest. And you provide warmth. And light. And water and worms. You dedicate your days to nursing this tragic little bird.

And one day she's gone.

She's dead to you.

She's dead.

She.

i'll rely on me, and still you will be fine

2009-04-30T09:08:00.003+01:00

Fucking filth-thirsty words splattered on a page in dripping ink. There's still blood, in your hair... and there will just be words, scattered all over the fucking place. When the crawling fear envelops your mind, takes control of your skin, crawling crawling spider's legs scratching their way across, always across, and over and under and back again. Forgive the mess. Crazy thinking erratically sprawling across your brain, always across, and over and under and back again. And deep fucking misandry, oh you haven't seen the best of it yet, don't worry there's a fucking truck-load of it left for you yet. Fucking misogyny, just gleaming out, shining like a single sunbeam. And misanthropy, by the bucket. Just for good measure.

Can't ride this wave much longer, it never lasts as long as my mind wants it to. Torrents and torrents soon turn into an endangered trickle. Before it finally bites the dust. And lays dormant til next time. Always next time. But for now the music helps ride the next wave. Brings the loving care that comes with this insane creeping hate and anger. Fuck the world. Fuck it good and proper. Inside and out. Dry and fucking begging. Begging to stop. All over it like a rash. No release no repentance just repeating, repetitive creeping crawling hatred and pain and fucking anger. Fuck this fucking inane shit. Can't keep going.

The Dark

2009-04-27T23:18:00.000+01:00

The dark inner child is feasting. Dining on a banquet of blood and gore. The dark inner child is eating and drinking and growing stronger and wailing for freedom. The dark inner child is full of vanity and petulance. It is crying for some souls from below. The dark inner child is full of self-pity. Mutilating itself on all the sharp strong edges. Piercing and howling and begging for an end. The dark inner child is a wimp. A wuss. And a total fucking cunt.

Eyes of the night

2009-04-14T16:40:00.002+01:00

Flip-side life. Head turned feet turned head turned cancer. And the rain falls, and the sun doesn't care for all the world. And the lightning strikes, and the thunder couldn't worry less. It would kiss it better, but it's not that bad. It would struggle and win, if failing was really an option. And the swarms of bees spin round like words. Epic poems of tangled words. But the flowers aren't concerned by bees, only by the snails of actions that nibble at their roots. Kill them from the ground up.

And the sulphur burn signifies the free souls encased. The spirits. The eyes of the night. For the night brings the peaceful awakening of the new dawn. The better dawn. Where the rain and the sun, the thunder and the lightning, the bees and the flowers and the snails are all with hope. But the rain prevails, the lightning strikes again. The bees do little to scrape the surface, but the snails attack.

And the girl in the gingham dress picks the most beautiful flowers she can find. And she brushes off the bees with their barbs ready, but she can't save the flowers from the snails. The sun emerges from its clouded rest, shining its best through the rain. Everyone knows that sun and rain makes rainbows. And that thunder and lightning make for a snug hiding place under the bed.

To the Death

2009-04-12T01:35:00.000+01:00

I am all there is. And all there is is nothing. My soul is alive with self-pity. Pity me. Oh pity me. But don't you dare fucking pity me.

Gasping for breath. Shaking. Convulsant sobs as the rain pours out of me. As the spark switches off. Oh fucking pity me. Or do something. Fix me. Please oh please fix me.

Can't stop. Couldn't stop and now it hurts. Cut to the quick. Ammonia-stained. Rusted shut. The only thing I'll ever have is this incessant fear. This self-destruct. I'll never have me. Oh can't you just make it stop?

I'm down. I'm out.

So here it is

2009-04-06T21:34:00.000+01:00

Here it is, the void. The plain white glow of the empty screen. No need to refresh, it's always going to be blank. Perfectly calm, perfectly strong. Perfectly full of nothing and yet the words continue to flow. Pointless words. A life of words. All in life is words, just now. A constant ebb and flow, or a raging torrent of words, with a mouth open to speak them, but only deafening, sickening silence voicing them. That gut-wrenching silence, no noise, not even distant spectre echoes. Not one single solitary sound. Not that it would matter, in this cacophony of a million voices all screaming in unheard distress. They want to be heard, every single last fucking one of them. They want their time, their place. Well fuck them. Fuck them all, and their struggles, their plights. Sickening sympathy for those who scream the loudest. Come get it here. It's only just words after all. Those words. All those words, and none of them. Only some of them matter, the rest are thrown away like unwanted baby bones. Unloved, not nurtured, destroyed meanings, desecrated lines, unheard implications. I will cherish those words. Every single last fucking one of them.

The intense humming...

2009-04-01T13:15:00.003+01:00

She is not vindictive. Not at all. But she realised she needs to grow a pair. Get some balls. Balls of steel. Unleash a torrential stream of expletives and blasphemes relentless. Unleash razor sharp scarification on virgin flesh relentless. Take this carefully nurtured seed and tend to it tenderly. And tenderly and tenderly and carnage. Complete and with compulsive disregard.

No, she is not vindictive. But even she can see the need. She can feel the urgent need clawing at her skin. She will exact her rebel vengence. She grows, she grows alive and strong. She feels it. Feels it coursing through reinforced veins. Coursing, pumping, pounding evenly eventfully to her heart. Her ruby red swollen renewed heart. She transforms. Reborn. She is Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. All in one. And of course Shiva is the strongest within her. The destroyer. The destructor. Of course.

And so

2009-03-28T22:08:00.000Z

And so it comes, once more, in a whirldwind thrash and a sprinting dash. And I don't know what I'm talking about anymore as the darkness descends behind sharp shrewd eyes. I was captured in still, stoic movement. I was liquid amongst shapes and sounds and everything else was not. And I'm sick of the trickling in the cold stiff air. And I'm disgusted at being used as a scratching post, getting this whim and that urge out in subconcious light. And I wait for neon glows among others. And I wait to here the chattering babble of the morning song, the friendly call. And I take my turn, not living, not dying, just inanimately passing through time. And once more she holds the blade glistening slick to my jugular. And she reaches into my veins and pumps her poison straight in. Beating my heart in irregular time. Struggling to keep her stone ice grip on my lost-passion limbs. And there is nothing while I wait. There is nothing while I breathe. There is nothing left to lose. But nothing ready to be gained.

Fucking

2009-03-22T22:37:00.002Z

Waiting. Waiting to find out. She's waiting to find out. Will he fuck her? Has he fucked her? What the fuck's all this fucking stuff about fucking anyway? Does he make love to her? Does he make lurrrvvve? Or does he screw her? Bang her? Take her roughly from behind? Will he fucking bang her fucking brains out?

Will he tell her that he flicks her nipples? Dampens them with his tongue? Will he tell her he loves to ram his tongue inside her? His fingers? His dick? Will he tell her everything? Will he tell her nothing? Will he fuck her?

The beginning of the end of the beginning

2009-03-18T22:25:00.002Z

You know you'll end up with a knife to your throat, just as she lays one to her own. Smoothing and grazing translucent skin, waiting, itching to make that first cut. And she hammers you down with every glance, every word, every sigh. You know you'll end up weeping on the floor, as she does every day, with her legs gathered by her arms, her fragile armour against the silence and emptiness. And she causes a tear with every thought, every annoyance, every insult. And you know you'll end up as broken as her, picking up the pieces every morning, to be left in a heap again every night. And she breaks a piece off with every word unsaid, every kiss unreturned, every gaze not met.

And you know she'll self-destruct, and take you with her.

She waits

2009-03-17T16:40:00.003Z

How do I tell you that I'm lost when you're not here

Left staring into the distance, eyes fixed and unfocussed

Checking for contact, here, there and everywhere

Waiting for the moment my heart will lift once more.

How do I tell you that things aren't ok without you

Even if things aren't ok with us, i'm still consoled

Flying high when you're near, sinking low when you're far

Always waiting, waiting to catch your eye.

How do I tell you that in one blissful moment

You become everything to me, all at once

Such a rush, such a buzz, such beauty all around

Waiting for the feeling to never end.

How do I tell you I want to grasp on tight

As we freefall through this life, together

We can be separately failing, but jointly succeeding

Always waiting, waiting to tell you I love you.

Blame it on the black star

2009-03-13T22:57:00.000Z

He says hey baby doll, why do your eyes look so dead?
Stone cold, full of pain would surely be better.
Full of joy an unreachable goal.
He says sweetheart when did you last sleep? Eat? Brush your hair?
She says, hey cutie pie 3 maybe 4 days. I'm living on my broken nails.
Chewed to the quick. And further still. Bleeding, infected.
And still I can't stop cutting my teeth on them.
She says hey baby boy, I wanna sleep.
I wanna sleep and not wake up tomorrow.
This perpetual nightmare's too much.
She says.
She says.
She says.

Holes

2009-03-12T22:56:00.002Z

She can pick holes in anything, she can. Her jumper is unravelling inch by inch, leaving the woollen thread trailing behind her, limp and lifeless. His socks need darning, after she takes her claws to them and pulls out weave and waft. She can pick holes in anything. She can leave herself wondering which way is up, which is down. She prefers horizontal. And comotose. Comotose is the best, for her.

Or horizontal, and do what she does best.

So upside-down, topsy-turvy, she sits and picks. She can't stop herself. Bared nails digging into the soil, burrowing a hole for her blue-tinged dead-weight body. Cover herself over and rot for the worms. Where's the right and wrong for her these days? In this mixed-up life, with a mixed-up head, and nothing but razor-talons to do what she does.

And do what she does best.

She stops for a minute to darn his socks. Patch up the mess she started. He says "hey baby, give me your sticky saliva on my dick". She spits at him. Arches her back, swipes at his arms with her nails, draws legions of blood in one blink-missed moment. Hisses and spits venom in his face. Or where.

Where she does it best.

She can't escape the reality

2009-03-08T22:38:00.000Z

Her name is pain and suffering. Her name is death and destruction. Her name is carnage and chaos.

She smells of metholated spirits and of single socks. She smells of rain on hot stone. And of sleepless dyslexia. She smells of impurities washed away by tears.

She is hopelessly despairing. She is hopefully destroying. She wants to be good. She doesn't want to cause a fuss.

She is crying gentle tears into her pit of oblivion. She is weeping for those she is destroying. Don't try to tell her she plays no part in this. She isn't listening any more.

She knows what she should do. She always knows. She knows that she is too selfish, too full of cowardice, too vain.

You tell her. You tell her from me that she is worth more than this. You tell her from me that this will come to no good. No good, she isn't listening. She isn't listening any more.

She can't escape the reality. The scars on others' wrists. The bathtubs full of watered down blood. The handprints left as a final alarm. The gun against innocent, unwitting heads. She tells herself it isn't her fault. She isn't listening. She's not listening to herself. Not any more.

The Masquerade

2009-03-07T21:16:00.000Z

I'd rather be alone
Sitting in melancholic silence
Repeating those lines over again
Than singing them in my head
With jarring discord
Sitting with my slipping masquerade.

The Beginning

2009-03-05T21:56:00.000Z

He takes her. Takes her to his place. Takes her roughly. Lays her down on cold sheets. Soft sheets. Satin sheets. He hitches up her legs and tells her. Tells her this. Tells her that. Tells her everything she wants to hear. Needs to hear in order to. In order to loosen off those muscles. He kisses downy hairs. Small of her back. Breathes in her scent. Holds himself back. Back from diving in mouth first. Instead he tickles her soft smooth skin.

She squirms. She moans. She's ready. And he holds back. He likes where he has her. Quivering under. Shivering from. Waiting for. Waiting for the rest.

Fine

2009-03-04T14:18:00.001Z

Yes, yes, everything’s fine.

Smelling of roses.

Fine and dandy.

Wonderfully fantastic.

Except.

Except the fact that you make me sick.

To my back teeth, to my eye teeth.

Sick to my stomach.

Putrid, rancid bile inducing fakery.

Projectile-vomit staining jokery.

Vile, retching, gagging unawareness and selfishness.

When it’s only for my benefit you know it’s called hiding.

And you wouldn’t know it if I slapped your face with my contempt.

But you know, other than that.

I’m doing just fine.