ripped corners

it started with a simple scribble, a line on a page.

I was given it when I was young,

told to take care and create it into something beautiful.

an almost unmarked sheet awaiting its future.

they began scratching

and shading,

marking the print.

the slate is now altered, far from the same.

parts of the page are torn, the corners ripped.

although it is difficult to make out

the original comes back, sometimes when i squint.

i wish the image would have been

differently drawn

maybe if i find the right artist, (you),

you could remove some of the marks and somehow erase the permanent pen

so for the moment--i hope they can all let us be

just take my hand, and draw the lines of life with me.

old stuff 5/9/07

Swallow it down

Suck in my sobs

Put up my mask, bare my facade.

Noone needs to see, to know.

The train rolls on, and my sorrow only grows.

more old stuff 8/28/07

Unwanted and used--she puts up her smile.

She pushes her worries aside 

just for a little while.

Why doesn't he really want her?

Why doesn't he care?

She smirks and remembers what she's been told.

life isn't fair.

It is done.  She lays alone.

Her soul aches as the pieces of her heart are carelessly thrown.

Why can't she stand to look at herself?

She bottles up her emotions

 and sets them on the shelf.

old stuff

I cover my worries and pretend like it's "fine."

I convince myself it's okay...

just drink the bottle of wine.

Inadequacy swirls through my veins.

My heart is broken, numb from all these

stains.

I can't see a future, I hate to look at the past

I need to move on--God--how long will this last?

It stings. 

It burns.

I can't imagine a love that's real.

Everyone will fail me.

Will I ever be able to truly feel?

joy

this morning i woke up happy for the first time in what seems like foreverrrrr.

 

if only he knew

2/24/09

The other day my dad told me I needed to start being nicer to boys.

How ironic.

If only he knew...

If only he knew how, every time I shake hands with a boy,

I wonder whether or not he's talking to me because he likes my "perfect ass" 

or my pretty blue eyes.

I know it's only a matter of time until he grabs my "perfect ass"

or gets in his mind that my pretty blue eyes want nothing other than to

fuck.

him.

(because who wouldn't want to fuck him, anyways).

and surely my smiling at him and wearing shirt a little too tight gives him every right.

surely me being passed out on HIS couch

gives him

every.

right.

because i smiled at him, right?

because i took the drink from him, right?

if only he knew.

if only he knew how i want to make myself throw up when i think about any boy I

have been nice to. 

if only he knew how tired i am of being nice.

I often wonder why it is I always have these
tension head. aches.
the pain seems to start in my heart and seep deep
up to my head
my neck
my shoulders.
sometimes the pain of a headache like this is
comforting.
like a hard run, a cut on my wrist, a good puke,
or a tattoo.

(maybe a should get that new tattoo?)

pain and pleasure are supposed to be opposites right?
why is it, then, that i somehow feel a strange relief when my body's pain (for the moment) matches the pain i feel inside?

Hollow Musk

Nights like these are easy to find.
Rush of your musk. Rush of my
loneliness.
Rush of the smothering unsubsiding thoughts
of you.
or the idea of you.
sometimes i pretend.
i pretend that you are someone you aren't.
if i pretend, i can be happy.
(at least for the night).
I mold you and fit you,
twist you and turn you,
into my own version of cinderella.
But, when it's all done,
I'm missing both slippers instead of only one.
My feet are cold.
My heart is pounding.

Your hollow musk only turns circles in my stomach now.
I am still somehow empty.

it is the same kind of emptiness I feel even when you are inside of me.

tulip lips.

I watch my little girl with her father, hands intertwined. Their unmistakable happiness floods from their inners, beaming for all to see.
She is precious.
Innocent.
He tickles her as she sticks her fore finger between her tulip lips sucking for comfort (and out of habit) as small children do. He holds her close as he promises her a golden life,
full of fairy tales and shiny dreams.

I watch as the same little girl, far from innocent, is shaking uncontrollably on the bathroom floor.
She sticks the same fore finger between her lips, still tulip in shape, straight down her throat,
hoping to purge herself of all the unaccomplished fairy tales, all the pain.
Time after time she hacks like an old woman or lung cancer patient, trying to rid herself of the plague.
Her plague, green with disease,
infects her.
It infects her entire being.

love is a harsh thing

why did i love him?
i often wonder.
was it the way he made me feel?
certainly, it could not be.

i wasn't myself.
i wasn't happy.

wasn't skinny enough.
wasn't pretty enough.
wasn't enough.
i'm never enough. i never feel like i'm enough.

so i often wonder what love is supposed to feel like.
agonizing pain?
a hollow, useless sentiment?
or a temporary body to fill me for the moment.


i spin in
circles.
twirl around.
maybe if i spin enough, I think.
maybe i will spin myself into understanding.

so i spin and stumble.
twirl and
tumble.

I only find myself more mixed up than I was before.
I have nowhere to go.
nothing left i can do.
so on i spin.

love is a harsh thing.

Word Painting

"I'm unhappy," I told her with shaky hands.
"What do I do, what can I do?"
She, from miles away replied.
"Paint," she said.
"Paint?"
"Write?"
"Pray," she said.
So, here I am.
Painting a prayer picture with my words.
It's words that haunt me.
Words that hurt.
Moments.
Moments full of words.
Pain.
Words. Moments that leave me fragmented.
"I wish it was easier," I say to her.


I wish it would all just disappear with my words.

Run

run.
i'm at work, and it hits me all in a rush.
i want to run.
i want to beat that
renewing.
rhythm.
with my feet.
run.
away.
i want to run it all away.
i think to myself
maybe if i run fast enough?
maybe if i run far enough?
long enough?
it will
go.
away.