Bone China and Cleansing with Fire.

Humans are fragile little things, scared and small and shaking.
The more I know myself the more I know I am not one of those things.
One of these things is not like the other...one of these souls has busted loose the tether.

I feel strong, and full of fire. Something is shifting, the tide is rolling back from the shore. And it's revealing smooth obsidian will. My will is stronger than my pain.

Fuck you, existential crisis. I have you in my clawed little hands this time. Let's see how long it lasts, shall we?

And the dance begins.

Just let me see your eyes widen, my love.

As I lay drifting in and out of wakefulness this morning, the soft skidding sounds of early morning commute beginning to rouse me, my hand ran along my own flank.
I was so startled that consciousness rushed back to me like the bed was spinning. I can feel my hipbones again.

My collarbones twitch under the skin now, and I saw a rib poke out the other day.

And it terrifies me. To my very marrow. To the molecules that make up my marrow. Can I be good? Can I be pure and sane? The urge to crush and dominate is so strong in me that I fear without a layer of fat and ugliness to separate us that I shall become a callus cruel thing again.

Sharp like glass, cold and lovely like diamonds. But dead all the same.

A dusty old Chromaharp...

My fingers started to bleed around the edges, and I don't care.

I've been picking out songs already, playing them low and sweet and knee-length dress sexy. My fingers know the keys, and my voice aches to sing as loud and high as it can.
But I have to stretch it out, go slow.

Songs are already pouring out of my mouth, some too quickly to remember.

Shark tanks and secrets...

My insides hurt so much today.

Little boys and little girls with incomplete hearts leaving trails of broken hearts behind them. Mine keeps bending and bending, but not breaking.

I almost wish it would.

Broken hearts, broken dreams, smothered all with silent screams.

More and more holds me down here...

I don't think salvation lasts. It has an expiration date on it.

I can see my energy caught inside a sterile and soulless glass cataloged jar, on some cosmic bureaucratic sorting shelf. And I'm pretty certain that my status is written in the equivalent of dry-erase marker.

But I just want to set it all on fire...

For the first time in my life I am secure, surrounded by safety and softness.

But self reflection feels like staring into the void. Self reflection is self absorption at this point.

Shitty Indie Music

Was a search keyword used in finding my blog. This absolutely amuses me.

Because I may be an emo sack of shit, but I can still laugh at myself. Now, this post breaks formula from the tone of this journal. But I figured the fact that seeing those search words actually made me laugh out loud and clap my hands frantically warranted a shout-out.

Fucking Russians.

And on that note...



"Because every day, it's getting tougher to shoot straight."

Give my love to Finland?

If I ran away from home, it would be there.

Somewhere cold, but bright. With lilting accents and strong tall sinewy males, how could I resist? Ice blue eyes and long fingered hands, cold from outside but touching my face, slipping between the buttons of my blouse...

I want to gnash my teeth against a ribcage. But for the first time in a long time, not to rend. Softer emotions are filling me, plush and safe feeling. It's incredibly strange.

Maybe I'm just not as unhappy when it snows....I love my lungs burning. The crunching of my booted feet, the simple textures of winter fill me with crackling electricity. And longing.

Spinsterood and bitterness....and nonsensical requirements.

Is it wrong for me to pine for a home? Because I do. One with high windows, and natural light far from the city. And filled with the smells of a shirt that hasn't been washed. Or shaggy hair on a pillowcase, whiskey and saliva and warmth.

Moon's milk spills from my unquiet skull...

Maybe I listen to too much depressing Icelandic electronic music. Or too much Edward Ka Spel, with his charming psychedelic slight speech impediment. It moves me, flutters my insides.
But I need those fairy voices and glitch beats, those weaving hypnotic melodies with their cryptic lyrics that send bolts of lightning down my spine. It sounds to me like the inside of my slick skull cavity.
I need it to ground me, to keep myself from floating away.

Because every time I look at him, I have to fight to be good. To be right, and to be prudent. Because my marrow and my heart pulse pounding and his chemicals all pull me to him. And he is not mine, or for me.

But still my fingers clutch and grasp, and my heart bends almost to the point of breaking.

On your shore...

If wishes were fishes...I still wouldn't eat fish.

Before everything went to shit...

Mostly I wish well for you...

Except when I pray that your relationship crumbles. When I hope and squint and fantasize about how you would actually love me...

You would smell the place where my neck and shoulder meet, and I would shiver. You would trace a finger up the side of my arm, just enough to give me goosebumps...
And when you slept I could hear the cadence of your breathing pattern, and sigh and love you.

But what is love without sacrifice? Because if it exists I have not encountered it.

Worse, or better?

People grow together. Like twisting trees or python balls and no less complicated.
Now growing apart, that's what takes nerve.

I wish I could see and feel my head explode from the inside out. If I slam it against the ivy covered wall outside enough, maybe I will.

Of Culture Shock and Inadequacies.

I found the cracks so quickly.

How silly of me to think they were in the sidewalks, and not in my strained smile. A new city does not a new girl make. I thought I could wash it off of me, watch it pool and ring around the shower drain. Leave pieces of myself on the lovingly prepared clean sheets.

All I can do is shove and push, all claws and teeth and nails and passive aggressive tones. Inside my head my screams are deafening and pathetic. Love me, but don't touch me.

My heart is like one of those feral Eastern Block dog children.

Kissing Foreign Fishes...

A new city for my feet to find cracks in the sidewalk. In twenty-four hours I'll be hurtling through the air, speeding my way to San Francisco.

I feel predatory. Tightly wound. I need rough strong hands to hold me down, to tie me to this earth. And I wonder, do I have to return? Could I disappear in the masses, in a city where nobody knows my face?

All of that water will sing to me. Surrounded on all sides in a bay...It will be so hard for me not to throw myself off a ferry, or casually slip backwards into the water somewhere frothy and sharp.
I don't desire destruction, or pain. It's the water. It calls to me. If the moon was large and bloated I'd been done for. With the moon and the ocean singing to me, pulling at my bones and womb, it's an undeniable compulsion sometimes.

I used to jump off of these high high rocks as a teenager, all alone in the woods with the deep creek running a mile away, with it's waterfall and rounded smooth stones and strange red frogs. I would fling myself off, never being afraid once. Not even when I hit the ring of rocks below at times. I loved the cold. My lips would turn blue, and I would stretch out on the moss naked, and shiver. And no one ever asked about the bruises, since there were already ones fading from my father's hand.

Errant Amphibians, Mollusks, and Puppy Parts.

My heart cracks open every morning.
I don't know why, or how. But it does, wide and shiny like the inside of an eggshell. But it isn't fragile, my shiny eggshell heart.
It's banded with steel and stones and sharp things, bone fragments and razor-wire.

And now I've put it back together. Set the polished pieces in place, like a puzzle with a small missing piece. I'll walk in the sunshine today, and daydream of the ocean and the moon.

In which the biological imperative gives me the finger.

I want all of him.
I want to grind into him and be so deep that he presses into my ribcage.
Divine and dangerous lust. I wish I had no filters, no inhibitions. I want to smell of spit and sex and heat and salt. I want to taste it on my skin, and lathe it from his with my tongue.

But I hide behind lowered eyelids. I hope that the pulse pounding in my chest and throat is not visible. I glide when I walk, hoping the slickness in my sex isn't apparent.
I try to focus on the rippling waves of sun that prism off my windowsill, squinting my eyes and making motes of dust in the air glisten like tiny angels. And instead I will grind the heels of my hands into my eyes, and sigh softly.

If home is where the heart is then I do not have a pulse...

Just tap your feet along with your heartbeat, and don't say a word to anyone.

I wish I lived in Four BEE.

Beauty is currency. It spends just like cash. I remember it. I remember the sharp hardness of it, and how I wielded it like a weapon.

I hope this time to take care and control. Let me be soft and uncalculating, not sharp and hard and evil. Deep down in my marrow there is corruption.

Seeds of lust, unwanted and undulating are unfolding in my mouth. Swimming in the warm pool of my spit. I am going to burn these things away from me. Unwind and uncurl them from my mind, spinning skeins of grey matter.
Destruction tastes just as good to my mouth as lust does. I'm inhaling intentions like smoke, clicking them against my crooked teeth.

Macabre? A bit.

When I die, don't pump poison into me. Embalming is the most insulting thing that can be done to a human body.

Bathe me, wrap me in a linen shroud that smells like summer and leaves, and bury me at the base of an ash tree. Or throw me in the Pugent Sound and let the giant octopus eat me, all suckers and sharp beak.

Effluvia

I wish I could live underwater. I'd float on my back from the Columbia River to the Ocean. I would turn into a soggy mermaid and ride currents. I'll never lack for company, when I have the sighs of drowned sailors to fill my ears.

I wouldn't mind the cold. It would suffuse my being and turn me into something else, rewire the deep circuitry of my reptilian mind. Wash it away in the slamming of the waves against the rocks. I'll slam my body against the rocks and laugh. Peals of laughter would ring off of those sharp and slimy crags, and maybe I could be free, in my secret salty blue-green world.

Nothing could tie me down ever again.

I am not full of virtues and noble qualities...

I've cut so much out of my life. The last thing to go will be the state of duality I exist in. So many masks, donned and cast away. It's almost become mechanical.
But when I sing I feel so light. I will sing until my throat is crunchy from the inside-out and my body shakes violently.

Maybe singing is the only way I can keep my inner world creatures inside. I have to sing, lest they push themselves up and out of me, flowing like venom and roiling mercury.
How many times can I shut my eyes and mouth as tightly as I can to keep them in? Pushing up through my chest, and devouring my heart.

It will shed me like snakeskin if I don't find a way to channel it soon. I need an autoharp.

It still smoulders...

Do I have to be always safe? Must I always behave? Because if I didn't I'd smash myself out on your body.
Watch it boy, I can break you faster than I can break myself. Like sugar glass, and I'll do it casually. Because what is cruelty without lack of care?

My body shrinks, and with every inch your eyes roam my contours with more and more favor. My mind and ego swell with false validation, and contempt at your complete transparency. You would think I would feel flattered, but with every swell of your breast, every sharply inhaled breath, every sly touch I am insulted.... Even though all I want is to wrap myself in your clothing and sleep through your pheromones.


My eyes burned as brightly as before. My words burned as brightly as before. My passion burned as brightly as before. My looping cursive meant as much before, if not more.
But my body didn't swing in the curves you liked before, it didn't sing with easy acceptable rhythm. Did my hips sway too widely?

Fuck you.

Choose your hipbones, and those collarbones. They'll still sag and fade. I'll have my own soon anyway. A body is still a body, and will rot at the same rate as all the others.
I'll sharpen my brain. I'll cook miracles, and weave wonders with fingers.
And I'll still love you, after all this time. And it won't change anything. We're fiery wreckage, you and I. And that's how I want it.

Astarael - The Weeper.

My voice is gone still. It rasps and scratches and evaporates, and has for three months.

Not being able to sing makes me feel like I am in a cage.

A scrapbook of sorts.

My strange new little project. It's like an emo hope-chest almost. Why I put a painting of dead angel Nico in it I have no idea.

Also, I must be incredibly creepy.

Silently you'll go to the shadow of your soul...

With every moon it is as though you're getting closer to your soul.

-Nico

Now my foolish boat is leaning, broken love lost on your rocks.

FitzWilliam Darcy. Prince Charming. The lot of handsome gentlemanly protagonists. Why are they such fiction? And by such fiction I mean fiction of the most damaging kind. At least for me.
My mother lied to me. My beautiful fine-boned mother with green slanty witch eyes and long fingers told me these stories, read them to me in the cradle. It wasn't her fault, I don't think she knew when she was weaving them into me.
But I know she knows now. I see the shadows of regret clouding her eyes when she looks at me. I see her replay in her mind my beauty fading, my body expanding. That she loves me with quiet sadness cracks my heart. Just another brittle chip. Chip chip crack crack cracks, like a windshield of an old American car.

The cruelty of indifference is never explained to children.

When my vision goes white around the edges.

Do I taste like chemicals? Like corruption and rotten things? Because I taste it in my mouth, and smell it in my secretions.
It's like that song says, let me see you stripped down to the bone...

What am I made up of? Chemicals and meat, failed good intentions and shrinking shyness. I take my pills, I'm a good girl I am.

Corystes Cassivelaunus

I feel the effects of aging now. My bones feel hollow and soft, the spaces under my eyes tender and spidery delicate. Looking down at the lines in my hands and thinking of all of the years that carelessly slipped through my fingers. I wonder over and over again how I neglected to mark their passing with more care.

Wishing more than anything to be a child again, legs dangling and hair tangled, singing the wordless jubilant songs of youth that I used to make up, alone in the woods.
We would go the the ocean often. I remember distinctly digging in sand and finding white bony prehistoric creatures squirming in my palms. I shrieked in fear and delight, the most excellent combination of emotions I have as of yet to experience simultaneously.

It was a happy and ignorant time, a perfect frozen moment. I can see it so clearly, taste the salt from the spray and the grit of sand clinging to the backs of my knees. Before my father's shadow loomed so large. Before my mother looked so bent and broken.

Some kind of urban stranger...

Waves of heat coupled with fragments of sound are slipping through the cracks in my windows. It feels like a violation of my senses, grating on passive cavities. I traveled over molten walkways and shining sidewalks the other day, all trapped inside my head.
Summer stirs and the wind blows and as I walk past a dumpster I can smell flowers and rot in it. All I can think is FLESH.

I see the bike punk with his cut off ragged skinny jeans and a violin case and my mind is flooded with startling visions of him fucking me bent over the concrete bike structure, screaming Defiance Ohio in my ear.
I saw the curve of his clavicles, sun trickling down his lopsided hair and into his moss green eyes.
My daily routine shattered by a meaningless stranger whose inner music stirred me, my heart hammering in my chest.

And it felt like a small urban betrayal.

Oh how the boat drifts...

I am waxing and waning.
Changing with the Moon's pull, I luminesce and then blacken in steady cycles.
Turning with the curves, singing in circles of pallor and shifting with the tides I pulse with secretive rhythm. I soak up the glow softly spilled onto the hollow points of my body. The inside of my elbows, the hollows of my throat, the curve of my spine all overflow with cool resignation.
A partnership with the ocean, all screaming waves and jagged rocks.

Silver Metal Lover...

Under this gun metal gray sky, with the pressure and humidity enveloping me hungrily, I can only sit and wonder when I'll turn into a real girl.

Letting go of Andromeda.

I just came so hard I saw stars...

I wait as long as possible to touch myself. I'll go weeks, months even, letting the tension build. I'll wait until the last possible moment, until I'm vibrating with desire like a taut guitar string. I imagined I was in a sumptuous Bedouin tent, with glittering sharp diamond sands just outside almost within reach. I was crushing rare and expensive flowers with my body...and now I am here, in my loved but slightly shabby surroundings.

Brittle around the edges. Tender in soft spaces. And terribly empty. The emptiness inside me is vaster than anything I can fathom. It yawns open and out of me, a magnificent void. It's like an endless night, quiet and stealthy.

And it all started when I woke up tasting poppies. I tasted poppies and was reminded of him...I remember the taste and smell of his skin. Poppies, from the soap he used. II taste him when smoke and alcohol mix in my mouth. But it's not really him I taste, not this shade of a lost love from over a decade ago. It's loneliness.

I taste the rejections, the bitterness souring my breath. In my mind I was once the princess in a saccharine and perfect love story, but now I'm not a main character anymore. I'm the serving maid. The wise aunt. The potion mixing witch even, maybe. But definitely not the princess.

Duality? Or is just a craving...

I think I'm going to take hallucinogens soon. Things have become too sharp, too grating. I look forward to placing that tingly paper square on my tongue, and feeling the miniscule liquid movement that is the beginning. Melting and inverted, I'll collapse into myself. With a quiet sigh, and a secret smile, I'll ride the razor's edge.
Shifting and seamless.

I'll squeeze my eyes shut and see singing crystalline pinwheels imprinted directly on the backs of my eyelids. I'll suck my tongue and savor the tiny piece of industrial strength brain wash that assimilated itself to me. Through me. I imagine the intricate network of nerves and spinal fluid recoiling and ultimately being dominated by the alien compound, which will be feeling it's way blindly through the passages of vertebrae.
I'll have belladonna eyes, a slight sheen of sweat, and shaking hands. Delirious in my comfort.

I hope it will be like hard-booting a computer. I need to press my button. The restart button. It's spring cleaning in this bitch.

Can a soul gasp for breath?

Can an actual soul yearn for sunlight? There is a song lyric that I always identified with. My words are snowflakes, meaningless and melting. And it has never been more true.
Words pour out of me constantly, falling from my mouth and pen, tapped into my keyboard. I can picture them all in a confused and jumbled pile, shrieking that I betrayed them with my lack of care, for not polishing and selecting them gingerly. Instead they are flung out of me with abandon and tinged with a slight touch of insanity.
Madness used to be considered a curse, laid on the unforgiven for unknown sins.

I may be an unbalanced and unfinished person, but...

My secretions are beautiful.
I do not speak softly, nor am I gentle.
I am passionate beyond belief, to an inner level that frightens me at times.
I hide behind my brashness.
I am secretive.

Ghosts in another room...

He's been gone for forever, years. Yet I can still feel the sickly contamination he left on everything. It clings to the walls like cobwebs, and clings to me. It coats my teeth like flat soda.
I will scrub every inch of him from this house, from me. I will scrub out my chest cavity with sharp and sparkling glass sand, and put my ticking clockwork heart back in it's place. And I will start once again, tenuously, to breathe. Really truly breathe.

Of First Loves and Ventricles Blown Apart

There once was what I thought to be an angel, his white hair spread boyishly over a black pillowcase. I remember fragments sharply. The sound of a car door opening and our bodies spilling out, tangled and nervous.
The smell of cigarettes and desperation, searching for everything but admitting nothing, our faces smooth and seemingly untroubled.
Empty opaque bottles clattering down steep stairs in that shitty goth club...

His long fingered artist's hands spread toward me, open. His broad palms spreading me open. Cool pale skin, so very like expensive paper. I called him my Stardust Angel, and he called me Laura.

Our long sticky summer was over as fast as a shutter clicks...red wine and dancing, stealing glances and snatches of his face, I couldn't look into it, it was like the sun. I withered with love and undefinable teenage lust.

When he left for England I was broken. I imagined all of those watery miles stretched between us. I sent countless letters, poems, paintings, none of them clearly saying how I felt. How I was consumed.

I still have the three letters he sent to me, postmarked on thin air mail paper, worn with age and tucked away with care. East Anglia UK 1998.

How can I stop now?

Push me up to starry skies lover...if you can.
I'll burn on one side and freeze on the other.

I hope the dirty rain colored gray tendrils of my mind wrap around and cradle my loving thoughts...I hope they are tied in so many strong and slippery knots. Hold them fast. Wrap them in spasming bows of blinking neural love patterns, so that I do not forget when my mind fogs over like a car window.

Emotions begin as a tiny seamless split, granular and pixelated. I feel the quiet desperation as these unwanted emotions push their way upward out of my chest cavity, all venom and seething salt, to be replaced with softer and plusher things. It's an insidious cycle, and one I am painfully aware of now that I am smothering myself inside myself once again.

Hurry up please it's time.

The end of Winter. It is officially Spring, and has been for some time now. I am frozen.
It's not that I stagnate purposefully. I am encased in sap. Covered in a thin layer of frost. I wish I could whack my soul with a piece of rebar and let it know that Wintertime is over.

I long for Summer. I very much enjoy the deliberate and semi-hypnotic clicking of my heels on hot sparkling pavement. It is deeply satisfying, a visceral sort of satisfaction.
I imagine that I am in some way dominating those pin pricks of sidewalk.

Tap tap skip. Crush crush crush those tiny molecules under my merciless heels and pink feet.

Beginnings

This is where I'll come to brain vomit.
I'll finally force myself to put all of the things that I would mostly scribble secretively into various hidden journals into a place of actual accessibility.

We'll see how it goes...

Or if I'll even bother.