The tides shift...

When all else is stripped bare and away and the raw nerve of it is all peeled back, I am still a child. Shivering and shaking.

Like a caged animal my heart starts to race, the fear grips me. To be laid open and exposed. To be stripped down to the bone. It fills me with abject terror.

Lay back, I tell myself. My fists ball tightly, and I pace my wooden floors. I examine my books, my shells, the items in the tiny boxes I hide away secretly for myself. Just let go, I tell myself.

I have freely given the ability to hurt me away, and now I have to wait and watch and see. Can I hold up under the intensity of my own scrutiny? I'll push this time. I'll fight for what I want. I won't hide my face away. I won't smother my passion. I won't run away.

FUCK IT.

Throw your arms up girl, and jump. The falling is the best part. Do it for once.

I lay down my life again...

Will this be a pantomime? I can wear a mask so well....

I have a firm resolve, but resolve is easily obliterated by emotion.

Could I pull forth from this wrecked and untidy tragedy a usefulness in heartbreak? Like a seed. An intangible piece of freedom could uncurl, force the razor-wire off of my heart like ivy breaks down chain-link fences.

Rollercoasters can be exhilarating too, but they have always terrified me. Maybe I just need to fling my arms up and say fuck it. I do believe it is time to take a ride.

Some sort of snake moan....

I want to combust like a column of fire. Hold my hand and we'll burn. Pull my hair back and sink your teeth into my shoulder blade and we'll burn. Burn and scream, and be cinder and smoke and ash.

We can melt together, screaming pleasure into the dark, scratching and gnawing bursts of ecstasy and oblivion out of the sinuous thrust of my hips blistering all of it away, until only a scorched patch of a moan remains.

This is what I want.

Turn the light on inside of me...

I tossed and turned last night, my sheets trying to strangle me. But I didn't wake up gasping with an arched back, or wide-eyed and sweat soaked.
No, I woke this morning to an overwhelming sense of control. My will gets stronger and is evolving.

Soon I'll be standing on cold gray sands, surrounded by crackling cold and cascading waves. I'll scream at the ocean with my breath fogging like crystals and she'll scream back at me, because we understand each other. All of those foaming breakers wear down my pain, they suck the seething salt from my belly and the low heaviness of my womb away. I'll lie in the cold damp grit, and all of the darkness will ebb out of me, pulsing with the tide.

I roll my hips when I walk again, and smile at dessicated leaves as I stomp my way through the concrete paths of this city. My face automatically curves towards the sun, exposing the line of my throat. My breast rises towards the beams of light like it would to stroking fingers.
I had forgotten this aspect of femininity. I can be soft and yielding, and the surrender in it makes me feel weightless.

Steven, don't lose heart.

Did I scare you little one?
Did my honesty bite and pinch?
Even though I have to look up so far at you you are still small like a child to me.
With your beauty and crystal eyes does no-one ever confront you with honesty?

Chafe under the yoke of your convictions, but don't expect me to share the weight of your burden.
Rattle the bars of your cage with those long-fingered hands, but don't expect me to set you free. Because my prison is just as hard and tight as yours, but less visible.

My precious one, how the hurt in your eyes mirrors mine. I wish I could lay my head on your chest and hear your heart beat to make sure it hasn't been too cracked or broken, and you can tell me mine is whole.

Maybe we can't be friends anymore. Because we can't lie to each other, or to ourselves as well as we could before.

Food for thought...

“Do you take pride in your hurt? Does it make you seem large and tragic? …Well, think about it. Maybe you’re playing a part on a great stage with only yourself as audience.”

— John Steinbeck, East of Eden

Crush, Crushing, Crushed.

And I try why? Biological imperative? Human Condition?

Pretty soon I'm going to saw through the bones of my skull, find the part that makes love and emotion, and just start slashing.

And now it's too late.

Be careful what you wish for, because it usually ends in tears.
I would prefer carnal savagery to this wounded thing I see before me. This thing I used to love...

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.