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.