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.