(no subject)
Its 2:45 in the morning in Sydney, and I'm sitting in front of the computer moniter with my mug of ovaltine watching Ciara and lily allen music videos on youtube. My nails are long and painted jet black, and the contrast of my bony white fingers and the gold ring that sits on my maiden finger is distracting and I keep looking at them like I'm gonna find some anwser to why I feel so empty and fucking forlorn every night -high, or not high-.But here I am, having eaten three bites of my first meal of the day. Having read this truly neurotic book called "Why men like bitches" back to front, and having watched Pretty persuasion twice in a row, while my ex boyfriend was out breaking into somebodies house to try and make us some cash because he loves me. He loves me.
He loves me.
He has some girls name tattooed on his chest, but I'm the first girl he's ever fallen in love with this.
He loves me.
I'm wearing a kimono and my hair is up in braids and my eyes are black and green and my skin pasty pale. Bones poke through my ribs and my hips but I still have womanly fat on my thighs and butt. My tits have shrunk considerably. The scale lies to me. I feel big, clumsy, but also very small and quiet. Like I'm crawling into myself into that part of me that feels nothing and shows no emotion, that sits there in silence and waits for a distraction, for destruction, for a jolt of reality, for another BIG SCARE!
So I can feel alive, while I kill myself on a day to day basis.
And this is so pathetic, but so necessary. I've seen girls like me on myspace before, the ones who stare into space like dead china dolls in all their pictures, smoke ciggarettes, consume caffeine, wear the toll of anxiety and self concious egocentric paranoia on their bird like faces. The ones with the loving boyfriends, who are willing to do anything to fix these sad cinderella story sluts who are really just narcissistic cunts who refuse to remove themselves from whatever depressing state of endearing and selfish self consumed devestation. That feels so big and strong to them. That crawls through their zigzag scars on their white puny wrists and renders them powerless to do anything but sit around in their pretty clothes with their pretty braids and smoke cigarettes, maybe pop pills, maybe drink, maybe smoke ice/crack/heroin/, maybe watch fucked up movies until the sun comes up while they pluck their eyebrows and apply cellulite cream, not because they care of course how beautiful they are but because these material things are comforting and familliar in a world that is so uncomfortable and fucking exhausting to be in, for these type of girls.
The ones that look so tough, never smile, dark doe eyes, scene haircuts, and droopy shoulders. That you think are so untouchable because of their beauty or prescence.
these are the girls that break, everyday, just like little girls.
behind their flowered curtains, in their soft beds, with their lovely boyfriends holding onto them for dear life while their hands shake and eyes droop.
but you'd never know it, would you?
I sure didn't, until I became one of those girls. That I'd always admired and feared, and never quite understood.
The ones that swallow draino because they feel dirt and bugs inside their skin, and have to go to the hospital to have their stomach pumped.
The ones that overdose on pills so often that its become almost a routine for their boyfriends to check their breathing, pulse, heartrate in the middle of the night.
The ones that clean their houses so throughly, just to mess it all up again, because they need something to keep those shaking white hands busy, or else they might just die or worse yet live through it and become healthy sun kissed walmart wearing pudgy blondes that don't care about the freshmen fifteen or sylvia plath or bright eyes or art or self destructing just because hating yourself FEELS AND LOOKS SO GOOD ON THEM!
these girls, will never be satisfied, and will never go anywhere past their worried boyfriends bedrooms, and their ironic books and movies, and their comforting notion of superiority by making themselves so weak and fragile that they become virtual godesses in their own right.
They have their own category.
Its real. Its really real and it never goes away.
He loves me.
He has some girls name tattooed on his chest, but I'm the first girl he's ever fallen in love with this.
He loves me.
I'm wearing a kimono and my hair is up in braids and my eyes are black and green and my skin pasty pale. Bones poke through my ribs and my hips but I still have womanly fat on my thighs and butt. My tits have shrunk considerably. The scale lies to me. I feel big, clumsy, but also very small and quiet. Like I'm crawling into myself into that part of me that feels nothing and shows no emotion, that sits there in silence and waits for a distraction, for destruction, for a jolt of reality, for another BIG SCARE!
So I can feel alive, while I kill myself on a day to day basis.
And this is so pathetic, but so necessary. I've seen girls like me on myspace before, the ones who stare into space like dead china dolls in all their pictures, smoke ciggarettes, consume caffeine, wear the toll of anxiety and self concious egocentric paranoia on their bird like faces. The ones with the loving boyfriends, who are willing to do anything to fix these sad cinderella story sluts who are really just narcissistic cunts who refuse to remove themselves from whatever depressing state of endearing and selfish self consumed devestation. That feels so big and strong to them. That crawls through their zigzag scars on their white puny wrists and renders them powerless to do anything but sit around in their pretty clothes with their pretty braids and smoke cigarettes, maybe pop pills, maybe drink, maybe smoke ice/crack/heroin/, maybe watch fucked up movies until the sun comes up while they pluck their eyebrows and apply cellulite cream, not because they care of course how beautiful they are but because these material things are comforting and familliar in a world that is so uncomfortable and fucking exhausting to be in, for these type of girls.
The ones that look so tough, never smile, dark doe eyes, scene haircuts, and droopy shoulders. That you think are so untouchable because of their beauty or prescence.
these are the girls that break, everyday, just like little girls.
behind their flowered curtains, in their soft beds, with their lovely boyfriends holding onto them for dear life while their hands shake and eyes droop.
but you'd never know it, would you?
I sure didn't, until I became one of those girls. That I'd always admired and feared, and never quite understood.
The ones that swallow draino because they feel dirt and bugs inside their skin, and have to go to the hospital to have their stomach pumped.
The ones that overdose on pills so often that its become almost a routine for their boyfriends to check their breathing, pulse, heartrate in the middle of the night.
The ones that clean their houses so throughly, just to mess it all up again, because they need something to keep those shaking white hands busy, or else they might just die or worse yet live through it and become healthy sun kissed walmart wearing pudgy blondes that don't care about the freshmen fifteen or sylvia plath or bright eyes or art or self destructing just because hating yourself FEELS AND LOOKS SO GOOD ON THEM!
these girls, will never be satisfied, and will never go anywhere past their worried boyfriends bedrooms, and their ironic books and movies, and their comforting notion of superiority by making themselves so weak and fragile that they become virtual godesses in their own right.
They have their own category.
Its real. Its really real and it never goes away.