(no subject)
Strange days have found us. Days that smell of inhalants and paint thinner, compelling me to borrow James Joyce 'Poems and Exiles'. Tonight I was going to breakdown, but thank you Bjórk for being so fae. Her music's ability to hush me and punch me back into my system is amazing. I have his potrait by my desk, with him in some official uniform that makes him look like a military stud. I don't like the way he's gazing, its a hidden kind of gaze thats very very unspoken. There's something sad in his eyes. And something utterly kissable by the ends of his mouth.
Tea cup stains on this turqouise desk and my cds are scattered all over. I spent the night looking at tattoos and deciding to get inked and pierced all over as a method of therapy but actually really just boredom maybe. I'm getting a double navel piercing done. I've seen rosaries around wrists and phoenixes on shoulderblades and its all very romantic and appealing but I'd really rather a Botticelli or Raphael ink me than the local tattoo artist. If I want my body to be canvas I'd want the most beautiful art on me. Its quite a fussy procedure, but I want vines, yes. Vines. I can be a Greek statue then.
I've got vines growing from my lungs encircling my ribcage and stagnating around my throat. I feel sick just thinking of the day after tomorrow. I feel sick thinking of torment. The only thing that feels as though there's metal penetrating through it is my little tiny fucking turtleheart. My whole body feels wrong and I'm going to sleep it over so that I can allow myself to be loved tomorrow.
Tea cup stains on this turqouise desk and my cds are scattered all over. I spent the night looking at tattoos and deciding to get inked and pierced all over as a method of therapy but actually really just boredom maybe. I'm getting a double navel piercing done. I've seen rosaries around wrists and phoenixes on shoulderblades and its all very romantic and appealing but I'd really rather a Botticelli or Raphael ink me than the local tattoo artist. If I want my body to be canvas I'd want the most beautiful art on me. Its quite a fussy procedure, but I want vines, yes. Vines. I can be a Greek statue then.
I've got vines growing from my lungs encircling my ribcage and stagnating around my throat. I feel sick just thinking of the day after tomorrow. I feel sick thinking of torment. The only thing that feels as though there's metal penetrating through it is my little tiny fucking turtleheart. My whole body feels wrong and I'm going to sleep it over so that I can allow myself to be loved tomorrow.