Decipher These Messages
And I am blue...
I am blue
And unwell.
Made me bold like a whore.
So some life issues since it occurs to me that I never write in this thing properly. Not spread-eagly, and screamingly, and JESUS LORD WHAT IS THAT GIRL DOING UP THERE WITH THAT PEN?! the way I usually do and like to. My crazy, LJ, Terror-Squad method.
I am still in love with someone who lives very far away. So. CHECK, in case you were being kept up at night.
I am working 8.5 hours a day, which turns into 9.5 hours a day and that's life, you know, fucking life...but it's weird for me. I want to haunt the streets, pasty-white and powder-puffed and hungry for a hit. But that's not gonna work for someone who works with visitors and businesses in a small town. I kinda got be known for being stable. And I kinda FUCKING HATE THAT. I want to lose my mind, flicker out, scream for no reason, kick rocks and that is emphatically, not an option.
I want to write poetry and curl up, small and tuberculotic in my culottes and stab literarily at the rest of the world. I Was Trained to Do Just That.
But more than all of this, I want to write your name on a piece of paper and burn it. Spread ashes in the four directions, invoke the elements, strip naked and sing you away. And I just can't. North, south, east, west...there is no forward. No trail of bread crumbs...all I feel is that pocket of marbles that is regret. I just like to touch two sins together, hear the scrape.
But this is how the big girls play. We remember ghosts and tremble at memories and histories and how time and again, our bodies were able to deny our hearts. Our mouths' successful wardens for any hunger our stomach could churn up. Our strength against our weakness, that is frightening. Like seeing a young boy shoot a dove with a BB gun, that glint in his eye. He'll always be stronger and he knows that now. If he has his way, none of them will get away, none.
Breath. Precision. Yoga. Song. Fire. These are the ways to force you out, tow the line, but they come to me now, useless. Bandage to a decapitation. You and your lost, loose head. I put that into my pocket, too.
I am blue
And unwell.
Made me bold like a whore.
So some life issues since it occurs to me that I never write in this thing properly. Not spread-eagly, and screamingly, and JESUS LORD WHAT IS THAT GIRL DOING UP THERE WITH THAT PEN?! the way I usually do and like to. My crazy, LJ, Terror-Squad method.
I am still in love with someone who lives very far away. So. CHECK, in case you were being kept up at night.
I am working 8.5 hours a day, which turns into 9.5 hours a day and that's life, you know, fucking life...but it's weird for me. I want to haunt the streets, pasty-white and powder-puffed and hungry for a hit. But that's not gonna work for someone who works with visitors and businesses in a small town. I kinda got be known for being stable. And I kinda FUCKING HATE THAT. I want to lose my mind, flicker out, scream for no reason, kick rocks and that is emphatically, not an option.
I want to write poetry and curl up, small and tuberculotic in my culottes and stab literarily at the rest of the world. I Was Trained to Do Just That.
But more than all of this, I want to write your name on a piece of paper and burn it. Spread ashes in the four directions, invoke the elements, strip naked and sing you away. And I just can't. North, south, east, west...there is no forward. No trail of bread crumbs...all I feel is that pocket of marbles that is regret. I just like to touch two sins together, hear the scrape.
But this is how the big girls play. We remember ghosts and tremble at memories and histories and how time and again, our bodies were able to deny our hearts. Our mouths' successful wardens for any hunger our stomach could churn up. Our strength against our weakness, that is frightening. Like seeing a young boy shoot a dove with a BB gun, that glint in his eye. He'll always be stronger and he knows that now. If he has his way, none of them will get away, none.
Breath. Precision. Yoga. Song. Fire. These are the ways to force you out, tow the line, but they come to me now, useless. Bandage to a decapitation. You and your lost, loose head. I put that into my pocket, too.