Talking with my mother.

I felt sort of understood, almost. She said, "I just want for you to get through the rest of this year and into another school."
She just wants it all to be over, too.
She said, "My sweet, I'm not angry. I'm not disappointed."

I was happy, tears in my eyes. But I had my back turned, just in case those silly little tears tried to get out.

And then, then on the couch, alone, I remember I have to go back tomorrow. Something close to 29 more days of school. I feel the sting from my hips, the blade in my pocket digging into my thigh.
I remember I'm stuck for 29 more days, and then I have to get up in front of everyone in a dress. Bare legs, but how do I keep them clean of cuts?

I forgot the pain,
but then I remembered it.

I remembered It, and It still haunts me.

I'm not ready for this.
Oh god...no way I'm ready for this...

I do love him. I care about him. He's like a brother, almost. He's certainly a friend.

He's in rehab. 

So I'll write him a letter. 

A happy letter, of course. A happy little letter that might make him smile. 

But it will be all lies, because I'm not smiling. 

A happy letter, like those happy times that make us smile. 

Like daisys. 

Daisys, and FORGET ME NOTs. 

I liked the song Drowning. Thank-you, K.

I'm getting better.
Better at going deeper.

But I'm running out of room on my canvas.

Is this enough yet?
Is this good enough?

Bruised knees

We get bruised knees
from falling down.
And we fall too much,
from trying to stand.

Tacked up from here.

Tacked up.


All the way up, on the very top of the world. Hanging above the ant-like people, my dried-up skin falling off in small pieces, fluttering down like butter-fly wings.
I watch my breath cloud in front of my mouth, wondering what I'm wearing, wondering if it's as grey as this colourful city is. This city is full of mirrors, you see, but it cannot seem to grasp the image of itself properly.
Either that, or my vision's skewed.
But the eerie little ant-like people start looking up, brushing pieces of dried bloody-scabs off their shoulders.
"Sorry," I call down, but it comes out in more of a whimper than a word.
I realize that the pins and tacks holding me up aren't very strong. I realize I'm going to plummet to my death soon, and one lucky ant-like person is going to be right underneath me as I fall.
"Run," I call out. "Save yourselves!"
No one hears me. Maybe I'm just crying, cold tears sliding their way down my rosy cheeks. Maybe my calls and warnings are just more whimpers and sniffles.
Huffing, and puffing, I'll blow myself down. I'll fall,
fall,
f a l l....
all the way down. And I'll land in an icy puddle, my blood swimming around me in small tendrils and designs. I'll smile, I know. I'll smile up at the world, glad they ran as soon as I fell. I'll smile, and I will tell them, "This world is so beautiful. I have seen the beauty. It's so nice, so cold and fresh, it's perfect. But you don't need all these buildings and mirrors around. You don't know, right? That's not safe. This world is beautiful, but it needs to stop criticizing it's every move. It's needs to stop thinking so much, and feel. Or rather, do. Move somewhere.
"I see the beauty, in these cold winter-mornings. In the fresh snow, the fresh ice. So soft, so clean. So smooth. I see the beauty in snow-forts and wet-snow down your back, pulling all the small hairs along your skin up, up, UP.
"I see the sparkling ground after it's rained, the bumpy concrete chalk-people holding hands. I see the World, our life, go by.
I've been so high up, all my life. Hanging. Hanging, and slowly having the life choked out of me.
But all the while, you see, I've been watching.
This world is beautiful.
Look at it.
It's beautiful."

I hope that will explain why I smile as I die.
I love the beauty.
I love it so much, it makes me cry sometimes. Those nice, icy tears, down my skin. They cool my temper, freeze my blood back into the cuts.
I love beauty,
so much,
I cry.

But no one else sees it. 
Fuck's sake, it's perfect.

Why can't anyone else see it?

When I grow up...

One day, I will explore the world.

I will travel to great places, with nothing but my mind.
And things will be fine,
things will be fine.

One day, I will meet great people.

I will speak, and laugh with them.
And word will get out, somehow,
that I'm doing well.

My family will be out of the picture, someday.
And I will be

happy. 


Of course, one day, I will be happy.

One day.

But that's not today, is it?
I'm still lost.
I'm still dreaming.

Dreaming, drowning.

You ugly girl, you.

Hey, YOU!
Yes, you. You skinny girl, with your perfect features.
You skinny girl you, you're fat!

Hey, YOU!
Yes, you. You gorgeous girl, with saddening words.
You gorgeous girl you, you're ugly!

Hey, YOU!
Yes, you. You silent girl, with a peaceful expression.
You silent girl you, you're screaming.

Fat, ugly, and screaming.
Why the fuck does the world tolerate your presence?
Why does the world lie to you?
Why do they call you these names,
that have no relevance,
whatsoever,
to who you really are?

I am just fat,
just ugly,
and just SCREAMING

...for someone to want me.
To accept me.

But that doesn't even matter.
My screams are silent,
for I am loud.

And no one wants to hear me. 

Yourself.

To be happy, is to have succeeded.
And I'm still trying.

Lies.

Oh please,
don't cry.
Yooou LIAR.

In a wishing well, a wishing well.

Standing on a bus stop
Feeling your head pop
Out in the night
In the kind of night
Where you want to be out
On the street, on the street
Crawling up the walls
Like a cat in heat

Happy, ha!

Doesn't shelook happy?

So happy, 

in fact,

that she's 

crying inside. 

Yes, happy tears. 

So, so happy. 

Can't keep it up.

I could tear my skin away, and then you might see me. 


But you probably wouldn't, would you?

Today,

I don't feel like updating my blog.

Galaxies

Maybe things really are simple, and we're just over-thinking them.

Maybe someone knows all the secrets to life,
and they sit back, watching, laughing,
because, look at us.
We're like blind men fumbling through war.

Maybe in the end,
the secrets of life are just as complicated,
as those stupid little secrets
you hide in junior high,
just because.

Just because, and that's life.

Simple, but we can't take that as an answer.

Safety

Hug your knees as close to your body as you possibly can. So tight, you see, that nothing can get in. And all the cracks are sealed, so you're safe.
No words, no noise, no hate.
This is safety.
Safety, silence.
But you're just so lonely...


What's safety worth if you don't live?
This is life, isn't it?

Isn't it?

Read-through

It's sort of like, eating small pieces of burning metal.
You're just trying to get through them all, sipping water in between every bite so it doesn't burn as much.
You're chewing, chewing, chewing....but god forbid tasting.
I mean, it hurts. It's metal. Burning, burning, burning metal.

It hurts, so don't taste it.
Don't let it manifest any longer and get into your head.

Nope.

Sure, fine. But then you run out of water, and your mouth starts melting away. The skin falls off, the bones ground up, and everything is just
seering-hot.
Hot-white,
white-fire-burn.

Um, ouch. It's sort of painful, but you're not even there anymore.
You're just somewhere else, someone else.

And then, the metal chips away at your teeth. Your teeth, which was the ultimate armour protecting the nerves underneath.
Once there's no teeth left, the metal singes and scrapes along your nerves.
100 100 100 TIMES THE PAIN.

So now, every bite is a handful of words.

My words, their mine.
And these words hurt. 

Foreign

You know that feeling, like, when you've been here before. A million times, and it won't leave you alone. Like someone keeps poking your raw skin, rubbing it off, chafing. And you know when you just keep thinking, "This will end. This will end. This will en.."
You keep hoping that, anyway.
And it's like, stupid. Annoying. You know you've been here before, before, before.
You've lived these five minutes; you know the script.

It's like, complete nostalgia. Right? Complete nostalgia, because you know this. Every little bit.

And, nothing's new, nothing's exciting.
Right?
Right.

Yeah.
This is nothing like that.

Don't.

Faerie lights swallow my legs, burning the skin off in chunks and pieces.
I feel the heat singe into my skin, past my bones, and to somewhere deeper inside.
The lights crawl up my legs, tangled and
and burning,
because the glass explodes into small shards, leaving any last bit of my body devoured.
Leaving me shredded up; ashes.

This is what your words do,
but you
won't
stop.

Only, that's exactly what you're doing. 

Actually, so.

You don't need this, you don't need this, you don't need this...

but I do. 

Okay?

Such batshit, everything.
None of it's real, none of it means anything. None of this is actual, none of it exits, none of it
actually, honestly, truly 
is Here.

So why is it bothering me so much?


I don't know.
Maybe because...
it isn't who I am, I don't actually do that, I don't actually give a shit about your petty problems, I don't actually care. 
Maybe because...
it's all, actually, pretty pointless. 
Because...
it's batshit. 


Yes.
Because all of it's batshit, and
I
don't
care!

Life

Just think-

all this, right here...

All this is ours, and we don't even know it.

Don't they?

"i tread water
drowned in puddles just like these
blinded by light beams
and recurring pipe dreams
when the sentence was
my life or death
i plugged my nose
and held my breath
i walked the plank
fell in the ocean
and then sank "


Interesting. 
It seems people are crying 
for reasons 
that don't fit.


But they fit. 

One word.

This is crying, these are tears.
It's almost okay,
we're almost here.

This is crying, these are tears.
We're almost okay,
we're almost here.

Loverly

Within the simplicity of these words,
I cover up my mistakes,
my lies,
and my faults.
Surely, someone else has done worse, right?
But what's right, and what's wrong?

Honestly, who is some-else, and who is myself?
And how are we any different?

School

10:20
10:20
10:20....and I'm free.

Only, nevermind that. Because now there's still half a day left.

But. Five more minutes. I can take five more minutes of this.

Twisty ties. But they're not broken.

And then I typed in slowly, "Gleam."

All the "Cold" pictures disappeared, as if they had never existed in the first place.
And it felt like the beginning again,
back when I was just tacky,
and her logic was a little bent.

It was a simple thing I did.
One simple motion that I do on a day-to-day basis,

but it meant something to me.

I thought, "Wow. I'm smiling. This is great. This is so great..."

and then I remembered that things will never be that way again, because I'm different now.

So I quickly pressed the page back, and continued searching through the freezing images on my screen.

Only, that's a lie.
You know what? A lot's a lie, these days.

I didn't press back, I continued searching through the Gleaming pictures,
hoping,
wishing...
things could be that way again.

Here's what I found,
when I went back in time.

And I smiled.

F#@k.

Of course I'm right; I wouldn't say something I don't mean.

Or would I?

I don't think it's true anymore; my words.

I guess, it's too out of focus
to see anything.

But I'm saying this, right Here.
I'm saying these words,
in my world of fear.

I'm trying to focus close enough,
so I can see every detail of this puzzle.
Every details,
so I can match everything up.
So it all fits.

And then, once it's perfect,
I'll burn the pieces
one-by-one
because I'm the bad-guy.

And you don't understand.

But, I'm not sure...whether or not it's the same for me.

I just...don't know.
I don't know.

How things aren't

Hold on.

Hold on just one second, because I'm confused. I'm lost. I don't GET IT!

Slow down.

Speak slower, easier. Clearer, so I can actually understand you.

Step back.

Give me time to taste my words. Give me time to hear yours.

Or, you could be completely clear with me. Tell me exactly what you mean, and see what I have to say about. Maybe, if you asked the right questions, you'd get the right answers.
But stop leaving this all up to me,
because I have never
ever
been the 'together' one in this relationship.

I am tacky.
Tacky.
Silly, spaced-out Tacky.

Don't make me something I'm not, because I was comfortable.

And now, I don't know who I am.
I keep changing, anyway.

I don't even know, and I fucking hate this.

Tell me something clear as day, okay?
Just tell me.
Tell me,
if this isn't working out,
and
I guess we'll do
something.

Or maybe...maybe we're just not working out?
Maybe because, as I've always said, I'm a shit person.

Smiling

I wanted to post a smile.

But, I can't figure out how that would work. So, imagine a little kid smiling, sticky ice cream on the ground. No, this kid's not unhappy. He's smiling.
Remember that childish smile.
Don't forget it, because sometimes it has to get you through the day.
Hold it forever.

It's just a smile.
Just a small, sweet smile.

Happy.

Figure it out?

I want to tell her,
to come away,
far away,
with me.

But the problem is,
she's already far away.
And too, too far,
to make it work.

So I can dream.
Just dreams,
because that's all I really have.
But I can trust them,

...sometimes.

The Wanderers.

As wanderers, we are constantly lost.
Constantly nowhere, nonsense, not.

But still, we exist. And our adventures are the stories that fill book-after-book up with words. And whether or not we fall off the cliff, climb the mountain, fight the beast, or sit down on a rainy day and make a puzzle, we are reality.
And I think it's time we realize that no matter where we are, being lost, being found, at home, nowhere, caught in space, in wonderland, in the arms of a monster in a land faraway... that we live here.
Our story takes place Here.
Here, being lost. If here is nowhere. If it's somewhere.
We've been through this, anyway.

No matter where you are, who you're with, what you're doing, when...make it count. Make all of it count.

Something to remember along the lateral road of life:
Before a story gets published, the irrelevant writing gets edited out.

So. There's millions of normalcy out there, somewhere. In small piles, in desks, that got cut out.
And I'm just saying, a good story isn't all about the adventure, exactly.
Nor is it about the words.

It's about the meaning, the purpose, the position you're in, and how that relates.

So string together the meaningful moments in your life, and cut out the rest, and then you're free to wander, because you're not lugging around irrelevant crap that is really only pulling you down.

Wait for the season to come back to me

Some people don't believe this, but I think we should live by this.

Although, live by nothing, because it's true, you're always alone.
Always lost.

But lost is an adventure, and that's just life.
An experiment, an adventure, something to be experienced, not feared.

So, cry. When you're lost, you can cry.
But remember to smile, because sometimes the sun shines in the most un-expected areas.

And who knows what you'll find?
Or where.

...or who.

What?

"Love is the final indication you have succeeded, yet few formally succeed. But in the measurements, the measurements that we seem to think are working, we can't always tell what is honest, and what is the infection under the scab of a fresh cut."
Seemingly, this is supposed to make sense.
But I think I need to stop writing out ramblings while I sleep, because things aren't really making much sense, anymore.

But. All in all, that's nonsense. And nonsense is everything.