Friday, July 30, 2010

I feel like.

I feel like it's about time I wrote an update. I'm back to uni now, so (apart from the party I'm having tonight) everything should be going back to boring. Ish.

Lists are always pretty fun, raight? This was my holiday:

  1. Jackson went to Vietnam.
  2. Luna on Essex and then Mojo's for too much cider and Wide Open Mike with Aleks.
  3. Got ink.
  4. Driving with Blake, Leon and Al.
  5. Dinner at Duncan's then Rise and getting locked out of Al's car >:(
  7. Breakfast date with Linley.
  8. Marlies's party with Elena and Marina.
  9. Stan and Patrick watch me play hockey.
  10. Writer's Retreat in Mandurah with Emily, Deb, Lauren, Shane and Patrick (for one night).
  11. ON THE BRIGHT SIDE with Breanna, Jane, Lisa and Jesse. Fucking amazing.
  12. Jackson back from Vietnam.
  13. Now.

Of course, this is all interdispersed with occasional work, some hockey, and constant Patrick.

Photos when I am less lazy (so, maybe never?).

Thursday, July 15, 2010


Anguish. That was the word. That was what she felt. Not always, of course – who could survive such a fate? – but enough. Anguish was what she knew. Anguish was what she wrote.

As she sat, knees hugged to her chest on a makeshift bench overlooking the river, a notebook and pen beside her, she saw it. She was surrounded by bird calls and the rustling of wind as it rushed, nonplussed by her presence, through the trees. The river was a mirror, faithfully reflecting the unbroken, blue sky above. She watched with keen eyes the languid movements of a water bird as it floated aimlessly over the surface, sending ripples in its wake. The sun burned high above her, constant and watchful as a life-long friend, but so very out of reach.

There was no anguish here – no anger, no hurt, no betrayal. No anguish; just life. Right?

I never knew it could feel this good. But even as she thought the words, she knew they weren’t real, and her pen did not touch paper. Even in her own mind – that sacred cavern that she guarded so fiercely, that precious prison that could not be penetrated – she would not acknowledge the truth. Like a fool, she refused to let the words form, instead forcing them aside and replacing them with beautiful, perfect lies.

Because even here – surrounded by everything she held as pure and untouched in a world she despised with such fervour – even here the sounds of tires on asphalt sliced clean through the air, as anguish sliced through her heart.

Monday, July 5, 2010


Perhaps I should clarify something. The poem in the post before this one is about my trichotillomania, tattoos, and a boy. It's about when I know things might not be good for me, but when I can't stop going back for more.

That's it.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


Fragments of my mind are detatching. They float off into the ether.
What a cliché...

I’ll pull the hairs one by one
So I can savour the sting
As the flesh jerks

I’ll brand myself something sinful
So I can relish the buzz of the needle
Puncturing my skin

I’ll never say no to you
So tomorrow I’ll have something
To cry about for hours