I don't trust you, and you are morose.
But what is there to trust?
I know the truth already.
I always have.
Words are only words and you say them just as others did before you.
As far as I'm concerned you lied to me, and that's much worse than saying nothing at all.
But no worse than I deserve.
You say that I'm too good for you.
How little you know.
It means nothing to me.
The first cut is the deepest.
My heart was ruined long ago - you can not break it again.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
How I despise.
How I despise you of no hope,
You of wafer-thin morals and beaten conscience.
How I curse the day our lips met
and our bodies entwined,
The manner in which your aura snuck in
to inhabit mine.
Your smell engulfed me - now I reek of you.
When we are together I can not breathe
but absorb your essence.
When we are apart only the taste
of your deception lingers in my mouth.
The tears which I have wasted on your countenance
lie heavy in my memory.
Those you have oft observed shed
but never stopped to hinder.
This time amounts to nothing.
Your lies are all I will remember.
I wish I could say I find your false-sentiments amusing.
I wish I could be so callous; as callous as you.
You of wafer-thin morals and beaten conscience.
How I curse the day our lips met
and our bodies entwined,
The manner in which your aura snuck in
to inhabit mine.
Your smell engulfed me - now I reek of you.
When we are together I can not breathe
but absorb your essence.
When we are apart only the taste
of your deception lingers in my mouth.
The tears which I have wasted on your countenance
lie heavy in my memory.
Those you have oft observed shed
but never stopped to hinder.
This time amounts to nothing.
Your lies are all I will remember.
I wish I could say I find your false-sentiments amusing.
I wish I could be so callous; as callous as you.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
I dreamed.
I dreamed I was a colourful fish who got separated from her friends in the pond. I found myself in a shady, cool and languidly-moving river that I'd never encountered before. While at first I was afraid of the strange and new environment, I soon became absorbed in observing the beauty around me.
I swam along quite happily for a while, until the river began to narrow and I found I was heading towards some bright light. As I got closer I saw that the river was ending and this light was where it met some other body of water. Suddenly I realised that it was my pond - my home. I could see my friends frolicking around in the water and basking in the sunlight that filtered through. I realised I was cold.
I began to swim faster, eager to reunite with the fish who I'd barely known I'd missed. I got closer and closer, until at last I was right on the border of the two bodies of water. With one last burst of speed, I tried to break through. I couldn't. I was thrust violently backwards. Somewhere above the surface - beyond where my vision reached - was a waterfall and the movement of the water below as it hit created an invisible barrier.
Try as I might, I couldn't swim through. I was trapped, and I was alone.
I swam along quite happily for a while, until the river began to narrow and I found I was heading towards some bright light. As I got closer I saw that the river was ending and this light was where it met some other body of water. Suddenly I realised that it was my pond - my home. I could see my friends frolicking around in the water and basking in the sunlight that filtered through. I realised I was cold.
I began to swim faster, eager to reunite with the fish who I'd barely known I'd missed. I got closer and closer, until at last I was right on the border of the two bodies of water. With one last burst of speed, I tried to break through. I couldn't. I was thrust violently backwards. Somewhere above the surface - beyond where my vision reached - was a waterfall and the movement of the water below as it hit created an invisible barrier.
Try as I might, I couldn't swim through. I was trapped, and I was alone.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Last night.
Last night Jackson asked me to read to him. I chose T.S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.
It's been a while since I've read any Eliot, despite him being my favourite poet. Though, I suppose, reading is something that I find hard to make time for at the moment, so it's not so surprising.
I remember reading Prufrock for the first time (it was the first poem in the Eliot book we studied in Lit) and I recall being baffled by it. Even after doing some research, a lot of it went over my head, it would seem. Last night I felt like I knew it completely.
If someone were to ask me to explain myself - my past decisions, my motivations - I would refer them to this poem. Prufrock, it would seem, is me.
After I'd finished my reading, and Jackson went into the front room with Patrick and Stan, I re-read the poem. Fifteen, twenty times I must have raked my eyes along the lines. I was shocked. Eliot writes from the perspective of someone who is not just simlar to me, but feels everything I feel, knows everything I know. It was if he'd reached within me and withdrawn a hand full of everything I keep so carefully guarded from the people around me.
I cried at what we'd discovered.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
It's been a while since I've read any Eliot, despite him being my favourite poet. Though, I suppose, reading is something that I find hard to make time for at the moment, so it's not so surprising.
I remember reading Prufrock for the first time (it was the first poem in the Eliot book we studied in Lit) and I recall being baffled by it. Even after doing some research, a lot of it went over my head, it would seem. Last night I felt like I knew it completely.
If someone were to ask me to explain myself - my past decisions, my motivations - I would refer them to this poem. Prufrock, it would seem, is me.
After I'd finished my reading, and Jackson went into the front room with Patrick and Stan, I re-read the poem. Fifteen, twenty times I must have raked my eyes along the lines. I was shocked. Eliot writes from the perspective of someone who is not just simlar to me, but feels everything I feel, knows everything I know. It was if he'd reached within me and withdrawn a hand full of everything I keep so carefully guarded from the people around me.
I cried at what we'd discovered.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
A little bit.
A little bit of stream of consciousness because I feel as if I haven't written anything in a long time.
You Cannot Possibly Understand Regret
You asked me about regret because you said it was how you felt and I’m not one who’s often lost for words but your question caught me off guard and I was not sure exactly how to say that yes I know about regret because it often hangs over me and drenches me in darkness like that night when the sky was overcast I was at that park with my blood pulsing in tandem with the alcohol that swamped my veins and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds and frolicked for a while in the rare expanse of emptiness and that man left me to buy cigarettes and I’m not sure what made me feel so safe when I was so alone and these days I walk in the middle of the road at night time so I don’t have to pass through the shadows but he said it wasn’t far and I trusted him for some inexplicable reason so I sat on the swings and I waited until I heard noise behind me but when I looked it was not him it was two boys who I’d never seen before and they said things to me that now I can’t even remember but I didn’t think it was so malicious at the time I just didn’t know why they were talking to me at all and so when one of them hit me I don’t think it was pain that made me fall over but shock and I lay still as they loomed over me just looking not speaking when his shout split the suffocating silence and they ran without a second glance and he picked me up and dusted me off and I fell into his arms because I was frightened and confused so I did not say anything when he led me away I just followed this man who’d saved me because I felt I’d found a friend who would protect me and he took me to his house and made me sit on the couch in the front room and as I looked around I started to feel strange because there was just so much stuff there were magazines on the coffee table and there was a flower pot that someone had knocked over but hadn’t bothered to put right so it just lay there spilling its contents onto the wooden surface and it was just so cluttered and even though light filtered in through a window with open blinds I began to feel claustrophobic and then he sat next to me but not just next to me he was too close to me and then I knew that I didn’t want to be there anymore but when I shifted in my seat his hand shot out and he had my arm in his grip was not reassuring anymore and my pulse jumped as I tried to move away and he captured my wrist with his other hand and he pushed me backwards and even though I began to struggle my back hit the couch and I felt as if was being swallowed whole by those lumpy cushions and his body ran the length of mine and held me down and I could not get away though I struggled and I began to cry and I could barely breathe because my chest was being crushed beneath his hands were moving too fast and he was so much bigger and so much stronger than I was so even though I shoved with all my strength I could not move him and sometimes when I look back I think maybe it happened like they say in the movies it happened so fast I can barely remember but I know that it didn’t because minutes dragged on and I recall every excruciating second and maybe that’s why it’s so hard to explain to people because you cannot possibly know without having felt the way that he pushed his body against mine and the arm of the couch on the back of my neck and his knee on my leg and his elbow in my ribs and his tongue in my mouth and you cannot possibly understand the shame I felt when he moved away and I did not know what to do when his voice came from somewhere within the house asking me if I wanted a drink so I burst from his door and out onto an unfamiliar street and I don’t know how I got home but you cannot possibly understand why I put my clothes in the washing machine and I showered and washed my hair and brushed my teeth until my gums bled and you cannot possibly talk to me about regret because you don’t know what regret is.
You Cannot Possibly Understand Regret
You asked me about regret because you said it was how you felt and I’m not one who’s often lost for words but your question caught me off guard and I was not sure exactly how to say that yes I know about regret because it often hangs over me and drenches me in darkness like that night when the sky was overcast I was at that park with my blood pulsing in tandem with the alcohol that swamped my veins and the moon peeked out from behind the clouds and frolicked for a while in the rare expanse of emptiness and that man left me to buy cigarettes and I’m not sure what made me feel so safe when I was so alone and these days I walk in the middle of the road at night time so I don’t have to pass through the shadows but he said it wasn’t far and I trusted him for some inexplicable reason so I sat on the swings and I waited until I heard noise behind me but when I looked it was not him it was two boys who I’d never seen before and they said things to me that now I can’t even remember but I didn’t think it was so malicious at the time I just didn’t know why they were talking to me at all and so when one of them hit me I don’t think it was pain that made me fall over but shock and I lay still as they loomed over me just looking not speaking when his shout split the suffocating silence and they ran without a second glance and he picked me up and dusted me off and I fell into his arms because I was frightened and confused so I did not say anything when he led me away I just followed this man who’d saved me because I felt I’d found a friend who would protect me and he took me to his house and made me sit on the couch in the front room and as I looked around I started to feel strange because there was just so much stuff there were magazines on the coffee table and there was a flower pot that someone had knocked over but hadn’t bothered to put right so it just lay there spilling its contents onto the wooden surface and it was just so cluttered and even though light filtered in through a window with open blinds I began to feel claustrophobic and then he sat next to me but not just next to me he was too close to me and then I knew that I didn’t want to be there anymore but when I shifted in my seat his hand shot out and he had my arm in his grip was not reassuring anymore and my pulse jumped as I tried to move away and he captured my wrist with his other hand and he pushed me backwards and even though I began to struggle my back hit the couch and I felt as if was being swallowed whole by those lumpy cushions and his body ran the length of mine and held me down and I could not get away though I struggled and I began to cry and I could barely breathe because my chest was being crushed beneath his hands were moving too fast and he was so much bigger and so much stronger than I was so even though I shoved with all my strength I could not move him and sometimes when I look back I think maybe it happened like they say in the movies it happened so fast I can barely remember but I know that it didn’t because minutes dragged on and I recall every excruciating second and maybe that’s why it’s so hard to explain to people because you cannot possibly know without having felt the way that he pushed his body against mine and the arm of the couch on the back of my neck and his knee on my leg and his elbow in my ribs and his tongue in my mouth and you cannot possibly understand the shame I felt when he moved away and I did not know what to do when his voice came from somewhere within the house asking me if I wanted a drink so I burst from his door and out onto an unfamiliar street and I don’t know how I got home but you cannot possibly understand why I put my clothes in the washing machine and I showered and washed my hair and brushed my teeth until my gums bled and you cannot possibly talk to me about regret because you don’t know what regret is.
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:
Lists are always pretty fun, raight? This was my holiday:
- Jackson went to Vietnam.
- Luna on Essex and then Mojo's for too much cider and Wide Open Mike with Aleks.
- Got ink.
- Driving with Blake, Leon and Al.
- Dinner at Duncan's then Rise and getting locked out of Al's car >:(
- BILL BAILEY.
- Breakfast date with Linley.
- Marlies's party with Elena and Marina.
- Stan and Patrick watch me play hockey.
- Writer's Retreat in Mandurah with Emily, Deb, Lauren, Shane and Patrick (for one night).
- ON THE BRIGHT SIDE with Breanna, Jane, Lisa and Jesse. Fucking amazing.
- Jackson back from Vietnam.
- 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.
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.
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.
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.
That's it.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Fragments.
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
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
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