I just edited a few of my most private entries and made them 'friends only'.
Got a Facebook and some people from my class have an account there, so I don't want them to follow the links from my profile to here and see some of my thoughts.
So. From now on, my more private stuff will be friends locked and if you want to read them, add me. I'll most likely automatically add you back.

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I wanna share some of the stuff I've written lately; some of these are even 8 months old but... still.


07.08.08

don't ask me because i can't answer. words on paper, loads better, they are. my throat is closing up and i can breathe. i'm burning and waves are crashing against my side, head, mind and other body parts. this is cliche because i'm cliche and i don't know what is not.

the girl who stole my heart, broke it and doesn't know it. the people who judge, look and talk. the friend i almost didn't have. the friend i don't love anymore.

hiding has become my expertise, it's right there in the line after lying. i am a master and everyone believes me, no one can see me. if i just hide out here in my room or under the covers of my bed, i'm safe. my sheets are bloodstained and i am ashamed.
i whisper "37" under my breath every night before I go to bed and wish stars, silver crosses and 11:11s. 

i wish i was a bird or an airplane and i could fly to new york and be sex without the city. transform back to human. jump off a vegas casino rooftop. and i would be alright, like in my dreams. i want to be above the rain and get answers and questions from the sky. i want to see god and heaven on top of the clouds because he's there and he's watching and laughing and spitting raindrops that become tears in our eyes.
i don't want clouds to hang over me anymore. enough is enough and i've had my share.



Just Me.

I dislike clichéd advices, sentences and situations in books, movies, songs and poems. I love them when they happen/are said to me in real life.
And I use them daily anyway. 

I love dancing, makeup and pretty things. I love writing, music and fucked up things. I think being in love is overrated because I've never been loved and I've never truly loved. I don't know what love is.

I read stories about people and write of feelings, unrequited relationships and flying; of desperation, clichés and beautiful people; of accidents, misunderstandings and life on the edge. I am a messy perfectionist when it comes to art of any kind.

You can try to distract me and succeed, you can dance around me and draw my attention to you.

I would die for my family, friends and two favorite bands.

I want to be famous, live in New York and gamble in Las Vegas. I want to go without knowing the destination.I want to live and die. I want to fuck and hold hands. I want to scream and whisper.

I want to be more than a hero, whatever that is. I am a regular decorated emergency and I am not better than you.



Dancing with the Dead
(written about my best friend. ily.)

She's still so young,
But does she deserve the pain she carries?
("Yes, I do.")
Oh, no no no!
Don't you get it?

On the way to paradise,
She's thinking:
"No, you don't get it'"
but I do, I do.
And when she cries herself to sleep,
Clutching the metal in her hands,
She repeats: "don't wanna fall in love,
Don't wanna feel this pain no more"

She's a porcelain doll,
ready to break in
3, 2, 1
Counts down to the breakdown,
And doesn't let them see her face
(No, don't let them see the tears)

Her worst enemies include:
The mirror...
(don't look, no, don't glance that way)
Herself...
(Can you hate someone more than yourself?)
The bathroom...
(don't give in to temptation, don't you dare)

She's a porcelain doll,
Ready to break in
3, 2, 1
Counts down to the breakdown,
And doesn't let them see her face
(No, she can't let them see the tears)

It's her dark little secret but how long can she take it?
(How long before you break it?)
Don't get caught dead on the floor...


Scars
(merely a figment of my imagination, jsyk. may be triggering)

The scar along your clenched jaw,
Your words,
Running up my spine,
As the voice I've been dreading to hear,
Brushes across my lips.

Shivers.

Your cigarette-smoke breath,
It swirls against my hip,
Touch, touching
So delicate.
So dangerous.

Your calloused fingertips,
Bring them over here
And feel the sour taste
Your tongue on mine.
And I'm choking on the breath,
The words of your spilled secret

And did you hear
Me causing a scene
Under the lamp post?

And we're about to see,
You raping me with that broken...
(Oh, scratch that)

Shatter me,
Isn't it what you'd like to see?
On my knees,
Ready, unwilling and capable
Of doing such a thing?

No, you're not so confident.


She Felt Beautiful
(totally unfinished)

i stepped forward. once, twice. i felt my cold body being hit with tiny drops of warm water. they got caught in my eyelashes. i blinked. once, twice. another step and i buried my head under the spray of water, letting it cascade down my front and back.
my eyes closed, everything was dark and i could feel every single river run on my skin. i was breathing water; imaginary fishes in my mouth and spitting them back out.

my fingers gently skimmed slowly up and down and my head was still underwater, all five senses awakening. i felt everything and every touch burned holes inside.

i wasn't there, i wasn't sure if i was alive. just invisible from the world and safe from my  thoughts. and that's all that mattered at that moment.


Therapy

That's what trash cans in a teenager's room are for, right?

When you take too many pills - chewing every one of them because you're too afraid of swallowing the large things - and the tiny little pieces get stuck in your throat, finding it a good idea to tickle the inside of your esophagus. You drink more of the apple-orange-banana-pineapple juice and you fight for it. But soon you're gagging and heaving all of what's inside you mouth, to the trash and it's a repulsive sight in front of your eyes; some school papers, gum, used tampons and now the juice-pill mix, all nicely mingled together.

'good pills wasted. try again, you piece of shit.'


+++


Two pieces of toast, countless salted crackers and chips and candy, two glasses of juice.

You step into the bathroom and take your scale out from underneath the sink. Soon your clothes are littered on the floor and nearly naked, you step onto the white, judging object.

53.3 kg.

Your throat's burning and the eaten food wants to come out but you're scared and your little brother is in his room. Tears are stinging in your eyes but you hold them back and look into the oval-shaped mirror.

'look at yourself. how disgusting you are.'

You stretch backwards, so that your body is arching. There they are.

One, two, three, four, five.

Those are the ones you can count by tracing your fingers over them. You suck your stomach in, change into more comfortable clothes and go running. It takes three hours; sweat, 4 kilometers, jumping, panting, collapsing.

'good girl. when you start feeling faint, you know it's working.'