written in February 2011
My thoughts seem reflected in the clouds
Silent, colourless in their existence
As the wind tears their edges into oblivion
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
written sometime in November 2005
My mind is full of splintered shards and I can't pull together a thought strong enough to survive the senseless violence. And how long until this starts killing me or has that already begun. And how many times will I promise to change and somehow revert to this again.
It's counterproductive and illogical and even still it's a cycle I can't seem to break out of.
And all the symbols of endings were less than symbolic after all, when none of them hold more than a day. I still can't decide whether or not to tell you, tell anyone, I probably won't, but you might grab this from my hand, I might grab it back and shred it and feed it to the oncoming train. And I wish that symbol had been enough, I wish breaking a string - either of them - had been enough, except I've forgotten what nourishment is and blood makes such a lovely ink and I'm a lost cause.
And so I'll vow another empty promise, if there's no difference and I've nothing left to lose then I may as well: by a week and two days I'll somehow pull a shard together and sleep enough and eat enough and maybe I'll look healthy again. Look or be? I'm doubting the possibility of either. I may as well aim low. There's no landing among the stars here, there's only self-destruction and running from it.
And this is why no one should love me, you're asking for pain, it's better to let me smash and scatter myself until the pieces lie forgotten.
It's counterproductive and illogical and even still it's a cycle I can't seem to break out of.
And all the symbols of endings were less than symbolic after all, when none of them hold more than a day. I still can't decide whether or not to tell you, tell anyone, I probably won't, but you might grab this from my hand, I might grab it back and shred it and feed it to the oncoming train. And I wish that symbol had been enough, I wish breaking a string - either of them - had been enough, except I've forgotten what nourishment is and blood makes such a lovely ink and I'm a lost cause.
And so I'll vow another empty promise, if there's no difference and I've nothing left to lose then I may as well: by a week and two days I'll somehow pull a shard together and sleep enough and eat enough and maybe I'll look healthy again. Look or be? I'm doubting the possibility of either. I may as well aim low. There's no landing among the stars here, there's only self-destruction and running from it.
And this is why no one should love me, you're asking for pain, it's better to let me smash and scatter myself until the pieces lie forgotten.
Monday, May 12, 2014
written sometime in 2010
Sometimes I still hate me.
Sometimes I still want to cut.
Sometimes I still feel like I'm fundamentally flawed, too flawed and too damaged to ever be happy, to ever make anyone else happy.
Sometimes I still think the only way to redeem my existence is to destroy it, to burn myself out trying to make something better.
Sometimes I still hate the feel of my own heartbeat, hate the sense of space I occupy, wish I could tear off my skin and disappear.
Sometimes I still want to cut.
Sometimes I still feel like I'm fundamentally flawed, too flawed and too damaged to ever be happy, to ever make anyone else happy.
Sometimes I still think the only way to redeem my existence is to destroy it, to burn myself out trying to make something better.
Sometimes I still hate the feel of my own heartbeat, hate the sense of space I occupy, wish I could tear off my skin and disappear.
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