"I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out looking, with its hooks, for something to love. I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me; all day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity." -- Sylvia Plath
Wish List: Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams Amber Hued Boots 110 pounds A full black kitten Blond hair Fake nails Heath Ledger bag Industrial piercing Scorpion tattoo Library card Graduation Two bedroom apartment One best friend A job Black skinny jeans Mid-thigh-high shorts Blood red leggings
Reading List: The Time Travelers Wife The Great Gatsby Alice in Wonderland Lolita The Lovely Bones The Bell Jar Identical Suicide Notes Girl, Interrupted The Collected Poems Everything is Illuminated Massive Unwell The Virgin Suicides When She Was Good Stop Pretending White Oleander Second Star to the Right The Journals of Sylvia Plath The Book of Laughter and Forgetting The Bible Sailing Alone Around the Room Taking Woodstock The Unbearable Lightness of Being Connect2God
Love doesn't last too long, never nearly long enough, and as I watch the sunlight tremble its way downward towards the earth's surface and deep behind the oceanic currents outside my bed room window, I dream of only you with my eyes wide open. Wind's whispers here have a chill to them that does not exist where you are and such envy steals hold of me, as if she may never release her joints from my filaments. Her force binds into a fasten that resembles the restraint of a grown man's hand, pulling my head backward and against her own viewing, quietly to kiss certain phrases onto my cheek bone and abandon them to lie there without my oppositions. They sing to me from remote and foreign tongues that merely I, alone can understand, leaving the world around stalled within utter confusion and imminent oblivion.
"She is the petal and you are the thorn. Why would he ever settle for anything more?" They softly trail my jaw line, humming, "Your sharp points do not mean a thing to the ground. Who are you really doing this for?" And so they continue.
I take two-hundred mgs of sleeping pill and wish for slumber like it is all I desire, so indubitably it refuses to return. Lying like the dead beneath a sheet, I carry my chest within my palms as an offering for the Gods to keep. Screaming from my balcony, all hope is for the hearing.
"Take this, it is of no use to me. There is simply nothing inside, like there used to be."
Print out most photos for Kris' journal Jot things down in Paige's journal Sketch three pieces Read 30 pages of Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams Continue fast (which started two days prior to this one) Check on Bee Wash face, with the addition of a mask Exercise (weight lifting) Write entry on here & in Kris' journal Babysit Chocolate Eyes Post 365 photograph for the day Discover five new fancy artists (PJ Harvey, warpaint, Emiliana Torrini, Ani DiFranco, Katie Melua) Download 1000 more songs to itunes (1529) Watch an episode of Cold Case Have one lengthy conversation with someone Say hello to someone new and fresh Look up more colleges of choice
Ensconced within a snug corner of Bee's backyard tree house, cigarette resting directly and rightly between index and one's middle finger, I listen to their voices like televised scenes by writers I will lack any engagements with (the joints above the heights of a puppet's cranium, in which you never perceive for addition in curtain's thread, that mysterious haven where all creation comes forth). Walls from woods connect together in such small lengths, compared to our booming and chaotic laughter afterward every breath of new phrase. We remain seated for hours at one time, watching the contours and caving each face forces in the fresh minute, easing alongside the sound of another soprano to peak and comfort the heart like a blanket or bedding of some kind. I photograph their revolving movements and the thoughts living in their eye sockets, allowing the returning flash of the camera to lighten the room for only a cluster of seconds and then abandon it to such heavily darkness. A darkness that would secondly frighten Bee for she believes the evil spirits house themselves on her shoulders and hips, though I promise her again and again that she is something I can protect. Mother Earth casts her children winds against our windows and doors, Bee's neck discovering use as she turns to me (her eye lashes beginning to flutter closer together), arraying a sense of immediate alarm removing itself from without her chests of anxieties. She repeats, "I apologize: my anxiety is so bad." And I move myself towards her, my palm kissing her upper back frame in a calming motion, having no panic shown on my tongue as I speak, "Don't worry, I would never allow something to happen to you. You're safe." Something she will forever refuse to believe, but something I will always know to be true and for now, I do hope that is enough.
I just took two giant sleeping pills, because I feel like if I am awake much longer, I will do something that I, or everyone else around me regrets. I can feel the push and pull of a faint sense where my heart once stood, but it is nothing but a lie. He stole my heart and carried it away with him when he left me and I feel close to anything in such small amounts now. I cannot care, I cannot work, I cannot live correctly because my main organ is missing from without my body’s frame. I am a mixture of the cruelest apathetic mannerisms and stitchings of what could be false hope. I rummage throughout days like they are minutes, cornering men who never look at me like he did, shutting my eyes tightly because sometimes the pain comes in waves over my being and drowns me where I stand. Each waking, I rise from my mattress only because of the possibility of him returning home to me. Every moment is an aching pressure of sorrow and discontentment of all things, draining my essence and personal like blood from a vein. He was my air, my earth, my skies, my joints, and my will. I would honestly rather live alone for the entirety of a lifetime, than stand aside anyone else. I wish with all of my might until my gripping is sore and my knuckles grow white, that he will remember me, understand me, fight for me again. Because if he does not, I am no one but myself and that will never be enough for me.
I want to cry, but I cannot anymore. All feel of anything is fictitious and never real to the being. I smile when one is suppose to smile, I anger when one is suppose to anger, I frown when one is suppose to frown, but nothing more. I am a living statue in this place and I would do merely anything to escape, to leave this life behind and start something new. But, I fear even such would never change me and that only he can.
Even though that is pathetic and rare, it is who I am and I am no one else, nor could I ever be without him. I am frighteningly romantic and sure and full of all passions alive when I say this, but I love him. I love him with every soul that ever lived inside of me. I love him with the past, the present, and the future. I love him like the earth loves its sun lights and rain fall. Why would I ever abandon something so pure and unreal, for all else of what would only be second and every one thing not him that I encounter? When I can sit with the notion of him alongside another for the rest of eternity, able to move along only because I know he is happy for the moments passing, how can I imagine anyone being able to love him more? He is my soul mate, my one and only choice and I apologize, but if I cannot have what my soul will remain desirous of, then the world cannot have me.
I need him like the oceans need their waves. I can go years and years being what I am now, but it will forever be only one half of what is possible. People say that one cannot love another whom does not love themselves, but I do - I love myself with what is left in my soul and that is what keeps my blood swimming and running with currents of the most undying love there is.
That is what keeps me attempting at my damn hardest to have him love me, it is what will pace my toes all the way across the coast of the country and onto his doorstep, it is what helps me believe that there is something greater than all of this I am sitting in. Because it is there, it is with him, it is in his soul and I can feel it all the way from where I parade.
It is there, I know it is, and I will taste and swallow all of it because it is meant for me and no one else.
I feel like a flower without its ground nor water, dying with each second of the day without them. People who see this, look and then falter their eyes astray because pain is livid in my eyes and face and the circles that glow like hollow caves just above my cheeks. I rarely eat, I sleep until I cannot condone it any more and when I do, I dream of him. I dream of his hands covering my own and of his lips settling gently with on my quivering mouth. I dream of his body in sync with my movements and our beings revolving like a planet and it’s moon. I am his moon, I am his moon and I am lost in some space that only the best of astronomers have discovered to be where only those most heart broken of souls reside, waiting for their planet to find them again.
Bothered and exasperate, I force my frail lungs to inhale and exhale, silently surveying the ever nettlesome slits along the thighs of my tights ( created by the mere fact that I have gained entirely too much excess weight ) and feasibly, I begin to complain. "Mother! We are on our way to a wedding rehearsal and my tights are practically torn into shreds. I look simply awful," I whine, just as if I am a child of four or five. She eases my moods, "Do not worry, they are nude tights. You cannot tell of such. Although," she points directly onto the wound I secretly pierced into my skin earlier in the week. "You can see those six cuts perfectly." And so the subject changes, right out from underneath our feet, like a rug.
