Letterhead #12

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Dear Bella,
I feel so shit today.
It's like everything you said last night has seeped into me.
I meant it when I said
"You can't depress me, I've been there already.
I've thought all these things before"
But this morning it got into me,
(maybe it's because I was reminded of how i used to think)
I will not tell you.
Because I can let go of it now,
I can already feeling it sliding away
and I don't want you to think
you are hurting me.
Even if you are a bit.

not mine.

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That the way light
bounces off your skin
has nothing to do with who you are.

That smokers believe
they need to die a little,
just to go outside.

That art has always hated the frame you put it in
and would lash out,
kicking and screaming in the streets,
if you gave it half a chance.

That the way lovers touch
can not be communicated in words,
no matter how often or how hard you try.

That your body fights your mind
and your mind fights your soul
and your soul fights the world,
to try and figure out what you are.

That sometimes, you're just tired.
That's all.

- http://www.iwrotethisforyou.me

don't ask

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She was Numb. Numb. Numb. Sometimes she whispers that word to herself, when she gets strange looks she smiles.

What is there to tell you about her? She drinks. She smokes. She starves herself. She does whatever it takes ease the numbness, or distract herself from it.

The other day she cut herself. Seventeen slits, on her left forearm. She used the razor from a pencil sharpener -just scratches, she tells herself. Today she accidentally let them show as she was taking off her jacket. Nobody saw, she doesn't know whether or not she's relieved.

She goes home and listens to music that gets in your head as she goes on Tumblr for hours. Around her, her friends are kissing boys and laughing and studying and growing. She writes things that are similar to the young Tim Burton's poetry. About girls who will grow up before their time. She is in a blur. When she looks around, all she can see is fog.

hypocrite

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at times
i have written
against girls
talking talking always talking
about boys.
i've wanted
girls to live for themselves
to be okay with themselves
without a boy being okay with them
first.
but i hate to admit
i may start (writing) soon
because there is a boy
who meant a bit more than a kiss
and even if it doesn't go
anywhere
right now
i wanted to write
about him
and how nice
his kisses were.

(please get out of my head.)

it would be a lot easier

morbid curiosity

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Raindrops are drumming against your window. You can feel their icy whispers gathering around you. The room is dark except for the glass which reveals the greying street, and the cold glow of the laptop's screen which illuminates the dim forms of a bed, chair and closet behind you. There is the thick taste of a hard-boiled lolly in your mouth. Behind the rain you can hear the vague outlines of Sad by Pearl Jam humming in the background.
All this, with the mixed, broken scents of hair and rain and cotton sheets and lavender, holds you for a moment. And you pause in your typing, your fingers hesitating on the keys before you continue typing, in a more assured manner then before. This is who you are, now, in this moment you feel more yourself than you often do. And it's like a breath of fresh air. But even as you type you wonder whether you will post it.
And a small, dissatisfied part of you thinks about why people read the erratic, endless writings of others shadowed by the anonymity of cyberspace. And you can't help but feel it's for the same reason that humans stretch their necks to get glimpses of car crashes.

But maybe you shouldn't think about that right now. Maybe you should just finish your sentence.

just a letter

This is a tag created by Felicity which I was tagged in by the exceptionally talented Katherine. All you have to do is write a letter beginning with 'Dear You' that can't include any names, only pronouns. It's really freeing and easy, I hardly ever write in such a straight forward manner, I think I'll do it more.
I tag : Chlo and Sabine Cara for fairly obvious reasons I feel.
I was going to tag Jokerman but my account isn't working properly and I can't comment on his blog to let him know, so if you get this Danke, I hope you do the tag.

Dear you,

I've wanted to write this letter for a long time, but I haven't. I'm not sure why. I often put off things like this. It's because when I think, I think through everything and sometimes it's too much. It's difficult being a thinker sometimes. It's a lot messier than those who just accept things.

I'm talking to him again, well today and yesterday. It's funny, it's not that we weren't talking, but we haven't talked to each other a long time. He's curious like that. Someone said to me on Wednesday, "He is always a bit angry at everyone." I think that person's right.

I haven't been writing a lot lately, not even in my journal. Honestly I suppose it's a but more of a diary but I don't really like that word as much. And I haven't been writing on my blog. Which is annoying because I really want to, and even tags I've been given I haven't been able to fill out, except this one. It's frustrating because I love to write, but it's so erratic. I have to be in the right state of mind and a lot of things mess with that for me.

My friend is doing okay (I think), if you were wondering. We all are. But I wonder where we are going to be in 6 months time, when we don't have the support and stresses we have now. It could go either way I think.

I wish I could use my real name to sign off, but I won't. What's in a name, after all? If anything because of the anonymity of the internet, I've been more myself as Lilah, or more open to the parts of me that I don't want everyone to see at least. Except for her but that's okay. She is different. A friend once said to me, "She is one of the few people that actually care", they don't even know the half of it. I don't think I do either.

With love,

For someone else

Feelings flood inside you. And that's the thing about feelings, you say you want them, but you never really do. And you always do. They are some of the most beautiful and contradictory aspects of life. And it all depends on you. If you are a well or a puddle or a duck's back. And it's okay to be any of those things but they will always leave you feeling unsatisfied.
Because, a part of you knows, that you want someone else to feel it with you.

curiousity killed the cat, repeatedly

If insanity is the fire then drinking is the match.
And in my eagerness to see the room I'm standing in, I keep believing I will be able to light a candle.
Even though all I can smell is gas.

Fuck.

Mud in My Tears



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For two thousand sessions
and three analysts
and so many tears

I've gnawed over
this division of roles
for twenty years

what happened
what happened to her
what happened to me

I've sorted and sieved
and dissected
I've strained

through this corset
and shamed myself
I've repeated and remembered

and divided
the borders
she was the mother

I am the daughter
I am the daughter
born after the war

after the hunger
after the torture
after the typhoid

after the disfigurement
after the disinfection
after the dead

and well after
the rape
and the German Shepherd

I am the daughter
born after the war
but I've stalled

I am stuck
like a pig in mud
mud from the barracks

mud from the huts
mud from the bunks
mud from my eyes and lungs

mud in my liver
mud in my mouth
mud ringing in my ears

mud in my fingers
mud in my screams
mud in my tears.

-Lily Brett

Excerpt #9

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She nods to satisfy his question but she is no longer listening. If you watch closely you can hear the ringing echoes -of whatever song holds her head today- swinging through her mind, taking her over. He is still talking but she is already gone. She has slipped away.

She treds along the dusty corridor and when she reaches the opening of the stairs hers eyes brush the shadows, that linger at the bottom of the stairs and the hallway beyond. She hesitates when reaching for the lightswitch, and her fingertips almost graze the hardened plastic before she pulls her hand away.
As she descends she finds herself wondering if she will fall.