what you thought
when i fell
so many times
(i still blame the shoes).
i hate drunken girls.
i hate me,
sometimes.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
i hate birthdays
what you thought
when i fell
so many times
(i still blame the shoes).
i hate drunken girls.
i hate me,
sometimes.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
bittersweet
I can feel change coming on again, stronger than before. It's heating up my veins.
It's the spark in my eyes, the catch in my voice.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Hermetic
Life is so exhausting.
I keep trying to remember the way I used to be, before I was sad and when I was sad and when I was getting better and I can't. What does that mean? I don't know how I see myself anymore. I can't comprehend my emotions and thoughts and actions. I don't know who I am and who people think I am and who I want to be.
When I look in the mirror I can't see my face.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
For now
-If I can, start writing again
-Use Tumblr for personal posts or delete it
-Exercise more
-Eat healthily
-Tell fewer lies
-Allow myself to open up to others
-Try to be kind again
-Consume fewer illicit substances, less often
-Indulge my curiosity
-Care for myself again
I miss writing too much. I miss this blog. I am happier with it.
I'm going to fight for it.
A Simple Act
By Renee Yohe
Wake up. Get up. Untangle myself from the fickle sheets, loosen the drunken grip of desperate dreams. I will not wonder, “What if I had gotten up at ten?” today. The what ifs always frustrate me, they do not propel me forward. Disheveled and unsure, tile like splashes of ice water shocks the un-socked as they carry me. Right, Left, I try to be sure I start on the right foot. It’s like an even number, the right side. I dislike numbers in general, though I specifically find odd numbers abrasive and unacceptable. (Besides, the mere fact that it’s typically stated, “left, right” satisfies me inexplicably every time I step with my right foot first.) Simple pleasures. Or neurotic tendencies. Perhaps both. Open wide, despite the spiteful squint and groan, it’s all in your eyes. Wash the dead away, down the drain, run my fingers through my… tangles. Brush them out, like my mother’s hands down my back raking the knots out, like sewing the hole shut in your favorite shirt refusing to throw it out, like words of compassion putting the fire out. Smiling. Not like baiting a trap and waiting, not like febreezing without cleaning, not like holograms or hallucinations, but like colors that tell the truth. This smile is significant. The time on the clock still has those despicable letters sneering,”a” and “m”. The ache in my chest is still nagging, though only nagging now, losing steam from six hours before. And. That. Is. Glorious. I must remember this moment, this moment makes every other moment less fixed. This, “hurting less” moment affirms the potency in the simple act of waiting. This moment was unfathomable just moments before, was in fact loathed in light of the lesions occupying my heart. Yet, it is here and I am in it and I can imagine others far in the distance where I am radiant, and this is just the faintest scar on my healthy human heart. Don’t be fooled by seconds that sprawl, choose instead to wake up tomorrow, and the next day that follows, and wait for a smile that leaves your old sorrow forgotten in dust. Please keep waking up.
Wake up. Get up. Untangle myself from the fickle sheets, loosen the drunken grip of desperate dreams. I will not wonder, “What if I had gotten up at ten?” today. The what ifs always frustrate me, they do not propel me forward. Disheveled and unsure, tile like splashes of ice water shocks the un-socked as they carry me. Right, Left, I try to be sure I start on the right foot. It’s like an even number, the right side. I dislike numbers in general, though I specifically find odd numbers abrasive and unacceptable. (Besides, the mere fact that it’s typically stated, “left, right” satisfies me inexplicably every time I step with my right foot first.) Simple pleasures. Or neurotic tendencies. Perhaps both. Open wide, despite the spiteful squint and groan, it’s all in your eyes. Wash the dead away, down the drain, run my fingers through my… tangles. Brush them out, like my mother’s hands down my back raking the knots out, like sewing the hole shut in your favorite shirt refusing to throw it out, like words of compassion putting the fire out. Smiling. Not like baiting a trap and waiting, not like febreezing without cleaning, not like holograms or hallucinations, but like colors that tell the truth. This smile is significant. The time on the clock still has those despicable letters sneering,”a” and “m”. The ache in my chest is still nagging, though only nagging now, losing steam from six hours before. And. That. Is. Glorious. I must remember this moment, this moment makes every other moment less fixed. This, “hurting less” moment affirms the potency in the simple act of waiting. This moment was unfathomable just moments before, was in fact loathed in light of the lesions occupying my heart. Yet, it is here and I am in it and I can imagine others far in the distance where I am radiant, and this is just the faintest scar on my healthy human heart. Don’t be fooled by seconds that sprawl, choose instead to wake up tomorrow, and the next day that follows, and wait for a smile that leaves your old sorrow forgotten in dust. Please keep waking up.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
A different Anna (a story).
The last time Anna’s hands had touched this wood she had been sitting beside her Grandmother ten years ago.
Eight year-old Anna had been scraping into the top layer of the curiously soft wood, only halting to flick out the remains from underneath her fingernails. Her mind had wandered as the monotonous voice of Murwillumbah’s parish priest filled the air, punctuated by his hoarse cough, like a bark, Anna had thought. Every time he coughed like this, her Grandmother’s eyes would flit to Anna’ busily working fingers and she would perse her lips in annoyance. Anna was sullen with frustration and boredom as her blank gaze drifted from her handiwork to the priest in response to her Grandmother’s disapproving eyes. More than anything Anna had wanted to be back at home in Sydney with her friends.
Anna sighs, she had been such a brat when she was young. She pulls back her legs to make room for her Auntie’s boisterous figure as she bustles past her to sit next to her Dad and the strong scent of gardenias fills the air. Anna twists in her seat to peer at all those who have come. There are plenty of people, most of whom Anna doesn’t recognise; some aged with years of rough laughter and crinkled smiles, others’ skin still smooth and sombre. As the organ starts up, Anna turns back to the front in time to stand with everyone else. But the faces linger in her mind, they are friendly faces, she thinks.
Twelve year-old Anna had been tugging absent-mindedly at her lower lip with her left hand, while her right arranged and rearranged the seven lettered tiles in front of her. GF IAYLM. MAY.YAM. LAY. MAIL. GAILY. FAIL. Anna frowned at the last option as her eyes flicked towards the score board; she was coming fourth...
“Come on, Anna.” Her Grandmother’s words awoke her from her reverie,
“I’ll just be a minute,” she had muttered; discouraged by the impatience and her own low score. She glanced at the tattered paper again before scoping the cramped board for spaces.
“Well, I should hope so. At this rate we’ll be here ‘til Christmas.” Anna looked up at her Grandmother for this snide remark, but it was softened by her smile, as she leaned in to offer Anna some advice, her hands deftly moved the pieces. FAMILY. “If you place it here, you can get 22 points.” she whispered discreetly, as Anna’s Dad came back from the toilet and her brother walked back with a wooden bowl of Smith’s Crisps.
It had taken her another four years until she had finally won a game of scrabble without any help, Anna muses. The priest’s voice is ringing out through the church and Anna keeps catching phrases, “you may not grieve as others do who have no hope…The word of the Lord”. She nibbles her lip as she fails yet again, to join in on the congregation’s response: “Thanks be to God” they murmur, unified.
Fourteen year-old Anna had been lying with her left cheek against the itchy carpet of her Grandmother’s flat against her left cheek, as she gazed blankly at the television screen which had been playing cricket for the last four hours. She sighed heavily and her grandmother had taken pity on her and suggested she read a book. After much persuasion Anna had unenthusiastically began reading Pride and Prejudice. But by the end of the week, Anna had clutched the faded copy (now her very own) to her chest as she had finished reading the Darcy’s letter. A new fervour could be found in her eyes.
As the organ and congregation wobble into Psalm 23,Anna’s mind returns to the present and her hands, sticky in the north-coast humidity, gripped the bench’s edge; she can hardly believe what she saw on the back of the pew. It is still there…the furtive and wicked ‘A’ she had carved there ten years ago. Anna surprises herself by suppressing a smirk that quickly evaporates as her eyes are drawn once more to the mahogany coffin on her left. Anna thinks about her Grandma and Murwillumbah and a part of her feels like if she leaves the town tomorrow afternoon, she will have finally lost her grandmother. As the priest’s parting words ring out through Saint Patrick’s, Anna’s hand finds her mum’s.
Afterwards, Anna once again sits down at the empty pew, her fingers trace the rivets and she leaves, feeling satisfied. But only after carving her grandma’s initial beside her own.
Eight year-old Anna had been scraping into the top layer of the curiously soft wood, only halting to flick out the remains from underneath her fingernails. Her mind had wandered as the monotonous voice of Murwillumbah’s parish priest filled the air, punctuated by his hoarse cough, like a bark, Anna had thought. Every time he coughed like this, her Grandmother’s eyes would flit to Anna’ busily working fingers and she would perse her lips in annoyance. Anna was sullen with frustration and boredom as her blank gaze drifted from her handiwork to the priest in response to her Grandmother’s disapproving eyes. More than anything Anna had wanted to be back at home in Sydney with her friends.
Anna sighs, she had been such a brat when she was young. She pulls back her legs to make room for her Auntie’s boisterous figure as she bustles past her to sit next to her Dad and the strong scent of gardenias fills the air. Anna twists in her seat to peer at all those who have come. There are plenty of people, most of whom Anna doesn’t recognise; some aged with years of rough laughter and crinkled smiles, others’ skin still smooth and sombre. As the organ starts up, Anna turns back to the front in time to stand with everyone else. But the faces linger in her mind, they are friendly faces, she thinks.
Twelve year-old Anna had been tugging absent-mindedly at her lower lip with her left hand, while her right arranged and rearranged the seven lettered tiles in front of her. GF IAYLM. MAY.YAM. LAY. MAIL. GAILY. FAIL. Anna frowned at the last option as her eyes flicked towards the score board; she was coming fourth...
“Come on, Anna.” Her Grandmother’s words awoke her from her reverie,
“I’ll just be a minute,” she had muttered; discouraged by the impatience and her own low score. She glanced at the tattered paper again before scoping the cramped board for spaces.
“Well, I should hope so. At this rate we’ll be here ‘til Christmas.” Anna looked up at her Grandmother for this snide remark, but it was softened by her smile, as she leaned in to offer Anna some advice, her hands deftly moved the pieces. FAMILY. “If you place it here, you can get 22 points.” she whispered discreetly, as Anna’s Dad came back from the toilet and her brother walked back with a wooden bowl of Smith’s Crisps.
It had taken her another four years until she had finally won a game of scrabble without any help, Anna muses. The priest’s voice is ringing out through the church and Anna keeps catching phrases, “you may not grieve as others do who have no hope…The word of the Lord”. She nibbles her lip as she fails yet again, to join in on the congregation’s response: “Thanks be to God” they murmur, unified.
Fourteen year-old Anna had been lying with her left cheek against the itchy carpet of her Grandmother’s flat against her left cheek, as she gazed blankly at the television screen which had been playing cricket for the last four hours. She sighed heavily and her grandmother had taken pity on her and suggested she read a book. After much persuasion Anna had unenthusiastically began reading Pride and Prejudice. But by the end of the week, Anna had clutched the faded copy (now her very own) to her chest as she had finished reading the Darcy’s letter. A new fervour could be found in her eyes.
As the organ and congregation wobble into Psalm 23,Anna’s mind returns to the present and her hands, sticky in the north-coast humidity, gripped the bench’s edge; she can hardly believe what she saw on the back of the pew. It is still there…the furtive and wicked ‘A’ she had carved there ten years ago. Anna surprises herself by suppressing a smirk that quickly evaporates as her eyes are drawn once more to the mahogany coffin on her left. Anna thinks about her Grandma and Murwillumbah and a part of her feels like if she leaves the town tomorrow afternoon, she will have finally lost her grandmother. As the priest’s parting words ring out through Saint Patrick’s, Anna’s hand finds her mum’s.
Afterwards, Anna once again sits down at the empty pew, her fingers trace the rivets and she leaves, feeling satisfied. But only after carving her grandma’s initial beside her own.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
fighterfighterfighter
to remind me i'm not dead
maybe if i etch it into each rib it will be true
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
-V. C. Andrews
Friday, September 9, 2011
Group Hallucination
I am so sick
of these ancient, iron cages
that separate
us. They separate
the artists from athletes
the scholars from blue-collars
the known from the unknowns;
the Romeos from Juliets.
They separate people from people.
I do not think
such persistent,
such acceptable ideas,
should remain unchallenged.
I cannot wait
for the day
they rust away.
(Sometimes, I think we make them up inside our head.)
of these ancient, iron cages
that separate
us. They separate
the artists from athletes
the scholars from blue-collars
the known from the unknowns;
the Romeos from Juliets.
They separate people from people.
I do not think
such persistent,
such acceptable ideas,
should remain unchallenged.
I cannot wait
for the day
they rust away.
(Sometimes, I think we make them up inside our head.)
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