March 8th, 2007
|08:54 pm - I took a sip, from my devil's cup.. with a taste of a poison paradise.|
"Rattlesnakes don't commit suicide" his tounge produced the words and I knew they were the answer to everything. My name no longer felt safe in his venomous mouth. I looked back at him, now fading in my past. But his hiss still stung my ears, and his words still pierced my heart.
|07:26 pm - She had eyes bright enough to burn me there, they reminded me of yours.|
Intimacy means knowing and being known, but your eyes have become impersonal. Your desire is absent. Your love is lacking. Your incapacity for intimacy is enthralling. Maybe I can make you love. Maybe I can fill those eyes with hope; that heart with warmth. Your distant stare and your wandering ways are consuming. Maybe I can be the one who makes you want to stay.
February 27th, 2007
|12:05 am - Those three words are said too much. They're not enough.|
There are only so many times you can say something before it loses its meaning and starts sounding like a rehearsed bunch of words. Lacking emotion and seemingly forced. Things like, "I love you", "I'm sorry", "thank you". Save them for when you mean it. When your heart can't bear to keep silent for another minute, you just need to confess how in love you are, need to cry how much you wish you had never done something that hurt someone, need to show how appreciative you are of someone. These three terms are thrown around far too much these days, and everyone has forgotten what they mean. We've all forgotten what it's like to feel.
February 25th, 2007
|01:16 pm - I walked a thousand miles while everyone was asleep.|
There was this book I read and loved,
The story of a ship
Who sailed around the world and found
That nothing else exists
Beyond his own two sails
And wooden shell
And what is held within.
For a long time now I have felt lost because I am no longer acting like the "happy" girl I used to be. I've been searching for her behind every blind spot, inside of each new person I meet... but she is no where to be found because she no longer exists. I felt down on myself for days ontop of months, thinking where have I gone, who has taken my place. My body is just a shell. An empty shell. What once filled it has been sucked out. Each thing that had pained me sucked the life right out of me, until I was left with a mere shell. What do you do when you have but a shell? I can sulk and feel down on myself. I can wish and hope and pray to get back to the girl I used to be, holding onto a mere memory that will truly never come back and be true once again. OR. I can embrace it. Look at my emptiness as a way to fill myself up again. To let the new people and new experiences of the present fill me up and let me grow into my shell, become me, the girl who I have always been looking for. I thought I found her, but she was never really there at all.
This is not a person lost.
This is a person growing up.
I always did love the ocean. I found comfort in it, I felt like we were kindred spirits. I would stand at the shores of the mini oceans before the real ocean started. Those 5 foot puddles that are filled with snails. Creatures who have been tricked into thinking that this shallow area is their actual home. I pick one of these snails up by it's shell. This is when I realize, sea creatures out grow their shells, and humans are left walking along the beach, scrolling the shores for these beautiful shells that were once literally a home to someone. My shell is my home too. But these creatures, they outgrow their shells and they go in search of a new home to call their own. My shell remains but I search for it's inhabitant. This is a journey worth taking, and I will be the person I want to be when I reach my destination.
Maybe this is growing up.
February 24th, 2007
|02:49 am - Oh, my love, so gently breathing, so my heart does softly swell|
My life is your palette. You say that most days I am red and so this what you paint me with. The paint brush slides over my skin and I feel it's bristles harsh against my pores, paint me anything you'd like. I am a mere shell, I am a fresh canvas. The red dye seeps into my skin and I am forever tainted with your touch. I am damaged goods, I think. You assure me that I am ravishing, more beautiful than ever, but I look in your eyes and I know. I know that you have painted me because you do not want any one else to. Does your mind believe that maybe if you paint me red, your harsh, grating bristles will forever mark me as yours? I gaze at my skin, once so beautiful and now the most hideous of colors. Even when I was young, I hated the color red. "Red looks like blood. Red tastes like blood" I would say when someone would say it was the color they fancied the most in the rainbow. I gaze, I wonder if I taste like blood now. I bring my finger to my lips and the harsh copper taste burns like acid against my taste buds. Never wear red nailpolish, it will turn your nails yellow if you leave it on for too long, my mother always said. That is exactly what I did. I left you on too long and I am damaged goods, like I believed all along, tainted beyond repair. My skin matches my heart, yellowed and bruised and left to rot.
An artist of sorts makes his way into my life. He paints my skin the most beautiful colors I have ever seen, pale sky blue and lilac and forest green and aquamarine. He doesn't let his medium flow from the container and straight onto my skin. He makes use of the palette that I have presented him with. He dabs the fine horsehair bristles of his paintbrush into the red paint and applies it onto the backside of my knees. I can't see what he is doing but I feel the red soak into my skin and I feel the same way I felt all that time ago. Damaged goods, my mind won't let me forget. But then I feel him apply more dabs to the same area, apply brush strokes generously to the back of my knees, as I feel the cool wet paint soak into my body. He kisses the back of my knees, and I see that his lips are stained with pink. He has painted me pink, and now his lips are stained of me forever. "I am your creation" I whisper and his pink lips say "You are my masterpiece" as he picks up his brush once more to paint the outline of a red heart upon my breast. "This is how your heart is, and I can see it." He purses his lips and blows his cool air upon the heart to quicken it's drying. The paint of my heart outline has cracked because it is dried out from his breath against my skin. He dabs the paintbrush into the red paint again and fills in the heart with the most beautiful shade of red I had ever laid eyes on. He says "This is what I will do to your heart. I will fill it. I will fill it with love. My love for you will flow like a river and your heart will never crack or be chipped away because I will never let it dry. I will freshen it every day, painting over the foundation I have laid so many times before." And I kiss his pink stained lips with my tearstained ones, and I hold his face into my chest.
I am not your damaged goods anymore. I am a work of art.
Current Music: In Repair by John Mayer
February 20th, 2007
|12:54 pm - This is what you get for loss of control.|
I always thought pictures of myself were more appealing when they only displayed half of my face. Half of my history, the rest a mystery. I let him see the whole picture. Every freckle, every laugh line, every memory behind both of my eyes. He thought it was beautiful. He called it a work of art. Next time I think I'll just keep it all a mystery. My whole face is vulnerable. My whole face is my whole heart, my whole life. The half of my face that I'm used to showing, it can handle the let down. My whole face... it can't.
Maybe I just don't want to be known. Maybe I just don't want to be figured out. I can handle being understood. I'm not sure I can handle being figured out. What's left of me when all the tricks up my sleeve are exposed?
Current Music: Okay, I Believe You but my Tommy Gun Don't by Brand New
February 16th, 2007
|05:53 pm - I'm looking at you through the glass, don't know how much time has passed, it feels like forever.|
He [Gatsby] wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: "I never loved you." After she had obliterated three years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house - just as if it were five years ago.
"And she doesn't understand," he said desparingly. "She used to be able to understand. We'd sit for hours ---"
He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rings and discarded favors and crushed flowers.
"I wouldn't ask too much of her," I ventured. "You can't repeat the past."
"Can't repeat the past?" he cried incredulously. "Why of course you can!"
He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.
"I'm going to fix everything just the way it was before," he said, nodding, determinedly. "She'll see."
- The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.
What happens when your life has already been written in a novel? Or maybe it's just that every one, even to this day, hangs on to the past for far too long. Well, it has since been a year, and I'm letting go of you. Please stop hanging on to what is not there. Goodbye.
Current Music: Through the Glass by Stone Sour
February 11th, 2007
|02:16 pm - Sleeping under bridges, and sleeping in alley ways.|
My bridge has not fallen,
It has been renovated.
We etched our names into its cement sides,
Our memories forever preserved in concrete.
We will never be erased,
Ourselves are forever contained within that spray painted heart on the chilled walls of our bridge.
The bridge, hidden to the human eye,
Haven to the lover's eye.
Downfall to lovers,
I'll be your downfall.
Current Music: If You Don't Wanna Love Me by Cowboy Troy
February 10th, 2007
|01:18 pm - But the struggles make us stronger, and the changes make us wise.|
He dreams on my clothes, in a mess of grays and blues, mingling with zippers and buttons. Burying his head in the hood of the sweatshirt that some boyfriend gave to me, whose name I cannot recall; our memories are all a blur. One who said, "Here, think of me." And now I don't try to take it away from him. Let it be your shelter now, for it never was mine.
His haven is the produce aisle of our refridgerator. His little hands box with my seemingly large ones as he grasps onto the edge of my shirt and dangles, desperately trying to hold on. Most days I push him away, throw him to the ground, and he lands on his feet. The other days I wish I were him. Oblivious to the world. Never a victim of drunken despair. Not prone to mindless banter. Comfortably clueless.
Current Music: Life Ain't Always Beautiful by Gary Allan
February 9th, 2007
|02:47 pm - You're so sure that I'll be leaving in the end, treating me like I'm already gone.|
I took a deep breath of cold, gray, air as she entered the room. Having a light and flowing air about her, she had the carefree and yet still not careless soul that every woman yearns to possess. The indifferent attitude and the orange personality with the lips that tasted of yellow. She danced over towards the boy in the corner, her feet moving quickly but her graceful body seeming to slow down her feet as though she wasn’t really dancing at all, but instead moving in slow motion. The other party guests gathered around the punch bowl that contained a liquid that tasted of adventure and new beginnings, and enough of it to quench the thirst of armies of travelers venturing through the dunes of the Sahara. She was focused on him. This boy of much intelligence, who attempted to pull what arm muscles that he had tight to show her his brawn, was gray in the eyes and became less and less of a man the closer she came to him. The music started to play and the notes hovered above their heads as if they were butterflies dancing through the aquamarine air. He took her hand in his and with her other end she delicately grasped the corner of her gown as they circled and circled and circled with poetic ease around the room. The ripples in her dress were those of a river, flowing and majestically enticing. “I feel as though I must interject here” a voice from the past strained to speak, letting out a mere whisper. She lightly fluttered her eyelashes and looking up at the glimmering stars strewn over a champagne nebula in the sky, she felt that although she was surrounded by company that yearned for her touch, she was alone once again. Her graceful body turned opaque with her lacy frailness and only the edges of her held memories of her now peach undertones. What is it that makes us succuumb to forged bliss? she wondered as the streelights seemed to dim more with each second that passed. Time is always there. We can never escape it. Now it's time for me to go, she says, when really she has nothing else planned at all.
She blinks away the soft, sweet, clouds and out of the corner of her eye she realizes, it's all a dream. All dressed up and not a place in the world to go, not a person in the world to run to, not anyone in the world to be but myself.
Dig your ditch deep enough to keep you clear of the sun. You've been burned more than once, you don't think much of trust. Man, it takes a silly girl to lie about the dreams she has, Lord, it takes a lonely one to wish that she had never dreamt at all. Oh look now, there you go with hope again, but I'll be sure your secret is safe with me. Oh, you're so sure I'll be leaving in the end, treating me like I'm already gone. But I'm not, I will stay where you are always. I will stay, I will stay, I will stay.
Current Mood: hurt
Current Music: Carve Your Heart Out Yourself by Dashboard Confessional