Lovely.

Worship this world of watercolor mood
in glass pagodas hung with veils of green
where diamonds jangle hymns within the blood
and sap ascends the steeple of the vein.

A saintly sparrow jargons madrigals
to waken dreamers in the milky dawn,
while tulips bow like a college of cardinals
before that papal paragon, the sun.

Christened in a spindrift of snowdrop stars,
where on pink-fluted feet the pigeons pass
and jonquils sprout like solomon’s metaphors,
my love and I go garlanded with grass.

Again we are deluded and infer
that somehow we are younger than we were.

- April Aubade by Sylvia Plath

I bought the moon from the sky last night
And asked to buy the sun too.
The sky said no, she would not sell,
she said it was owned by you.
The royals crowned me yesterday,
but said I couldn't be King.
Because you were already Queen
You'd taken everything.
A kitchen knife across my wrists,
but no blood did I spill.
For my heart was in your hands;
your fingers held it still.

Arterial Gushing.

I came back home today.
Well. No. Not entirely.
But I'm in the spot I've been all year.
The place I've raised my expertise into what I can only hope is enough to carry me through life.
My flight left YYC at 9:45pm and the airport was virtually barren.
There was a lovely boy at security who asked me where I was going.
I said "Vancouver... home." But it felt false and wrong coming out of my mouth.
"Well, not actually, I just go to school there. This is home. And I'll be back soon."
Truer than my former statement but still somehow awkward.
How do you define home?
Is it where you were born? Where you were raised? Or where you are happiest?
I've lived in Vancouver before. I've lived in two different cities on the island too.
My mother was raised in Africa. She's lived in England.
The family moved to Fort McMurray before settling in Calgary.
What kind of life is that? Would you feel privileged? Worldly? Or deprived and alien?
She had me and we floated between BC and Alberta until I was nine.
I thought it was beyond odd that none of my fifth grade friends had lived in eight houses or moved every year like I had.
Everyone was born here, raised here, under the same roof.
They all had a wall where their parents would measure their height on their birthdays.
Or marks on doors made by the slap shots of older brothers who had long forgotten their dreams of the NHL.
I was raised to crave change. To adapt. To be a nomad. To despise routine.
I feel imprisoned by schedules. Deadlines put me in a box.
I need to challenge everything to stay alive.
I need to move to feel human.
To be still is to die.

I've been back for about two hours.
I've already unpacked half my things and packed another bag because tomorrow, I'm going to the Island.
I'm leaving on a ferry from a terminal I've seen uncountable times in my life.
I'l sail on that same ship to visit my father. In a town called Qualicum. He didn't like Parksville anymore. He stopped liking Nanaimo, Victoria, Youbou,, Richmond, Calgary and Melville long ago.
I'm sure my dad will stay there until his last days.
I'm starting to believe it's not where you were born or where you were raised that you can call home,
it's where you choose to die that defines it.
It's where you, from the deepest trenches of your mind, want to finish your human existence.
I'm nomadic by nature. I'm quite possibly not even born of this planet.
Now I know it's okay that I don't have an answer for "Where's home?"
I just don't know yet.

We make coffins from iron ores
that we dig up from the planet's core
Then we fill them with all our dead friends
And bury them back in the earth again.

Is this heaven?
Is it hell?
Did I do this to myself?

I just want to make the bad dreams stop.

I hate your voice.

Skincells.
What I am made of and barred by.
Me. A prisoner of my flesh.
My mind.
Solitarily confined
for an indefinite term.
An inmate 'til I die,
what world can exist in me?
Which reality can I perceive
beyond these
gruesome walls?
A sentence undeserved
since the moment of my birth.
I feel too big to exist,
and because of this,
I cannot fit on this earth.
Too wide for this space,
I came down from the stars
Across blacks holes and dust.
I touched comet tails and Saturn's rings.
I dug my heels into Mars.
My whetted appetite for perfection.
My insatiable lust to be home.

Christmas Wish List!

• Another Tiffany's charm.
• A weighted hula hoop.
• Double nose piercings.
• Wooden easel.
• Dynaudio near-field BM studio monitors.
• Native headdress.
• DVDs: Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Some Like It Hot.
• Rings.
• An Asian teapot.
• Mechanical singing bird in cage.
• Harry Potter Lego.

“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I’ve been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.”

I don't really have anything interesting to say tonight, but this photo made my heart beat really fast when I saw it.

Some people have real problems.
Deny your basic human instincts.
Accept your fate and exist.
Work for something instead of waiting for it.
There is no time in the world for wishing.
Purge your poisons.
Disarm the enemies inside you.
Nothing is real.
You're only alive.
You perceive whatever reality surrounds you and everything in it.
Alter your perceptions.
Stop feeling and create.
Play the game.
Play to win.
Destroy the other team.
Throw stones to the walls that build themselves against you.
Leaning leads to only the achievement of failure.
Skin your terrors to the bone.
Make no excuses.
Carpal tunnel, loneliness, hangovers, sore knees. They're all in your head.
Fight to the death.
Yours and theirs.

A list of the things I love from the deepest depths of my soul


Compasses, clocks, diamonds, pearls, haute couture, rings, libraries, reading nooks, white christmas lights, Seattle, beaches, bridges, sonnets, Shakespeare, musicals, Greek myth, the Eiffel Tower, sailboats, waves, French films, lyrics, surreal art, hardcover notebooks, jazz, country, punk, grunge, lace, painting, aquatic life, old movies with Audrey Hepburn & Marilyn Monroe, sunlight through clouds, forests, snow capped mountains, looking out the window when you're riding in the car outside the city late at night, stars, pictures of pretty bedrooms, reading intelligent quotes that parallel my life, complete understanding, quiet, science, theatre, islands, Disneyland, and aquamarine ocean water.

Life isn't so hard on me when I think of all the things that make it softer.

Why does everyone think I'm so weak?
Yes, I'm a moody girl.
But being outwardly expressive of my emotions to people just does not happen.
I feel a lot.
But I deal with that by inwardly suffering, and purging in words when it becomes too much.
But when it becomes too much,
I don't need to be asked if I'm okay.
I don't need to be complimented.
I don't need to be patronized.
I don't need people and I am not your experiment.
I am not an animal in a cage to be prodded into action.
They say no man is an island.
But I am not a man.
Sometimes I just want to stay inside.
And taking a walk in the sun is all I need to feel alright.

There's a lot more to me than my skin.
And nobody fucking knows me at all.

FUCK, Kaylee!
You're so stupid, stop being stupid!
FUCK FUCK FUCK
You're too old for this shit.
You know better.
STOP IT.

I need to move away.
I need to move my brain; my body; my heart;
far far away.

My emotions are terrorists.
Feeling is like living in a horror film.
I'm running from these ax murderers while screaming
LEAVE ME ALONE.

Why do I even bother existing.

Just lie down.

Go to sleep.

Dream and wander through your mind and gaze at the pictures of passions you keep there.

You. Will. Be. Fine.

It'll be better tomorrow.

And even more the day after.

So calm down.

It will be better in the morning.  

She has sex with strangers
And only in the summer
She gives each one one chance
And only that,
they get no other.

In the autumn boys go soft
and in winter they grow cold.
She says she don't need a boy,
she's got footsteps in the snow.
She's got pretty painted pictures
and a rain drop stained window.

There's no sun this season,
there's no flowers and no bees.
All the leaves fell to her feet.
There's no birds left in the trees.

But she don't mind,
'cause there's no shadows,
She don't burn,
and she likes the colours.

She says she'd love his Chucks,
maybe Prada, if he's lucky.
But white sneakers, she'll say no.
She'll say white sneakers are yucky.

She says she likes the princess cut,
the heart shape won't suffice.
To boys who can't buy this girl gems,
beware; she's cold like ice.

She says she'll go the year without him,
She'll say she won't love you.
He would think 'She lies, she loves!'
But what she says is true.

More worthwhile realizations, hurray!
So I'm always contemplating happiness and sadness 
and how to lead a life with more of the former than the latter.


Well, there's all these pieces of me that I am naturally inclined to satisfy.
But they all react differently to my decisions.
Things that find me joy right now, could depress me later.
Immediate pleasures are poison.
Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.
I must look at the ways my choices affect not only my present state, but how they affect my confidence.


It's why there's heroin addicts.
It's why people would rather party than work on the weekends.
It's why people get drunk and couples break up and get back together.
It's easier to be weak when strength is always possible.
Though the thing about moments of weakness is they only offer moments of happiness.
Slivers of light in a dark cave.
But when the light goes out, the cave ends up darker than before.
So light your own candle and fuel your own fire.
What feels good on the outside could be slaying your spirit.

So, I haven't written in a while.
If there's no recent posts here, it's usually because life is not terrible at the time.
But this post isn't going to be sad, I promise.
It's about a self-realization that I think will aid in my pursuit of happiness.


For some reason, the Universe just works weird for me pretty often.
My life often feels like floating existence before a plethora of strange events happen all at once.
Like the exact day I decide I have an interest in someone new, 
someone old from months past thinks they can walk into my life again. 
This has happened twice.
I've had to get over guys who don't want me, only for them to decide I'm worth their time months too late.
This happens too often.


I don't know why things like this affect my emotions so much.
I let feeling wanted make me happier than most things.
And feeling unwanted always feels the worst.


But suddenly, I feel changed. 
I thought I was weird before. 
I've never actively tried to have a boyfriend.
I was always after one thing.
And sex has never been something I've done out of love.
It's never been a sober action.
It's never happened with the same person more than once.
And it's always left me more depressed than fulfilled.


I've been working with this boy.
We flirt when we're on breaks.
I don't know if he thought I was cute.
After all, I was always in zombie makeup.
But he made me happy at work.
And yesterday, he got real close,
and we hugged.
And it was so satisfying.
I went home delighted.
It made me wonder how I got all this fulfilment,
without more than simply hugging him. 
No regretful follow-up. No deep-seeded longing.
And it's okay that I might never see or talk to him again.


Sex is so confusing to me.  I think to me more than most people.
It should be instinctual but it leaves me lost and empty.
I try to hinder and hide all my animal instincts.
It makes me feel smart.
Maybe I'm just not meant to have sex.
Before, that thought would have scared me.
But now, it feels right. 
I think I'm meant to be an artist.
I want to direct all my energy and thoughts and power
into creating.
Inject it into poems, paintings, music, everything.
I don't have a lot of time left in this life.
I can't waste it trying to satisfy someone else.
Trying to link my life with another.
Waiting and chasing and making goals of people.


I really am okay with the thought of being alone forever.
Because to most people, being alone means to have  nobody.
But to have nobody is not terrible.
To have nothing would be worse.
I have art.
So in the end, I'm never really alone.
I have me. I have the part of me that creates.
I have the part that has friends and socializes.
The part of me that stays inside when I'm scared.
I am too many people to think I need someone else to be happy.

The monsters that used to sleep under my bed,
are now the terrors that live in my head.
The claws were so sharp, I thought I had bled.
But they left no scars. This blood isn't red.

As a child they kept me awake.
And I never learned how to sleep.
I rot behind bars I put up
by secrets that I've learned to keep.

I wish the sirens would stop going by my house. 
I wish the rain would turn to snow instead.
It's so loud where I live.
It's so loud in my head.


I am so fucking unhappy. 
And it's getting worse before better.
So today I've decided to change.
To be proactive.
Because my options are limited.


I could end it all. Oh, I could have fun with it.
I can affect as many people as I like. 
I could buy a bike and ride it into the ocean and not be found for days.
I could jump down onto the tracks and ruin the whole city's day.
I could lean against my bedroom door and open my veins and let blood pool for my roommate to find.
I could die a lot of ways. But I can't really die. I want to feel everything. I want to be found.
I want to hear the tears and screams and terror. 
The consequences of dying are more than death itself.


I won't get my fortune. My physique.
I won't get my ten bedroom house. My seashell pool. 
My nursery, my Disney paintings, my tattoos, my perfect child.
I know what it takes for me to be happy.
But it's all so far away.
Euphoria is a distant planet in a solar system beyond this galaxy.
And I'm stuck in a fucking black hole.


There has to be something better than staying in my bedroom.
My eight by ten foot cage for my cerebellum prison.
I am infinitely barred from relating to the world surrounding.
Crying destroys me. Crying creates.
Tears feel at home with the raindrops on the window.


These things to make me happy, I can see them in my future. 
Maybe when I'm 21. Twenty-four. Thirty-two.
So what can I do now?
I'm not immortal and no year, no day is promised.
I could die any time I leave the house.
I could be hit any time I cross the road.
I could die at any step, stand or inhale.
How can I be happy if there's nothing for me now?


So now I'm trying to change.
All that satisfies me now is art.
I just need more art in my life.
Music, books, paintings, all this.
I have nothing else.

I live each day like it's my last.

And every day that isn't

feels like

failure.

I'm becoming agoraphobic. And it's terrifying.

Strange things are happening in my head.

On the bus yesterday, everything just stopped.

Usually on bus rides longer than 30 minutes, I get nauseated.

So I shut my eyes and listened to my breath. 

And I realized that yet again, I'm clenching my jaw.

I do this almost constantly in public.

I don't know entirely why.

Possibly because I like the way my cheekbones look when I do it.

And the way my neck looks longer. 

But I mostly do it because I hate the way people look with their mouths open,

 for everyone to gawk at their teeth. So I clench my jaw tight. 

And on the bus, I opened my eyes, and I looked at everyone around me.

Everyone with their drooping lips and exposed enamel.

And breathing. 

And I thought in this little tin can of maybe 50 travelling and solemn sardines, 

we are all breathing the same air.

In and out of pairs of lungs, one by one.

Over teeth and tongues and out.

Then again into more open lips.

And contemplating this, I realized I was holding my breath.

Because I was disgusted. I praised the open window and wished the outside

air was making its way to my chest.

But then again, over the plethora of years that have passed on this planet,

I can't imagine how there could be any virgin oxygen in our little bubble.

All the animals and dead, dying and living creatures that breathe

have certainly sullied every molecule of such a finite atmosphere. 

And now I want to stay inside for good.

“Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Louis Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, and Albert Einstein.”

Lulled and sunken.
The whites of my eyes have grown grey.
Lifeless; sullen.
The pinks of my cheeks fade away.


Razor blade carved.
My jawline has edges hewn sharp.
Skin; stretched and scarred.
My stone face; clenched, frozen and hard.


I forgot how to feel alive.
I haven't felt in a long time.
And I've been dead long before I died.


I don't see what you see.
So please stop looking at me.
I can't see the forest for all these trees.

My thoughts are really out of order so I can't really write properly. So this is just a complete regurgitation of things I've been digesting lately.

• “If you love two people at the same time, choose the second one. Because if you truly loved the first one, you wouldn’t love another one.”
• People are annoying. Everyone thinks they have the best blog, or theirs matters more because they were the first ever to have one or they have perfect grammar or four of their best friends told them they're good at writing. No. No one cares about your fucking blog, or how happy you are, or that you have a perfect boyfriend or that you go to college and party every night. I don't care what you did today. I don't care when you moved out. Guess what. Everyone does it. You're not unique. If you want people to read and follow and reblog and whatever else you so desire, be fucking interesting at least. No one cares about your morning coffee. We care how many times you cut yourself. We want to know the story behind the time the guy you loved hit you. I want to know who starves themselves only to have a gap between their thighs. I hate blogs. I don't give a fuck how many people ever read this. This is for me. That's what a fucking blog is for. It's just a diary. It's not supposed to replace crying on the phone to your best friend or expressing your love to someone. 
• I resent my mother for the things she said to me growing up. I resent my father for the things he says to me now. But a lot of the time, I miss them both more than anyone. I miss the people who destroy me.
• Sometimes I wish someone loved me. But almost always, I'm just glad I don't have my heart in anyone else's hands. I don't owe anyone any part of me. No one expects this many texts in a day from me, or for me to say "I love you" at the perfect moment when all the planets align. I don't have to ask anyone when I want to leave the country. 
• No one knows everything about me. I've given all these pieces to different people, but no one has the whole puzzle. And knowing that, it feels like no one really knows me at all.
• All the things I'm excited for seem so far away. I'm terrified of what might get in the way. My path to true happiness is a clear one, but it's so long that it leaves room for obstacles.

You say you didn't mean the things you screamed.
And you don't mean a single thing to me.

You think I'm only joking
When I talk so mean.
Joke's on you, my dear.
I say the things I mean.

If you hear what you want
who's the one to blame?
My tricky turns of phrase?
Your hopeful, foolish brain?

My ears listen strangely,
Yours hear all the same.

We're lying to each other.

Life Despite God.

"God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with

 no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to 

whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so 

rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you

 so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its 

appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering." 

Hard and Heavy.

This is my cup of spirit, 

drop by drop by venom drop

you poured it on the ground.

They were only words,

but tears and tears and tears I cry,

you've never heard the sounds.

Father, can't you see that I

am crippled now? I'm terrified.

The mirror's not so nice anymore.

The scale's higher than before.

The yellow tape goes much too far.

I wish you could see my scars.

I wish you could hear my thoughts.

I bet it would be too much.

Maybe for five minutes today,

You'd never speak those words you say.

"Just 'cause I'm useless doesn't mean I'm nothing."

Life. Sucks.
So learn music theory.
Write love poems to people you've never met.
Cry over dumb things. Who gets to decide what is worth crying over?
Is there a points system to evaluate what is and what is not worth tears?
Fuck no.
Talk to someone you used to love late at night.
Let the love rush back.
Then let it float away, like tidal wave.
Stop doing things that slow down your brain.
If music will make you happy, listen to music.
Listen to it always.
If being heavy makes you sad, fucking starve until you're not.
What life is worth living?
When should I decide to die?
Does acting completely without reason free me from the chains of pursuing happiness?
Or am I bound to the walls built by a fruitless and destitute life?
This life is like vertigo.
Always spinning, I can't gain my ground.
I do for the sole purpose of doing.
Do not ask me why I did that.
There is no reasoning. There are no expectations.
And I feel nothing.
I test and experiment with the limits of the people around me.
No considerations. No consequences. No pain. And no gain.

I'll never lose this game again.

I know exactly how to play.

This is me. It's always been, I just never put it into words.
I'm so tired right now but I've only been up for twelve hours. There's pains in my head that haven't stopped since I got out of bed. I don't even know what's happening right now.

I'm going back to the way I was before. I'm going to stop looking for bad boys. And I'm going to stop looking for the perfect one. I'm looking for no one now. No one and nothing can make or will make me happy. Because whatever makes me happy will eventually become absent and with absence comes misery.

I want to feel nothing. You can't lose what you don't have. I'm glad I feel this way. This could be a terrible way to live, but I could be doing it just right.

My lovely lover Lynsey asked her friends on facebook to send her sad songs.
I was going to but then I realized the majority of my iTunes is sad songs and I can't decide what to send her.
So here I've made a sad song playlist of the songs that make me cry, make me think of crying or make me want to crawl in a hole and die. Yaaaaay.

Under My Skin - Alexz Johnson
The Only Exception, My Heart, When It Rains - Paramore
Uprising Down Under - Sam Roberts
While My Guitar Gently Weeps - The Beatles
Superstar - Sonic Youth
So Gone - Best Coast
Francis - Coeur de Pirate
The Blackest Years - The Distillers
Last Mistake - Hey Ocean!
Doll Parts, Malibu - Hole
I Miss You, Echo - Incubus
Love Will Tear Us Apart - Joy Division
Into The Ocean - Blue October
Fuck and Run - Liz Phair
Hawaii, The Saddest Song In The World(duh) - Meiko
Hurt - Nine Inch Nails
Apology - Our Lady Peace
Wish You Were Here - Pink Floyd
Curse Of The Currents - Said The Whale
I Thought I Saw Your Face Today - She & Him
My Favorite Thing, anything from 'Neon Ballroom' - Silverchair
One More Night - Stars
Most things by Taylor Swift.
Anything by White Lies.
Soft Shock - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Palpit.

I don't do anything to be happy.
I do things that will make my heart beat.
I want panic and anxiety to rush my body.
I'll do anything to feel alive.
Evil things. Self destructive things.
I don't mind if I don't smile.
I just want to feel.
I don't feel like myself.
So whatever I may do is without regard to who I am.
My actions are separate from my self.
They are different people.
I am a nation of lust, violence and cruelty.
Parts of me will tease and taunt you. Like a glittery fishing lure on the lush lake surface.
I hide my hooks and snare them like guppies then leave them to choke on the sandy shores.
I'll take them from their homes. I won't think twice.
And I'll feed on the prey that's already been slain.
It's not delightful. It's never pleasant.
But it makes my heart beat fast. It turns my blood black.
I don't really want you. I just want your bones.
I want electric pulses in my heart.
I act to put action through my ventricles.

I used to only behave in ways that would guarantee my happiness.
Will this make me happy? Could this result in sadness?
If it won't make me happy, what's the point?
I don't ask these questions anymore.
Because there is no point.
Happiness doesn't last and it never stays.
Let it go.
Will this scare me? Could this be a completely devilish thing to do?
I ask this. And I act on these answers.
Because right now I see, I feel happy when I feel a heart attack.
Cardiac arrhythmia. My life revolves around rhythm.
Rhythm and control.
An equation for harmony.
I don't want to be happy.
I want to be harmonious.
I don't want to exist.
I want to be.

Too Much To Feel.

Why does the world turn this way?
Why is there nothing good to watch?
Why do I cry for no reason?
Why does no one call when they say they will?

I decided today I have too many emotions. I realized I don't show them well.
No one knows who I am.
I don't know if I like people.
I've been so alone that I'm not even lonely.
This is home.

I could be psychotic.
I could be unreal.
I could just be a product of
not knowing what I feel.

I don't mind the crying.
It's fine since I'm alone.
I need to move away because
these tears feel just like home.

How nice -- To feel nothing but get full credit for being alive.

Here I am again.
Physically and emotionally, I'm in the same exact spot at the same time.
What I feel and where I am are places.
And right now, I see how they coincide.
Where do I live?
Somewhere in between consistently morose and random peaks of mania.
My hometown looks a lot like a never ending valley, with hills sprouted all over.
I move around a lot. But I've never left the valley.
And I can't see where it ends.
I've found these spots where it dips into darkness. Into nothing.
I cannot keep track of the holes and I still fall.
Cartography is harder than I thought.
A lost study; seemingly unnecessary at first, but at second glance I find I'm forever lost without it.
I will always trip and draw myself towards these pits unless I trace them.
I'll carve them into the back of my hand.

The only constant in my life is that everything constantly changes.
I need to stop existing. I need to live.
I will not chase my dreams, I will not follow them.
I will hunt and snare them and own them completely.
I see them there.
This path I'm on; I see every little ending and the steps I need to take.
But I'm standing on this path; static and frozen.

I had a bad moment today.
I really had a lot. But they aren't worth describing. Not like this.
I'm sitting in my bed. I'm watching the tv.
And then I lose my focus. And I realize I am nothing but cells.
My brain is simply nerves and endings and stuff in a solid case.
On a spine, among shoulders and sockets.
I can feel anything I want to, as I imagine it.
My fingertips; they're at my sides. My feet; the right at the edge, the left by my knee.
But this only works on my physical side.
Oh how I wish to feel my emotions just the same.
"This is sadness. Is it real? Is it justified? Is it temporary or everlasting?"
"Could I be happy? Is it a result of truly enlightening events?"
Funny how I see myself as full, with eyes and veins and firing synapses.
Blood, a heart, water and salts.
But when I stop looking, when I simply feel...
Somehow, I feel empty.

Don't be foolish! We started dying the moment we were born.

“Being in love was like China: you knew it was there, and no doubt it was very interesting, and some people went there, but I never would. I’d spend all my life without ever going to China, but it wouldn’t matter, because there was all the rest of the world to visit.”

—	Philip Pulman

Don't Chase The Wolves Who Hunt Like Dogs.

Dear girl; he's young
But so are you!
You swore off love?
Bet he did too.

In love and war,
is it all fair?
Or only if
the love's not there?

It's fine to cry, doll.
Shed your tears.
But only if,
there's no boys near.

Beat him with your beauty and
Make him wish he had your hand.
Pout your lips and make him miss
your mouth on his; that striking kiss.

You only lose
when you refuse to
truly be adored.
Stop going for
a boy who likes you
only to ignore.

Miles and miles and miles.

You should learn to love me
You know I'd teach you well
Come closer boy; sit next to me
I've many secrets to tell

I think you'd like to hear this,
Well, I've scoped you from afar.
You caught my eye and now you've got
 a hook deep in my heart.

And when I listen to you talk;
Dear, that's when I want you to stop.
I'm hard pressed to press my lips to yours

And when you sit across from me,
it's way too far for you to be.
I'm always wanting; wanting so much more.

I'm filled with things to say and
when you aim your ears to me,
my mouth is stuffed and
I'm too full to speak.

I react to you like alkaline.
My eyes grow tired, they're open wide.
I swear one day I'll make you mine.

My Apollo, my Adonis.
You're my mission, let's be honest.
I'll let you play god,
if you take me for your goddess.

We gonna make it 

Ooh we gonna take it easy;

once we feel the sea breeze.

Once we leave the city.

lifelines.

It's just the way I am.
It's only my nature.

It's why going to bed can be the hardest thing to do.
And why I'd rather wait for the pulses of my heart to slow to stillness and
the flow of blood from my brain to spill down to my feet.
It's why I drink too much on weeknights.
And why I don't talk to my friends.
It's why I'd rather nothing more than to throw my heart away
and take pills and go to shows and dance alone.
It's why no one writes me loves notes.
It's why hitting and throwing things at walls
is the best way to remember I'm alive.
It's why I chase the hand of the boy with a girl on his arm.
It's why I'm suddenly lonely again.
I don't know why I do this every time.
I don't know why I've done this again.
I don't know why I do this to myself.

Except to know I'll never settle.
It's better to be alone than to be a crisis.
So to you, I'm throwing you away. I recall control.
And to you, you're still my Apollo.

it could be true.

"I hope things work out for you and somewhere inside you find the courage to act rather than think."

Can't I just die and come back as one of these?

I Want To, Go Back To, The First Time, The First Place.

Sometimes I don't know where I am.
Sometimes when I look in the mirror, I think I'm a ghost.
I can see right through my eyes to the wall standing behind me.
Sometimes I can't tell if I'm standing or sitting. Awake or sleeping.
Is this what life is like?
Sometimes I can't tell if I'm dead or alive.
What is it to live but to die extremely slow?
I can feel electricity in my fingertips.
Is this human or am I robotic?
Sometimes I move like water, like waves.
Up the stairs and down the stairs like rivers.
Sometimes I go sideways, like my brain is off balance.
Like my feet are telling lies.
Sometimes I think I'm made of bricks.
And then I think I'm soft. And I'm made of dust or feathers or mud.
Sometimes I think the only way to be okay is to cry until you're empty.
Void and black and infinite.
I think if I run across that bridge today I'll pass out.
Maybe I could jump off.
The water looks inviting and nourishing.
But I know better.
It lies.
It's cold like knives and if I died there today,
it means I died alone.
I want to throw my phone through glass.
And listen to the tinkling shards fall like ivory keys.
Hammers on heart strings.
Sometimes I want to bang my head on hard places.
Like I can shake the synapses in my brain to function.
I want happiness.
Come back to me, seratonin.

Walking away,
talking all day.
(I can't stand this.)

Ooh I want you.

But there's something
about the summer

that makes me moody.

What The Fuck Do You Want?

I want.
I need.
I feel.

I feel too much.
I want things to stop.
I need the sun to set and not come up.
I want pills for infinity.
I want life sealed in a glass jar.
I want it shelved and dusty and gone.
Go away.
Though don't go too far.
Come back so I can make you leave again.

You say that you never want it to end

so I stick around.

But now you're gone, so gone.

I Didn't Buy The House. I Couldn't Put A Hammock In The Ceiling.

I want to dye my hair ten shades of blue.
Why does he kiss my cheek and tell me that he'll call?
They never ever do.

I don't want curves. They turn your eyes away.
You're looking at another girl. You must be.
You're looking somewhere else.

I crossed the bridge today, I cried and I can't sleep.
You're ruining my heart. A little at a time but everyday consistent.
Like erosion. Water on stone. Salt in soil. Wind at the face of a cliff.

Every grain of sand is a fiber that stops beating.
A walking hourglass, a waiting landslide, a standing flood.

I want your heart.
I want it to be mine.
I want it on a plate with a side of desperation.

I've lived to learn that love is only love when your lover loves you back.

Things No One Cares About

• I hate how Starbucks treats my taste buds so well at the cost of making my hair smell like espresso until I shower again.
• I hid my scale away. No more weight goals. Just pure, clean eating until I'm happy with my size.
• I'm making a list of everything I want in someone who I might give a chance at having a relationship with. I'm going to show it to not one single person.
• I'll never love anyone until they take me to Paris. 

Basically.

Terrible it is to be alone with the judge and avenger of one’s own law. Thus is a star thrown out into the void and into the icy breath of solitude. Today you are still suffering from the many, being one: today your courage and your hopes are still whole. But the time will come when solitude will make you weary, when your pride will double up, and your courage gnash its teeth. And you will cry, I am alone! The time will come when that which seems high to you will no longer be in sight, and that which seems low will be all-too-near; even what seems sublime to you will frighten you like a ghost. And you will cry, All is false!
There are feelings which want to kill the lonely; and if they do not succeed, well, then they themselves must die. But are you capable of this—to be a murderer?
— Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra

The Dog Days Are Over.

Fuck these plain girls and their fat nerdy boyfriends.
You don't need to listen to that band for him to love you.
Fuck calling and calling and calling again and again.
We rack up our minutes into dusty pyramids; lined up in rows, year after year.
We look at our call logs and are devastated by our desperation.
Fuck drinking shitty trench water beers because he does.
Don't fuck the boys who pour Palm Bays down your throat
and take you out into the forest at night to look at the stars.
The sweater wasn't to keep warm, it was to take off you later.
This isn't romantic.
This is chasing one thing. This is hunting and making goals out of people.
The charm in their arrows is nothing less than venomous.
So I die every time and my grave is his bed.
Bury me bury me bury me.

A love life.
Love and life.
My love life is lifeless and without love.
It is a specter of lust, fear and solitude.
The history is nothing short of a tome of ghost stories.
My heart is a haunted mansion.
Lured in alone, one at a time.
We draw them in; trace chills up their spines. We rattle their bones.
The goosebumps get to be too much and they run. Though that rusty, rattling gate.
I've scared them all away.
And now I'm locking the door. Chaining the gate. Barring the windows.

We need no one here.
Maybe some girls do go through stages. This isn't a stage.
This is my life.

Try And Keep Your Trousers On.

This is an open letter to myself.

Stop doing that. It's not fun anymore. In fact, it's fucking heart breaking.
You have no one to blame but yourself.
You are probably over thinking as usual.
You've slept on the forest floor for a week straight.
You're going to be okay.
Sleep in your bed. Shower in the morning.
Get pretty and go to school and enjoy your current relationships.
This isn't the worst thing that could happen. 
You're pretty bad at predicting how things usually go so ignore your foresight for now.
Rebuild your spirit. Your life is changed, whether you feel it for certain or not.
Things are different now. Change for the better. Always improve. Grow, grow, and grow.
Expect the worst and hope for nothing because hope itself is vapid and empty.
No matter what happens, the situation is perfect, even though you don't realize it now.
Whatever the outcome, you will be happy. In every event.
You're going to be fine. 
Yes, you should analyze. But do not over think. Do not drive yourself insane. 
If this is over already, be aware of the karmic functions in the 
Universe and appreciate their place.
Learn from it and improve.
If it goes as perfect as you wanted, continue to behave like 
the person you think the world put you here to be. 
Make your best performance. It's your only shot on this stage.
Finish the show to the end. 
I'm telling you now that you will stumble on the script, 
you'll probably even trip a few times.
Just swear to yourself that you'll stand.
Let them laugh at you. 
But play your part.
It'll be over before you know it.


Someone loves you. Someone will one day. You're not alone.
It will be okay in the morning.