*and a single shaft of moonlight illuminates the dusty old pages, bringing tangled words into sharp relief* to be added to when i feel like :) comments (even *gasp* constructive criticism) welcome! ~ there was a girl who came in many layers like an onion. if you peeled one back there would be a fresh shiny skin that brought tears to your eyes but there was always more under the surface. more tears that she wouldn’t let you shed for she was afraid that if you knew every bit of her that there would be no mysterious core of happiness and love, just more and more tears and eventually you would peel off a waxy bit of skin and find nothing but air. ~ this girl is a rose petal this girl is a rose petal shining in the dead of night telling lies to herself even though she doesn't believe in anything this girl is a stained glass candle this girl is begging, whispering prayers waiting for god to open the door hissing prayers through a frown she has no patience for god anymore this girl is a black licorice mouth she'll suck on anything to make it go out no she doesn't believe in anything no she doesn't wear a promise ring it slips off cuz her hand was never there she never loved anything or anyone and no one cares this girl is melting ice cream this girl is an evaporating memory i watch scars lift off my body like fingerprints no she never knew how to resist but i do now i've learned how to exist ~ she’s dancing. the moon dips low; she can’t see it, she’s on her knees, swaying. her mouth is dry. her skin is pink and shiny like candy. she leaps neatly, gracefully, like a bug. falls to earth without making a sound. her heart’s beating so fast, the drums are beating so fast, and she feels expansive. like a sponge absorbing cobwebbed, empty space. absorbing everything surrounding her, the night, the sleeping people, the music, her clothes, the air, the dust floating in the air, the fine mist of used-up breath. ~ (to steal yet another piece of my almost-finished-i-swear zine ;)...i'm having illustration issues hehe, but it is almost done regardless) “apocalypse’s portrait” blank face under murky skies swirling godfires green and orange oil clouds blank eyes looking across the dust looking away from the bodies lying like abandoned toys all around us blank lips shaping bland, comforting words even though i’ve forgotten how to listen blank hands the merest outline of capability the faint suggestion of holding or lifting and when i close my eyes i only see white cold snowy prickly white and when i think of the future it also is white like a blank canvas vaguely sketched in with hopes & fears your face scarred by slick poison rain & by every grimace of fear & by every frost of numbness your eyes swirling shapes frozen & opaque filmy with a dirty soul your lips vaguely fumbling for words chapped and closed for all water freezes when it touches them your hands twitching in the warmth of the fire shuddering across broken strings still reach ~ "tattoes" so i had a vision a condensation on the mirror drops of mist making something clear navy teardrops small as freckles falling from one eye spiky red-orange flames creeping towards the other on the corner of one wrist i have a bruise that never faded a tiny scar on one thumb a single shockingly dark freckle spotting the webbing beside it my mother says there's a scar somewhere on my belly where my brother bit me when he woke up evil one morning i can't find it trailing my searching aze higher to the birthmark dancing between my breasts a questionmark hovering meaningfully i look for any other tattoes that i've been given at this young age along my legs (would it mean submission to shave them i wonder) are a few ugly bruise that are fading are some ugly scars that are fading maybe i only see them in my memory now as i explore my body as a lover would (should? will? does?) i wonder if i'm seeing more than they do the tattoes of intentions of experiences and i ponder a small subtle idea located on the softest smoothest place i can find thinking it would make a beautiful surprise thinking maybe it's already there and maybe i should cover it up with art stepping from the shower naked and flushed a blank body with only a smile to define her it's like that first moment meeting someone new before what i say what i do and what i've done is explained (or who or when or the all important why) before they notice the depths to me the wobbly tracks tears have left on my cheeks the faint ghosts of old expressions in my eyes all my little stories that on the balance bring me down when all i want you to do is hold me when all i want is to lift you up to tattoo new smile creases and a new name on that heart all i want is to decorate my world yet i still carry deaths heads yet i still wear black all i need is that fleeting perfection that simple unapproachable sanity that sparkle in my eyes when i'm done crying ~ so once upon a time there was this lie. it was a very small lie. it looked sort of like a noodle, curled up, limp, innocently off-white. but it was wrapped around a heart. hearts don’t look as pretty as the ones you make out of red construction paper and glitter. hearts are...a cliche...yet always unexpected. like a first kiss, so much like yet unlike all the cheesy hype...hearts are not fragile. unless something is very wrong with them. so let’s give our heart in question a name. steve? ursula? well, to be brutally honest, let’s just call it me. and our lie? does it have a name, a gender, a personality, a reason i hate it so much, a reason why it is strangling my heart? no, not really. for it is mine. as surely as the blood that i pump through my unnatural blue veins, it is mine. i created it, i feed it, i nourish it. and if it is wrapped around me, then it is wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. stay in bed a little longer, what’s the point of getting up anyway? it’s so safe and comfortable and predictable and gentle and nothing is going to hurt me as long as i have my lie. my small, delicate, innocent white lie. shall i describe this lie? describe, as in lay it out in clinical detail, sprawled ungainly across the paper, an impartial scribe recording the harsh but true fact? true. lie. it’s all bullshit, isn’t it? sort of like right and wrong. all that matters is it works. maybe it is slowly suffocating me, sucking a little of that vital oxygen, those vital little shards of glitter, vital laughter, from my heart every time it beats. but what’s the alternative? for my heart is bleeding and surely would fail if i didn’t tell this lie. my heart is so damaged it can not be repaired, only protected, conserved, used for what it can do, not what it should have been able to do, what it was meant to do. my heart is fucked. and the lie is that i don’t care. ~ "succubus" my true love is burning hot if we spooned her nipples would sizzle along my back like a whip and she'd wrap her pointed tail around my waist as her hooves clunked against my ankles and she'd whisper naughtily in a smokers rasp and oh lord i'd be so tempted and oh lord i think i'd give in my true love would walk in smelling like sky with an angel feather plastered to an almost-dry thigh and oh i would rage and she would rage brighter our voices would entwine like gutter around rooftop if i cried she'd laugh at my naivete and say i was a fool to care i would lick brimstone tears until i was quenched and she would pull me to a body incapable of regret yet oh thank god incapable of satiation and i would finally be content burning forever ~ i feel kinda sad today i kinda want to fade away to fall from the sky like rain from a cloud i need a revolution like the world needs to go round ~ i watched a tv show about anorexia the other day. what scared me was that i looked more like one of the plus size models with their obligatory curves & self esteem message, than the angry bony closed-in anorexic girls. & i really don’t want to be plus size, at all. i want to be healthy, that vague idea of muscles but not bulgy, curves but not flabby, slim but not skinny, that is so hypocritically idolized by today’s media. i’ve gained 40 pounds since i was 14 and i feel fat. it’s funny, since i’d find my body perfectly attractive on someone else. it’s not really that i’m fat compared to other people, but fat compared to my silly mental image. my ideal of being small and fragile and fitting into all those old clothes filled with my old slim memories. i have a question. everyone talks about eating disorders, but who has defined healthy eating? i think there has to be order for a disorder. do you know anyone who doesn’t diet, doesn’t eat junk food, doesn’t worry about their appearance? it’s awful. it’s sick. it’s so self-absorbed, except that sometimes it’s not – it’s also about scrutinizing other people and admiring or criticizing them. ~ "silkwaterfire" floating suspended in this warm place where everything is soft and nothing quite touches; in between us are curling white bubbles of air; in between us are the warm silken tongues of the hot tub. feeling quite unreal as though stripped of my skin, my coating of smells and dirt and clothes washed away. and miles away i describe a sensation; i call it fun. a good time. wishing i was there. miles away and miles away from who i’m talking to as i say it was awesome, awesome...as though awe has anything to do with those animal noises and slippery motions...miles away from myself, and i’m floating again, through this dirty air that’s made of exhaust and unclenched breath. my thoughts floating to a surface that is white and troubled by this vague attempt at pouring them onto a page. ~ "temptation island" (this is a song. if you have any opinions about whether or not the lyrics are dumb, and if so why, *please* share. i tend to dislike my lyrics compared to my poetry, but i have trouble figuring out what it is that's the problem.) i never knew that i could feel this way about someone maybe this is the way it was meant to be then again i said the same of you why the hell did i have to go and see? it's all your fault you said yes you wanted to put us to the test and now i'm sitting here in the sun can't remember what i did last night what i should've done i don't know i played the game right maybe everyone makes promises when they kiss covering up the taste of your words on my lips everything that we had sank into the sea i surface still burning with your memoring maybe everyone makes promises when they kiss brushing off the taste of your words on my lips ~ “why you act crazy? not an act maybe...” so once upon a time there was nothing. nothing at all. the kind of nothingness that has to be willed. the kind of nothingness she stubbornly insisted she could create by not thinking about something. and suddenly it seemed to her like everything was something she must avoid thinking about. suddenly it seemed to her that the world was closing in around her, pushing her one way then pulling her the other way, flashing red and black, steaming like breath in ice cold air. then her attention was drawn to something else and the moment passed. she smiled to herself a little bit. shook her head like she was shaking off a cobweb. left the room. the phone rang. she talked animatedly into the phone. then she hung up the phone and left the house. she got into her car and drove somewhere. she had a sort of okay time, there were highs and lows, but not very dizzying. compare a jet fighter to a skateboard. the petty soap operas were almost a relief, for they were not really part of her soap opera at all. sometimes she felt like she didn’t belong with them, like she was an observer, like she was faking it. like nothing was real. sometimes she’d totally zone out. she’d wonder who the hell she was and what the hell she was doing there. everything would seem meaningless and wrong and hopeless. a couple more hits and the moment would pass. she’d have a good time. go home the next day. go to work. etc. but sometimes, late at night, alone, the moment would come and she couldn’t stop thinking about all her failures, all her tragedies, and she would cry knowing that there was really no one to comfort her. she’d call herself stupid for thinking that, knowing how many people said they gave a fuck. but she knew deep down that she was the only one who could make the moment pass. and it dragged on. dragged, like nails on a chalkboard. for hours and hours and she gave up and forced it to pass. forced herself to think about something else. how much it hurt. how much something silly and insignificant hurt. and then she could sleep and dream about something that was very close to nothing. something that lived next door to an abyss. but it was a very cheerful house next to the abyss. it was very tempting...but eventually she stopped giving in to the temptation. eventually she realized that time is not fluid after all. and that every moment must pass. and that every moment must be seen for what it is. that all those seemingly endless, unendurable moments would have changed into those beautiful fleeting sparkly moments no matter what she had done. and that she would always hurt, whether she caused it or not. and that there would always be a meaning and a purpose behind the stupidest, unfairest moments. and that she could never dull the purpose with drugs or lies or promises or confessions or pain. the purpose used to be the drugs, lies, promises, confessions and pain. she had needed to experience them, so she was put on a path leading to them. and once she saw the signs along the path, once she read the message on the doormat of the house next to the abyss, it all vanished, for it was meant to vanish. and instead there was nothing. perhaps. wow, okay, I'm not sure where you want this, but I really enjoy your writting. "the lie" especially. I'm really glad you're back on wiki. I love reading this, very powerful. Good writing!
Wow...."apocalypse's portrait" is amazing. "silkwaterfire" especially, and "tattoes"....You're an excellent writer, Jen. I run out of words to describe it. *bows down* I come here to get inspiration. Landis also, you can check out MyNewZineChangeling! NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 10 times, last edited on March 26, 2001 by 63.255.0.158. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
