white rose tea

everything is an ache. my body aches and my mind aches. my mother is abusive. i am collecting dust and work is a daily reminder that i will die trying to gain a dollar. the future is bleak. trump is president, and women still cannot get basic access to birth control or abortions.

everyday i wear my favorite clothes and rack up debt to fill voids with material goods. my mother yells about tea cups being left on the coffee table and about how i am a terrible person. my mother also wonders why i keep my distance and stay quiet most of the time. my mother voted for trump, so there is no sense only carefully orchestrated violence.

i am drinking white tea rose. what a saturday.
sex has been a wonderful release so far. i am surprised i still have the capacity to perform in any way. what a shit-show.

the first murder

who took you in and breathed you afloat.
dreams of
kills to gut
your wrenching songs,
nights to run into
the arms of
bliss.
and quiet streets to
encourage of sin,
these wishes to wash with.

mood swings from 2010

+++ 12. 12. 10
low key, calm, at times anxious
unsure
unsatisfied

+++ 18. 12. 10.
passive aggressive,
masochistic,
ready to strip to you.
want to be naked.
prince charming :
come tear me apart

+++ 18. 12. 10
restless
want to break my nails
into pieces
i make myself sick
sick is the only comfort

+++ 19. 12. 10
complete
invigorated.
anything is possible
clashing with reality, of course, sets me
back...
but for now i live in a happy
convoluted place

sparks: impatient, crude, dangerously feeling out the design of anatomy on a stranger i can see myself falling in love with. i don't know him. my hands don't know any better, but i'm ready to reach out and let be. i'm ready to greet his pulse with a falsetto key. piano recitals and the stage is empty for us to fill our desires. i want him so i can remember i am wanted. selfish scarlet painted on my wrist. he is mine. he is mine. mine, mine? but i won't belong to anyone.

shades of many

(I will use any excuse to pop in a Sasha picture)

Growing up I wanted to be just like you. You wore your hair so pretty. Curls caressing your cheeks, brushing up against that perfect skin, ice cold. Your lips were crimson cut like petals. Sometimes I thought about kissing you. I used to dream about your powers. How sweet you would snap your fingers and every man came crawling on their dirty knees. How the light would turn a brighter shade when you entered the room. You were blinding, and intoxicating. Even my mother treated you like her own. I think she might have loved you more, who knows. Your words filled me with ambition. Your beauty killed my spirit.

When I turned 16 I took your role. It was a lucid meeting. You held your hand out and promised me the world. Told me stories from your life. Death row and cocaine trips. I was ready. Ready for you to take and mold me to fit your need and wants. I would have done anything. I did. Played with courage, heartbreak. Danced with anger, killed regret, held hands with fear. You gave me a voice that suffocated me. Glamorous. How happy I was giving up everything I knew. I would have sold my soul for a classic Chanel handbag. One that would showcase the irony of everything I am, and everything I was trying to be.

Lived for drama taught by you. Glorified as if it was something to strive for.

You and I, we were covered in dust with our designer threads, hanging off the body, ghostly presence, nicotine stains. We walked the roads just to say we did it. Reality is boring - you said it one night, and I believed it. We could live off this wonderland high forever.

But we didn't.

I woke up one night drained, and spotted with shame all over my face. You were passed out on the floor, I was in the bathtub splattered, a mere shadow of what a human used to be. There you were, Ms. Vogue, makeup smeared, alcohol chic. You had just gotten a facial - none of the pure kind. You always told me that a man's ego lies below his waist. That night you taught me plenty about power, and it took me 2 tries to destroy a man properly. That night was our last together. I left you on the floor, with his ego dripping off your lips. That night you were killed, but it was a glorious 5 years.

this doesn't have enough alcohol in it.

"But if I were to die tonight - everything would feel complete."

Of course I didn't die. I am here. Unless this is my ghost talking. How would I know? How can you know?

We were young, and carefree. I took a shot of the city into my veins and let the lights dissolve me. Splattered all over the strip with my Christian Dior suspenders and my legit Miu Miu heels. Out of season, out of whack. I still looked better than your girlfriend. Assuming you have one. I revamped myself into a doll. The kind the fellas like. Minimal mind. A steroid, disco chic version of my former self. No blouses, no tees, no panties. A man tried to show me what life is really like - in an alleyway, behind a dumpster. Tres chic! I passed on the opportunity, but deeply regretted it later. The strip was beautiful. It was a graveyard. A garbage expository. It bleached everything in my mind, and in my vision. An attic feeds, a 'whore' eats, your husband just lost your child's college fund, and every club you go into is a parade of fake. Fake personalities, fake tits, fake lashes. Nevertheless, it entered into my bloodstream, and I liked it. I was whisked from club to club. Spent about 45+ in each & then retreated back into the hotel where I could tweet & catch up on youtube videos. You can't take the loner out of the girl.

The new year has already eaten me. Welcome to the end. It looks pretty though. For a minute there I actually believed I was getting better. With every sip of champagne, and every sweaty body pressed up against me - with their glitter and their knock off designer names - I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'

It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.

My mother and my aunt went off to partake in 45 yr old+ activities. Watching gala shows with sequins and Vegas feathers. Gamble. Lose money. Drink the money. Fall in love with gorgeous male models. And of course drink some more. My cousin and I trailed off. Naturally. We met a man who wanted to take us back to his place for a modeling shoot. His equipment was in his pants. Delectable offer, but us girls know better. I did meet a out of this world alien type on new years eve. His hair pitch black, green eyes, skin polished and proper. I wanted to drink him. I did.

I really thought 'hey, in this moment, life is grand'

It was.
Shiny and full of possibilities.

But here I am back at home masticating in bed. Pull the trigger and kill this migraine. The anxiety has kicked in again and I actually feel worse than I have in months. The possibilities are endless now. I will curl up under the fire (we don't have a fireplace) and write poetry that will temporarily cure me. My electroshock therapy. My medicine.

May your year be - better than you have imagined. If your imagination is feeding you well that is.

Ciao darling. It is what it is and that's about nothing.

I am dead he says. Dead from heavy burdens, stories, peoples infections, and lies. Dead from myself, the city, my family. Dead, but I don't think so. I feel too much, instantly. Too furious, too melancholy, too happy, too pessimistic. I am not dead, I am just walking on a fine line and torturing my mind because it's what I know. The drugs can be a nice escape. They are. I am aware of the burn. I may have low self control, but I am not stupid.

I'm in a blue and red bubble. There are lines, but they aren't visible, and suddenly, everything becomes blurred. There are no tomorrow's, no paychecks. There are no responsibilities, bills to pay, bullshit to say or people to smile at for the sake of smiling. It is a scary kind of comfort. It's parties and naked people dancing in the street with their bottles of Monet, and the fake fur they got at Trendy Wendy. It is nothing and everything. Creative junkies. No false niceties. They wear beautiful clothes and they have beautiful money. Everybody is somebody.

You see the screw ups and the ditz. The flash mobs, the dancers, the depressed kids with nothing but cuts on their arms. All these fuck ups, glamorous fuck ups together, holding each other up. It makes sense. Everyone is on some hippie shit. There's no need to tone yourself down. In fact, people amp themselves until you're dangerously close to being deaf. They all love to hear themselves talk about life and culture, and politics. It's all equality this, the government is out to kill your family, big brother sucks dick. You know, everyone's got something to say. And all of it is intriguing, even if it's not. I don't need to tone myself down. I am one of these fuck ups.

Barbiturates, you know. They catapults me from wall to wall, taking me to euphoric hallways and mesmerizing skies. A lifestyle that keeps me preoccupied. Spinning. Woo do I spin and sweat and phase out until I am frightening. Interestingly enough, the mind, the one part of me I wish I could strangle does not sleep. Yet with the right amount of dosage distortion is liquid heaven on a hot summer Vegas afternoon. It comes in handy for a creative one.
Am I one? The creative kind? How pretentious. It would be a nice excuse, but no. I am not. Well,  I don't know. He tells me I don't need them. The alternations and the pills and the lines in the bathroom. I don't need the dirty boys with their gin soaked dicks and their ass hole personalities. But what does he know? He has been my crutch for a while and its probably fueled the ginormous ego in his pants.
He likes to play the savior part, you know. He comes riding in on his white horse and everyone deems him the special one. He's the one who can save me. They all bow to him. He makes me a better woman and with him I *gasp* actually have feelings. Without him I am apparently just a wasteless tart. I love him, but he is taking on too much and then complaining about it when no one actually asked him. Love will do that. You want to hold the hand and fill each other with security. You want a life of simplicity, peace. Breakfast love, afternoon love, dinner fucks. You want it all, but then you turn to your left and see the screw up clinging onto your arm, barely able to stand, barely able to string together a sentence. She is hanging on by a thread. Life has tossed her and fucked her, and in her mind she's just taking the precautions needed to survive.

I have swallowed my pride, put on a brave face and tried. The swallowing came easy, the brave face - not so much. I'm letting it go completely. It is what it is and at the end of the day, today, it is nothing. Walking on leftover glass pieces and getting cut every which way. It was fun at first, but now it's just masochistic and dangerous and we have grown and got tangled in the process of trying to hold on to the past  He says I helped him open up and trust more, which is ironic in a way. Whoever he seriously dabbles with next is in for some theatrical performances of romance, cuddles, kisses, and 9 inches.
I hope he's happy. I'm off in my blue and red bubble, and my dysfunctions are my friends. For now.