to be, and to grow

reestablishing the line of communication to love itself.
redress the sense of balance lost amid painful stories.
invitations to dinner with gratitude and blossoms

this is the love to crave for :

• none of which holds too much a personal gain -
• no attachment makes /me/
• *defines* me.
• and just another death to become /me/
• so i give away

let love be, as it encompasses :

• i don't want to gain a person.
• i want to gain the definition.
• love.

it serves its purpose of fruition, freedom, and wealth :

• wealth being fullness.
• a suitcase of immeasurable volumes of spring.
• serenity.

and love will go past me :
eventually.
and i will have to let it.

hospital welcome

static seizes. wind sweeps a low hum of ants to crawl electric.
shock on cotton sheets wraps its steady hold. choke hold on
physique. frail outline, there's a future lifeline dripping into me. IV
grips like a scorned lover.
i should know.

scream as
reckless, high on organs belting gory. and yet, there's light
throughout the body. somewhat of a moon awakening probing
me out to breathe.

nesting dolls reminiscent, i keep coming to parts. there's 3 of my heads and
where are my legs? this manic fury takes to dance. i would cut the chords to
end their saving, but the nurse polishes ready, and my hands have
abandoned. i wonder
does she beast with her life the way
she forges into mine.

nourishment to survival with its tyrant entry, too loud for cures,
flooding in the same manner of illness,
boastful, arrogant with hell to raise. it tastes a menace to swallow each dose.

so what comes after medicine and the depravity of
suicide.
is this the exhalation of will, or one to lies:
where faith gives
its bitter hand, is it better to come to the sun's promise of
burning bright tomorrows' and the return of the
sweetest skies. or do i
lay down to the shackles of familiarity. that which holds so
loyally.

Persephone was damned to the throne, in the shadows'
of Pluto's desires. to rebirth! the selfish
cries of duty, my living, is a life of commodity.

to leave this refuge of hope -
i have a thousand tries waiting, for nothing is as loud
as a next episode. 

i'm in a weird place. a wired place where all my thoughts are intensified  magnified times 100. everything is bright, loud, and overlapping. there are lines and i'm ensconced. i am tangled. there is a strange ecstasy in being thrown to the gutters, leeches eating away at your flesh. so, this weird place is somehow comforting now. 3 days have gone by and i'm still deciding on decisions that will leave me where i first started. kind of happy? i swear i was content before i met him. went from loving one simply flawed man to loving one who has no simple bone in his body. what am i attracted to? you could ask me...... i'm asking myself and I do not know.

selfish. selfish i am. looking for attention in all the wrong places.
i'm trying to end a relationship that i'm not even sure i have. how do you quit when you're at that point you're no longer interested in resuscitating, but you're not fully there to voice it...? does that even make sense? do i? no. of course not. as usual it's a carousel.

• am i selfish for wanting to end my life
• who does it belong to and who do i owe my survival to?
• a woman set herself on fire to end her pain. 
• how selfish are you to want a person to hold on just, one, more, bit.
• hold on so you can feel comfortably at ease a life you hold no control over continues
• are you shredding your insides
•  some people are too far gone. they want to be gone. what more is there.

live to :

I’m going to be a good woman.
I will drink my tea, quietly on the edge of the bed
And I will stick by my man, if I ever get one to hold
Onto his hand and tell him the world is a validation he’s already granted.
When he makes yet another mistake, drags me down
With his despair.
I’m going to be a good woman, I swear.
I will cook, and I will clean, and I might go to church.

I will pray on my knees to gather his love
With the same mouth that never dares to disobey.
I’m going to be a good woman.
Any and every woman.

A quiet woman. A sad woman. A woman you fear,
A woman you love, one you might hate, and one you will fuck.
A woman you kiss, and a woman who bleeds.
One who will scream
And one who will sing.
I want to be my mother, my grandmother, her mother, and the mothers before.
I just want to be any woman.

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.

Happy Festivus

Getting ready, packing, panicking. Mom is cooking. It's just us 2. Whatever. I'm in my room reading my handy Encyclopedia of Drug Abuse. Let's enjoy shall we?

Psilocybin: The active hallucinogenic ingredient of the mushroom Psilocybe mexicana and some of the other psilocybe and conocybe species. Ritual use of psilocybin among Mexican and Central American cultures is known to date back  to at least 1500 B.C. 

Some tribes of Indians in Mexico have used certain mushrooms with hallucinogenic properties in their religious ceremonies for centuries. These mushrooms, specimens of the genera Conocybe Stropharia, and Psilocybe were considered to be sacred and were named teonanacatl, or flesh of the gods.

In 1958 Albert Hofmann, a Swiss chemist, isolated psilocybin and its congener, psilocin, from Psilocybe mexicana. Psilocybin is the only naturally occurring hallucinogen identified thus far that contains phosphorus. In pure form psilocybin is a white crystalline material, but it may also be distributed in crude mushroom preparations, intact dried mushrooms, or as a capsule containing a powdered material of any color. It is usually taken orally but may also be injected. Doses generally vary from 4 mg to 5 mg, although 20-60 mg is not unusual. The potency of psilocybin lies somewhere between that of mescaline and LSD and the effects are reported to be much like those of LSD. 

Effects: When taken orally psilocybin is one of the most rapid acting hallucinogens: initial effects may be felt 10-15 minutes after ingestion. Reactions often reach maximum intensity after about 90 minutes and do not begin to subside until two to three hours later. The effects of psilocybin usually last five to six hours in all but doses larger than 8 mg probably prolong their duration.

Psychological effects include increased pulse rate, respiratory rate and body temperature, dilated pupils and elevation of systolic blood pressure. Larger doses, 13 mg or more, can produce dizziness, lightheadedness, abdominal discomfort, numbness of tongue, lips or mouth, nausea, anxiety and shivering. Psychological effects with small doses may include mental and physical relaxation, detachment from surroundings and sometimes coexisting feelings of anxiety or elation. With larger doses individuals may experience difficulty in thinking and concentrating, visual distortions and other changes in perception.

(also known as everything I experience on a daily basis sober)

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.

some things that turn me into liquid.

1. Hands
2. Really hot skateboarders, even if they suck at what they do
3. Weed
4. Boxers
5. Belts
6. Candle Wax
7. Toxic Markers
8. Seedy Motels
9. Green eyes
10. And if you're from Barcelona that's a bonus.