hipster gothic sin

hey mother! Russia is burning, and i think our neighbors have left. daddy is in the hallway shooting heroin. i want to cook for him, but his eyes are distant on the ceiling. he's trying to hook fish with his glare. guess what?
i was on a Broadway stage last night.

(in my head again, in the bedroom with the door closed) while you were on the phone crying

i saw myself spinning. (right off the stage)

i had that feeling again.... i think grandma is getting closer to walking glitz on deaths door. speaking of, i think you should know that you're going to be crawling on your knees, wishing god had taken you with him in a few months. blood will stain your hands from survival. but red has always been your color

don't worry though: i have my cross on and i'll be protected from sin. i think there's something better for us. i hope there is. i don't want to catch fire in this city. not now.

I. Me. I.

One day passes, nothing happens. Day two slip while I'm still asleep. Three days come around and i'm finally awakening. Singing. On the fourth day I eat with no remorse. My body is happy, and I am sleeping on a blanket I stole back from 1999. On the fifth day I remember my grandmothers closet. I put on her favorite shirt and I feel her jewels. The marks from my grandfathers 'love' stuck on her chest. That's where I used to lay. I am not full woman yet to carry her crown.

Tea is glossing my mouth. 6 cups of it on the sixth day. Fragrance of mango black keeps me warm. Never enough so I continue to detoxify my body on the seventh. My mother reminds me I am death in human form. What does this mean? It sounds like poetica so I scoff. But on the eighth day I wallow in destruction. Eight years old and she's running through the snow. Something in me is crawling. Ghosts I've welcomed, maybe? Calmness has never been a friend.

9 piercings punch through my skin. Where do these little holes reside? I am a map. My body is mine, my mind is yours to use. On the tenth day the city drenches me. My complexion is dull. I have not seen the sun in eleven days. I read his love letter. I read his print. Study the curve of his L the same way I studied the curve of him on me. Twelve poems to write - I have this marked on my calendar. Twelve. One for each day I shed myself. Thirteen is the worst number. I hope and pray it lands on a Friday. I'm thinking I was really supposed to be in feline form.

Fourteen footsteps to my new life. Fourteen footsteps from the outside. On the fourteenth day I walk, count. And when the key turns someplace will be home. Fifteen days and panic begins. An american with foreign bones? Where am I? Am i still her child? On my sixteenth birthday my father calls. A ghost in my veins, he lives to haunt me every sixteen days. On the seventeenth I tell him to go to hell. Though I think he found it effortlessly years before.

Books are scattered in every corner. My loves and I fly through pages and on the eighteenth day I finally try. I put on my finest cocktail dress and go for a walk. I see a woman and I am sure we will marry. Our shoulders brush. There goes my interest, lost as always. I remember I have to clean on the nineteenth. Met a life that gave my love something to aspire to. He held my hand and I broke his. I throw the remaining bones in the trash. Now the room smells of lilacs.

Twenty days steal my hunger. I am no longer. Who was it that took me from me?...Cut my finger vigorously. Once, not too long ago I used to run from blood. But the pain now sings me songs. Twenty one days and i'm learning to wipe it off. Twenty two passes and I am still alive. Not sure if this is good news, but someone out there must be relieved. Twenty three is loud! And i'm on the floor writing. A little girl cries out for attention. My windows are close to breaking. My childhood is reminding me this is not it.

Twenty four days go by and I fall back in love. They have no names, and I do not know if they exist, but they are everywhere. And they are everyone. I cling to attention that leaves me empty. What else is there? Not one superficial smile can cure me yet. Not one interaction has left its fire. I am trying once again when twenty five comes around.

crimson blossom

i survived august. a few more days and i can rip open my curtains. i bought new tea today. the senses are delighted. crimson blossom herbal green tea. my mouth likes. my tongue is red. it dyes. it tastes like cherry Tylenol  but not bad. i am a kid. artificial dye. red #5. remember! i made pasta with calamari, and shrimp. i added in cheese at the end. melted. gooey love. and sprinkled parsley. parsley. why couldn't that have been my name . . . ?

i was at the anarchist book fair today. what a group of eccentrics. they're wearing their belts loose and studying your voice. i don't think mine belts loud enough, so who is going to hear me. they're tying themselves to all kinds of ideas that seem to tie them up. well, as long as your dreams remain, lovely. this man tried to sell me some coke. sweetheart, i'm trying to get off.

the cat keeps running away every time i want to hug him.
well, what a surprise. i think my foes have given me greater warmth. every lover is on the other side scoffing, but at least i had fun with the loud mouthed assholes. at least they gave me their time of day. what a pain it is to love someone who won't even acknowledge you.

i'm not feeding the cat tonight.
lessons he will learn.

And then I came upon this -

Endaural Phenomena - are sounds that are heard without any external acoustic stimulation. Endaural means "in the ear". Phenomena include transient ringing in the ears (that sound like sine tones), white noise-like sounds, and subjective tinnitis.

November. You rotten, dirty month. How I hate this time of the year when the streets are filthy ugly, the nights are cold and wet, everything is isolated. This is a scary time of the year for me. Dirty fall - early signs of winter. Death.

+++Why is it so hard to get over a person? Any person. the rain has been pounding against my window the last couple of days and I feel like any moment now everything will break and take me with it. It's nice. I still hate you November.

pile of (a) thought

+++
People will often tell you to think happy thoughts. Try to think positive, happy. Be happy.

That's the problem. I don't have any happy, positive thoughts. The little glimmer of hope that's stashed away in the back is usually overpowered by the negative. And when I do have hope, it's just one big false advertisement. Because I know what tomorrow will bring. I know that I always revert back. Something is comforting in this depressive state.

My daily bus routine evokes the creative

• I need to stop being so fucking flexible with people. Acrobatics not apply.

• I need to eat.

• My nose needs air.

• People on the bus stink.

• Deodorants are handy.

• Old school hip hop is blaring through generic hot pink headphones.

• Man with beret. Seriously a beret?

• Chicken noodle soup on the mind.

• Something is always in my head. Nothing in my mind. What does THAT mean?

• I love stealing office supplies.

• My transfer [bus] is 2 hours & 30 minutes expired. I better use charm.

• I left my charm in bed this morning.

• Specific dates are for suckers.