And now six years later. Oregon. June, 2010. Watch out.

04.01.2005

I am fourteen. I am fourteen and it is unfortunate and I think that I am in love and I am ignorant. And now I am bleeding but it doesn't hurt where it should. My brain is hammering against my skull, my heart thrashing, pulsating, twisting. Trying to loosen itself and escape and run into a chest that will take better care of it. Breathless. Heaving with each heavy sob. Quivering in the dampness of my basement. Naive. And now I am bleeding. And Lola Ray is my favourite band. 

I want to stop. I wanted to stop ten minutes ago before I started. Now where there used to be him there is nothing. Emptiness except for all the muddled thoughts that keep hurtling into each other and piling up. Nothing makes sense. Now where there used to be a place there is nowhere. I am nowhere. Nowhere except for this basement, on this floor, in these pajamas that aren't normally so red. And soon, where now there is despondency, desperation, dejection, there will be manipulation. Attention. Something is silently screaming for attention, and soon won't be so silent. Où l'avez-vous mis?

Remembering is something I need to forget to do.

Comparatively, I am a lot less cynical than I used to be.

 

Fourteen.

24.04.2009

Courage. This is a big word for big people. Unfortunately, I am a small person with small problems and instead of facing them I am running away. Across oceans.There are people: jealous people, angry people, indifferent people. There are people commending me on my bravery. But this is an escape route. I am escaping.

I won't accept it. I do my best to reject patterns til it hurts,
every second making bad turns for the worse.
She's getting further away I can feel it in the way my bones ache.
The ocean sealed it's lips, now the waves won't break.

The secrets it won't say has got us trying to break codes in churches
and lately I've been hating its soul purpose.
When a boy writes off the world it's done with sloppy misspelled words if
a girl writes off the world it's done in cursive.

I'm searching for the cure
this is a sickness.
can you hear me, love?


Now I look for air pockets to pick, walk with a stick, start picking locks with it.
Opening up heart-shaped lockets with little arguments.
The tawdry trinkets start to split and contradict
those who say one thing but think the opposite.

I bit the dust tongue kissing documents in a smoke stack.
Faith is harder to swallow than pride it, turns our throats black.
I want my home back. I know that's not an available option.
It's the way that I'm walking in between a cradle and coffin.

That makes me pace myself. if half the battle is done right,
the other half won't take my health while jacking my shadow's sunlight
to crack it open and find the space between my breaths are desolate
life is just a lie with an "f" in it and death is definite.


Sage Francis, The Cure