Isolation

Isn't this what I wanted?











(I wanted to drive my car at eighty miles per hour into a tree this afternoon.)

On The Writing of Suicide Notes

I never really imagined it. Writing a suicide note. What would I say? What would I commit forever into the syndication of ink and paper? Would it be the usual black pen, scribbled in a notebook, page torn out with fringe carefully removed? Would it be typed and printed, impersonal, informal, all too clear? Would it be in pencil: light, fading? Who would I speak to? Family, friends, the world? What would I have to say? Who would find it? Who would interpret it? Would there be metaphors? Similies? An amature attempt at accessing lofty genius?

I never really imagined writing it. I never would. Do proper suicides require a letter to those left behind? Isn't it just some old, macabre tradition? Let the dead speak, because they wouldn't talk during life, or else, we were not enough to listen. But the dead can't talk. Their mouths are shut forever. Pity the living, chasing the mysteries of the dead. What is a suicide note but another mystery. It invariably misses some vital motivation, emotion, thought.

Not that I'm not completely against them. Something in bad humor, of course, would be very much appreciated once in a while. Something simple. Something classy. "Gone on holiday." "If I'm not dead right now, I feel comfortable knowing you'll kill me for this anyway."

But in all that thinking, I never once included a note.


Now:

Is this an evolution towards more dire straits? Evidence of a developing fantasy?

Probably not.

I'm at once too much a coward, and not enough of one.

Mmmm, paradox.

Smile

Let's make the form of upturned lips the reason why we're stable.


I wanted to do something with this. A poem or something. But nothing would flow.

I shoul face it: I'm a pretty shoddy teenage poet.

Hahahah. Hopefully, time and effort can help this.

Good-Bye, Good-Bye

I'm getting the hang of it, I think.

There are a few jolts, a little jitters every once in a while, but I think I'm going quite well.

It's not terribly difficult to shut down. I just make people laugh more. Become a little more crass, a little more cruel, but no one seems to notice. Indifference is an artform, especially when feigning the opposite.

Of course, I did open a little to Michelle today. When she asked about the Me and Melissa fall out. Ever have anyone ask you some thing just so they could tell their story? I think that was kinda-sorta what she wanted to do, but I wouldn't let her. This was bad of me. When I'm proper I will withhold my stories and only listen to theirs.

She's grown a lot since she was a freshman. I mean, leaps and bounds a lot. I just...I think I'll use the guise of 'friends her own age' to nudge her back a bit. I don't want to leave her completely, I give myself far too much credit in her evolution to do that. I want to make sure I don't set her back though. I want to see my girl spread wings and fly, though I know she's not quite ready yet. It's strange to think I'll never see her again after this year. I don't plan to at least. "God, isn't that horrible?" I think as a write it. But, I know, it is.

I had to poor my nostalgia/sentimentalism somewhere else when I saw that screenname. Forgive my rambling.

I was thinking the other day, when all is said and done I will use this place only infrequently. Hopefully, I won't have the leanings towards love and life or desperate and death. I'll just be. So this conduct becomes rather unbecoming.

Thank you, for all of this so far, thank you.

Lead Foot

Next time step away from the goddamn line.

"I love you."

God damnit, child, do I have to beat your stupidity out of you?

"A little over a year."

God damnit.

Step the fuck awaaaaaaay.

It's not hard.


(In psych, Harsh did the Freedom Writers line thing and asked those who've said "I love you" in a romantic relationship to step to it, than asked how long the relationships were.)

A Madman Mumbling Mantras -or- My Myopic Martyr

It's all right: I'm a coward.

I could never actually hurt myself.

The razor goes against my skin and I can't even contemplate sliding it sideways. It's a mental block. I drag the dull penknife serrated edge only ever lightly against my skin, never daring the tip or the pressure. I've only cowardice. Duh. These things will never pass quite like this.

I'm a bottle of pills and vodka girl. Not that I am really that particular about the alcohol. Maybe scotch, maybe brandy. It's not like I'm well versed in the matter. Still, what's that but falling asleep and never waking up? Painless, soulless, cowardly. And exhale.

School's around again. It's easier, I think. No one close is really in any of my classes. Largely it's just acquaintances, light friends, people who I would spend years with and we'd never know each other. It works. Of course, it's hard to brush off the incessant asking. "What are you doing this weekend?" Well, mate, I'm burrowing deeply into myself and destroying the person I find there. No, I don't have time for lazer tag.

People know now, outside the little circle, that me and Melissa aren't friends any longer. "I thought you guys were BFF's!" exclaims Arlenne, "Well," I begin with a grin, "Apparently not." There were a lot of "Why?"'s, I waved them off with the perfunctory, "We were going different directions, so I told her I didn't really want to be friends any more. Not gonna lie, I was rude at first, but I aplogized and now we're on friendly terms." Amicable. My word of the day. Hah.

Mmmm. Intoxication. My drug of choice emotionlessness. Float and bumble and grin through life. This addiction doesn't have to hurt anyone.

I'm extremely weary. Part of me really wants to talk to Ben, but I know better than that. He's an illusion too, darling, and don't you forget it again! He's still my hero. Because he's himself in selfish, stubborn, obnoxious, and boundlessly loving ways. How can he be so troubled and be so loving? Not caring, but loving. You can see in his face how openly he just loves people or even hates them and it leads to this ultimate love of life I can hardly explain. And that part's not the illusion. Maybe an interpretation, but not an illusion.

It's a slow death.

I still feel so full.

And I'm bailing out the water as fast as I can.

But the boat's still full and floating.

Won't anyone be my jagged rocks? My ice burg?

Destroy me.

Ominous

I wonder sometimes if I'll make it.

To graduation. To college. To twenty-one.

I'm pretty fucked up, aren't I?

I dropped my second best friend without a second glance. I relived it in a retelling and relished it. Jess expected me to be broken up about, for it to hurt, but it didn't. It's a release.

I'm losing myself in fantasy again. It seems more dangerous now, though I did it when I was a little younger as well. Make up a pretend life out of a favorite book or show. And then just imagine it. Create the nuances and intricacies. Ignore for a short time that there is another world crushing you from the outside. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.

It will be nice, I think, when all this mess is gone again. I'm being weak now. Emotional. Letting it leak out from a crack I haven't patched up. The doubt, the self loathing, the certainty that what I'm trying to do will destroy me. "Why would anyone practice self destruction?" I'm enamored again with a line from a song. Let me burn myself out on the inside, leave a hollow, crackling shell. No use in liveliness anymore. No use for wholeness. Fragment me, baby.

I garb myself with figments. Inhale them, inject them, snort them. Give me a shot straight to the brain to lose it all. I don't need a physical drug, an outside poison. I'm doing fine right here. I'll burn hope and bury guilt. They've no place now.


And the weakness I don't want to suppress just for this moment.

Oh, how I wanted those words to go back to him. But then, he'd call out of guilt. And I'd alleviate it immediately. It's not his fault. Only my own. I've done more than play the fool this time, I became it. It is my fault for feeling so much, when I know that that is not my role in life. So, bittersweet, rest easy. None of this mess is yours. Not that I should believe for a second you gave a damn. It will be easier to immerse myself in the belief that you secretly were disgusted by me. I can almost taste your disdain when I think enough. It's sweet, but I'm gagging on it. Bleh.

How close I feel to the edge right now. Like I could put a hand up and feel the thin, fragile, beating wall that seperates me from the deep drop of eternity.

I wonder what it would be to me to push through it, to push through and to plummet in to nothingness. It sounds appealing. But do I want the nothingness or the audience? This is important.

I don't want to be a 'cry for attention,' but I'm pretty sure that's what I'll be wanting. Catch me! Carry me!

It's

I'm

disgusting.

And I need to cope with the fact that I just really want to hurt myself right now.

"Why on earth would anyone practice self destruction?"

I don't know. But it seems part of me wants to find out.

How

ominous.

Emotional Cauterization Is Intoxication.

Yes, that's that.

I don't believe I'm regretting it. I don't feel guilt. Or sorrow. Or anything really.

This was the way I was supposed to be, then. Emotional cauterization is intoxication.

It will take a little time, I assume, to fit back in to the groove, but I've taken my first two major steps.

Bring on the facade.

I knew I had to learn to moniter my emotions better. Perhaps this is better on the whole.




Too late, I'm gone, and I'm never coming back.

A Metaphor For A Metaphor

It really isn't a wound.

It's a fucking cancer.

Eating me from the inside out. My livelihood.

And no bandaid is going to fix it.

It'll kill me slowly as it spreads out and consumes everything that I am.

You can't stitch up cancer.

Cancer doesn't simply heal.

And you gave it to me.

The beast will devour me, and all this time you thought, "I've just wounded her. It'll heal."

It doesn't simply heal.

It simply weakens,

tortures,

and kills.

Lessons

I make lying a lesson in regret.



* has changed his status from "Single" to "In a Relationship."

This shouldn't matter. But I still feel bitterness burdgeoning in my chest.

Damnit.

I'm just

I'm just

So ready to let all this be over.

Bitter Intermission

I'm not quite sure what I'm waiting for, what I'm forestalling.

Maybe it's reality. Maybe it's falling in to the old bitter facade. What the hell, it could be just about anything.

I miss having someone understand me. No one else seems bright enough in his wake. No one's the right amount of sympathetic, empathetic, or apathetic. Yes, apathetic. I brood and wallow and think maybe I should confide, but only realize there's no use. That's why I didn't write in your journal ages ago. You scorned it. Disdained my feelings. And I hate you for it. As deep now is my resent as the day it happened. When you seemed so hurtful, and it was not, as you would say, because truth hurts. It was because you couldn't know what it was I was thinking or feeling or doing. You condemned my actions as those of a fool, and have since carried on to batter all my inner sanctums.

Maybe you were doing it before, but I hadn't noticed. I can't be sure. All I know is that every time I feel like maybe I could spend some face time with you, you make some small flippant comment, and I'm left to put it off again and again.

But where are my excuses for Jess? Julie? Arlenne? Chloe? Kristin?

I have no amazing self justification for that. I just don't want to see them. Resentful and repulsed I remain, as I wrote not too long ago. Get back from me. Stay away. For the love of dearness, dislike me, or in the least forget me. I'm a coward and I haven't the will to face you and tell you I'd like nothing better right now than to be free of all of you. Free from the shackles of your wants and needs and hopes and dreams and camaraderie. I've finished with that. I'm all full up of it and fresh out of patience or feeling.

No man's an island. So I talk at will with the ones who will never know me and never care for me. Jokes and blunder and banter. It is enough. If I can't have someone to believe in, then I don't want anyone to believe in me.

I hate finding out my lie to be truth. We knew, didn't we, each of us that we weren't made for other people? My Betrayed Betrayor, never trusting others for fear of his own pain, and always paining others for that very reason, pushing out their confidence, pushing out them. And I, a hapless harlequin with a bright inviting mask and no face to speak of. I thought we could be together in our own little place. We would need no one else. We could be free of those that make us uncomfortable and irritated. But someone without a face, without a heart, can't hope to warm a person of stone resolve.

Ah, but it we would've been wonderful for however long we lasted. I know we would.

But it's a mute point now. Everything I have given, I had thought equal to that which I had taken. If there is a force of equilibrium in the world, then it has deemed me still deep in debt. It didn't even deign to give me a good-bye.

And I am oh so very tired of being failed and of failing. Of slipping off the comic mask only to watch them back away in discomfort. For this I should glue the mask to my face permanently. But I'm so very tired of covering up.

So everyone else go away. Let me have a brief time without a mask in which I can rest. Consider this an intermission before the next part of the show, where I am sure I will amaze you with astounding feats and death defying new tricks. But be gone. Be gone now.

I want only someone who knows me by my side. And none of you seem to fit that category.

Glory

I know I should be regretting it, buuuuuuuuuuuut

I feel oddly peaceful.

And this may not make sense,

or last,

or anything really,

but I feel really okay now. Like I've just exhaled when my lungs were about to burst and took in a single, sweet normal breath.


So I lost to the mad obsession. Called him. And someone answered! It was a deep voice. Either not him, or he was sleepy, or he was pissed, or he was sad. There was silence on my end as I began to shake, and then I hung up.

Yeah, I hated me too right about then.

So I call back two minutes later and apologize saying it was an accident blahblahblah.

And then I call back eight minutes after that and admitted it wasn't, that I missed my best friend, and that if he hates me, it's cool, and that he must think I'm like drunk something.

And then my mind just went quiet.

And it was glorious.

Lost

It's a bit of a question what I'm more tired of, other people or myself.

They want to see me, hang out with me, they miss me and <3 me. But I just shy away from them. I just get revolted by them. I despise them, are irritated by them. I'm falling back to the bad habit. The old facade.

I don't want you any more.

I want my misery and my imbalance, not the choirs of needful voices or woeful eyes. None of you, none of you can I break my silence for. None of you, none of you can I get my solace from. None of you, none of you can I bear to stand. Leave me be. The sulking wonder.

But you, you I'll play with. A simple little game. Distract me, distract me. I'm not playing with you, really, just playing you. Never fear, the attention won't last too long.

You're hardly interesting game to play along.

It's useless.

I don't want you.

Any of you.

I just want to sit in the darkness, dreading to dream.

At once desperate to feel for him and to forget him.

Maybe I am crazy.

Why can't I just have it stop?

It's had plenty of time to fade.





I've lost my best friend.

Rogue

I dream of him.

Every night.

It's always the same base, though the atmosphere changes.

It's a carnival, it's school, it's a party, it's the neighborhood, it's the night skies.

I'm always looking for him.

Searching for him.

A moment away from seeing him.

And then I wake up.

Heart broken.

Restless.

Defeated.

And I don't know what to do about it.

I fear dreaming. I detest it.

I'm afraid to sleep to dream.

How do you silence your dreams?

How do you silence your heart?

I miss him quite terribly.

But that was my word.

And I am no type of honorable person.

Ideas

The Senseless Chronicles: Losing Everything, One Page at a Time

Sightless
Smellless
Tasteless
Soundless
Feelingless

I like the concept, but haven't the faintest what to make them about yet...

Tasteless

I don't very well understand why I'm fighting the urge so bitterly to die.

Mostly, I don't understand why I should want to die in the first place.

But still, every moment that passes changes nothing.

I suppose it's my fault for sitting and waiting for a change.

I shouldn't be wallowing.

I should be fighting, making plans, distracting myself.

But all I want to do is brood and be pained and mourn and resent.

I nurse the festering wound in me better than the children of joy.

Just because
because because because

It's easier to cause this crippling pain, than it is to cause physical pain.

Who needs the edge of the razor when you can cut so much deeper and more permanently into yourself with your own self loathing?

I feel stifled sometimes. Pressures from all sides crush in on me. Whatever will I do?

BREATHE, You Are Alive!

A dare. An obligation. Thank you, Zen book borrowed from Tegan, for that quote.

I use it so often.


I found the words of a friend today, referring to Karma as 'Whooey' and just another 'scapegoat.'

For such a tolerant person, this intolerance of the faith and beliefs of others is killing me, but maybe I'm just looking for a fight, a reason for discontented behavior.

Mostly, I just wanted to answer, "Like the devil? Like original fucking sin? Like many different aspects in many different religions?"

I don't know. It gets to me. It's just...the fucking nerve. Even if I'm just looking for reasons, that's troublesome enough in its existence.


I'm so lonely.

I don't want to be alone.

But that doesn't appear to matter very much.

We do end up insane or dead, don't we?

It will be quite interesting finding out which road'll become mine.

I must be sure to write dozens of interesting things in the meantime, so that they can get famous posthumuously.

"Home"

And to think I actually believed I had known loneliness that night.

Unpleasant solitude and disappointment and confusion, but not loneliness.

Because watching television every night in the dark alone

I think that might be far worse.

Because I could have joined them, they invited me.

But here, here I am desolation.

Isolation.

Deep, resentful contemplation.

And nothing more.

Wheck

At this moment, I just feel very alone.

I've finally decided to be respectful, even if I announced my intention and question in a very disrespectful way.

It was two in the morning when I called. The phone rang. The message I left said, at its core, "When you're ready, do I still get a friend back?" And "Whatever choice you decide to make, I will respect it. So I guess this might be........G-g. Goodbye."

And though the thought of him still makes me cry, I suppose that now I've cracked the door all I can do is wait in the hallway. It's a pity.


Then there's all this rot. The three buzz/drunk friends in the next room. Fuck them. Fuck all of them. They may be crying or laughing, but I couldn't say or do anything if I had the desire to. It makes me a snob or an elitist or a separatist or whatever, but, that's just it. The one person I used to vow never to allow excess harm to may be crying, but all I do is sit here. It is the question of whether I excluded myself or they excluded me. It is mostly the former. I made this choice.

Sarah's laughter. I think it might not be sad. Maybe. I hope not. I don't want to deal with either.

I want to go outside into the dark night and start walking.

And keep walking.

Until I reach oblivion.


I believe I'll settle for sleep.

Revelations

Gee, emotional breakdowns are pretty fun.

I spent two hours after my grandma left just crying. Like a little kid, with the noises and the gasps and the shuddering and the stupid running nose. I just cried. Then I ranted and I railed and I cried more and I hugged pillows and blankets till my arms were sore and I became so frustrated I tore at my hair and just wanted desperately to break something and knew that I couldn't because nothing here is mine to break.

To calm myself down I made some hot chocolate and sat out on the back porch. It was cool out, but the grass was soft and the mug was hot. Then, I made a sort of mistake. I tried to not feel lonely. I called Melissa. Then I called Jess Lee. Then I called Julie. It was Tegan's two month with Tony, so I didn't call her. I couldn't ruin her afternoon/evening. But no one answered. Not a single person. Who do I call then? No one who I'd be comfortable enough with.

And it might have been over, but faced with such resounding reminders of loneliness, I was broken further.

At that point, I just really wanted someone to hold me and let me cry to them. I just needed a friend, someone who would touch me and remind me I'm not alone. Hold my hand, clap my shoulder, I just want some form of contact and comfort and help. It's all I still want, a day later, someone I feel could just hold my hand and let me cry.

But there's still no one. Even now. Alone in a dark house, and what is it now to call anyone? It's nearly two in the morning for the people I would call. So I just drop it.

And it's like I'm drowning.

It's one o'clock in the morning

and I'm drowning.

(And I've just realized no one will ever come to save me.)

"I told him I hated him from the bottom of my heart, said I was kidding, but, really, I meant it."

I didn't know she was capable of hate.

But, damn, she is the best cousin ever.

She tried really hard for me.

But he's still shooting her down.

And shooting me through my heart.

He says Green Bay tomorrow til Sunday.

Sunday church, homework, etc.

Leaving for MI Monday morning.

For....a week I think.

And then immediately camping out.

Oh and, "Try to find a half hour, just a half hour?"

"The last time I did I got grounded."

Well, Fucker, no one demanded you do that. That was your choice.

WHY ARE YOU RUNNING?

I don't

I don't

I don't

I don't understand.


And it's killing me.

Montressor

And every day that passes, this feels more and more like a mistake.

Too much has changed. Too many people. Too many situations.

Maybe I don't really belong with everyone anymore.

Still, Travis' words meant a lot to me. "Stop acting all awkward. This is Racine and you belong here."

And what now?

What do I do?

I don't know.

I just

don't know.

And then there's that.

So easy to drop.

So easy to stop.

But then there's that absence of--oh, what is that little thing? Right. My heart.

Everything's heavy.

So few things are beautiful.

Worthwhile.

Worth a smile.

Drop your trivial plans.

Drop it all.

Peace can be so hard to find.



Oh, and

he

(but not him)

kissed me?

So.

I guess for once and for always.

I'll do what he wants me to.

No more calls.

Maybe it'll make him happy.




(It fucking better.)





I don't wanna do it, but I'm being so fucking creepy. It has to be wrong. It has to be weird. I have to be being selfish. I may want to live in some dream-type world where I can be considered charminly persistant but I'm sure it's just fucked up.

I'm trying to convince myself anyway.

What else can I do?

It's despair.

I'm nervous.

Excited.

Anxious.

Terrified.

Exhilirated.

I don't know what to say or do.

I want to shake down my friends and acquaintances for every last detail.

Is now my time to move?

What could I say? What could I do?

I make all these plans for the illusion of him, and then when I am around the real him, I become the real me.

No plans.

No grand dramatics.

Just me. Every thought in my head coming out as words.

With no regrets.

I don't think I can approach him.

Only wait.

And watch.

And hope he'll see me.

Feel me.

Hear me.

Come home to me.

Swing

Keep the swing a-singin'
Keep me grooving low to high beats
Because once my feet stop moving
My mind begins to think

Keep the music banging
Keep on leading me 'round
Because once my feet stop moving
My heart begins to drown

Keep the guys a-comin'
Keep me spinning fast
Because once my feet stop moving
It's like I'm made of glass

Keep the shoes clacking
Keep dipping me low
Because once my feet stop moving
I lose faith in my soul

Yeah, 'cos swing keeps me up
Keeps my feet a-moving
We'll swing until the music stops
So it better keep on going

There's nothing like sincerely wishing that your father will die young.


That way, you won't have to hate him.

Conflict

I don't think she understands. She's my supposed best friend down here and she doesn't understand and I don't know if I want to tell her.

You have God and Jesus and the Bible and Church. I think that is magnificent for you.

I do not have these things.

I have people. I have humanism. I have love and friendship and loyalty and ties. I don't tell you God doesn't exist. Don't tell me "Prince Charming on the White Horse" doesn't exist. I don't want to hear about the hitchhikers that have jumped people when I say I would pick them up if I had a weapon and other people with me. I'm not stupid. I know there's danger. By why should the good people have to pay for the sins of others? You have faith in God. I have faith in people. Let's not fuck with faith, 'kay?

And I know I'm unfair to you. Unfair to everyone in Florida. You want me to accept you. But you know that this little inch of me deep, deep down, resents you. Because this is Florida. I'm not a good person and this probably will not change. I'm sorry.

I should try.

I should do a lot of things.

I want to be a better person.

I don't have many scruples. I don't want to make anyone sad. I lie as easily as I breathe. It's natural.

JUMP

What if I see him?

What do I do?

How do I react?

What if I cry?

What if I run?

Oh fuckfuckfuckFuck.

I'm excited to go but terrified. It's a small town.

And it's not like he can run out before school ends.

Two weeks.

Do I try?

Do I leave well enough alone?

Oh it's killing me.

Killing me so beautifully.

Oh dear. Oh goodness. What? What do I do?

I want him so badly.

A conversation.

A glance.

Even a harsh word.

Yell at me. Hate me. Please don't leave me.

What do I do?

I'm panicked. Anxious. Scared Stiff.

Maybe he does feel nothing for me.

Maybe I am just being selfish. Fooling myself.

Oh it hurts.

Six months. Six long, horrid months.

"Wound" "Scab"

These words are nothing.

There's only you and me.

I refuse fate for you.

I reject convention.

I will change destiny to be with you.

Acquaintance. Friend. Love. Enemy. Bane.

But with you.

Irrevoably tied to you.

The use of "I" makes me think this is a selfish conquest.

Oh I'm scared.

Oh I'm terrified.

Oh I want to see you.

(But please don't see me)

Oh dear.

I said his name the other day.

It kind of made me want to slit my wrists.


I should work on that one.

It's You

It's your voice my ears strain to hear
It's your face my eyes always look for
It's your opinion my thoughts crave
It's your smile my jokes desire

It's you my heart wants

Rawr. Note to self: Use in D4

"I know how you feel..."

"Well, darling, it's like someone's taken their bare hand and dug into my chest. Except for, it isn't a normal human hand because the nails are sort of like claws made of rusted metal. Well, they reach in there and grab my heart and just twist it around and break off all the little valve-y things. Then they start squeezing it ever so slowly. Then they begin crushing it until, finally, it's nothing more then dust which the hand then lets go so it might sprinkle over everything and pollute my system. Of course, after that, they can't just be done. Oh no, then they reach down and tear my soul out of my body. Then they just keep on clawing at it and ripping it until its nothing more then shreds and tatters. Afterward they throw the pieces on top of me like confetti, spit in my face, smile at me, and walk away leaving a gaping, bleeding, black hole in my chest. If you've felt that, then, yes, doll, you know how I feel."

The 'L' Word

He's gone.

It's tearing me apart.

I say I just want to call him for closure. To hear him say good-bye.

But it's just because I want to hear him.



Nothingness, blackness in the wake of your disappearance.
Walk out on this life, it never mattered to you,
But, then, nothing ever did.

You wandered in confused to my dark and chaotic mess
A light in the dark I thought,
But that wasn't you.

Time passed, you sang the same old song.
But I watched your face,
And caught on.

I couldn't place the subtle tones of guilt.
I didn't know what it meant to me,
Until I forced the truth.

You and me were never friends, nothing really, to any end.
You just danced along to the music,
And hoped I'd change the song.

But out of spite and love I stubbornly kept around.
You kept trying to lose me,
It never went to plan.

Now you think I'll stop this craziness.
I'll stop throwing out this love,
But you're no waste.

I don't know if it's over now, if you'll never call again.
Rest assured this heart doesn't change,
I'll always be around.


I am slowly beginning to believe that I am incapable of writing completely bitter poetry.

I wonder if the last three versus are too ill fitting though.

Does it sound better like this?:


Nothingness, blackness in the wake of your disappearance.
Walk out on this life, it never mattered to you,
But, then, nothing ever did.

You wandered in confused to my dark and chaotic mess
A light in the dark I thought,
But that wasn't you.

Time passed, you sang the same old song.
But I watched your face,
And caught on.

I couldn't place the subtle tones of guilt.
I didn't know what it meant to me,
Until I forced the truth.

You and me were never friends, nothing really, to any end.
You just danced along to the music,
And hoped I'd change the song.

My Heart Doesn't Break

My heart doesn't break, just goes out on vacation
It doesn't shatter into a million pieces
Or turn to dust as it beats
The sense that it's there simply ceases

Where does it go on these vacations?
Japan, England, and Italy are all bets
Or is it somewhere closer,
Just the beach while the sun sets

Does it take planes, cars, or trains
To get where it goes?
Or simply spread wings
Made out of our woes?

My heart isn't broken, just on vacation
Seeing the sights and hearing the sounds
Maybe taking a tour someplace
Where it can't be found

Breakdowns, Hurrah!!

I think I'm one of those people who would choose truth over happiness. How sad that is of me. I used to think about how silly people were to do that, and now I may be one of them. Huh.

In the meanwhile, my class will be debating fairy tales and toys and their influence on children's lives this Tuesday. I can't wait. I was the only one is my small group discussing fairy tales who defended happy endings. I asked each and every one of them if they could go back in time and change what their parents said to them, would they? Only one person wasn't sure, the rest were more sympathetic. I love fairy tales. They create this safe little environment for kids where there are always happy endings despite hardships. Yes, we have all who've been told fairy tales or watched Disney had to face disillusionment. When we find out Santa isn't real and Pocohontas died of small pox, it hurts. But is it really all that much of a price for growing up believing that there was inherent good in the world? Not for me, at least. And I cried hard when Santa became myth.

I almost had a breakdown last night. Scratch that, I did have one. I was so close to telling Melissa what I've wanted to tell someone for nearly two weeks now. I've wanted to tell her about my dad's cancer and what I felt and how I'm really not nearly as well on the inside as I look and say. It was all right there, about to be confessed, when she confessed to me that ever since she got sick and was distant from Julie and me she feels almost responsible for the really rough times we're having. At the moment the words dried up in my mouth. To rant to her then would only make matters worse and I know that Julie will be ranting to her on that end and that Melissa should only have to handle one friend's life falling apart at a time, right?

So I get home, have a brief conversation with my mom, and then, like the little emo kid I am, go to my room, watch television for an half an hour and then just break down and start crying. And me, when I cry for good reason, I cry for real. I'm talking the snot was arunnin' and my face all red and my eyes all swollen. I felt like screaming, but realized there was no point to it.

I have this rational side of me, this cold and cynical persona I developed strictly for me back when my brother and my parents fighting used to make me cry a lot. That rational persona has the habit of kicking in, telling me of how foolish I am, and that crying will solve nothing so it's useless. That's my back up to the jester defense, where I start making jokes at myself to force me to smile. I smile a lot when I cry, and it creeps even me out.

So I'm lying on the floor crying, cradling my cell, and knowing that out of my three best friends, one I won't talk to because it'll be too much her burden, the second I won't talk to because I've burdened her so much in the past and present that if I can keep any of my problems from seriously reaching her, I'll sure as hell try, and then the third one, who's my only hope.

And, as always, he's not there. He's never there when I want him or when I need him or just about any time in between. I call him about four times at half hour intervals. After each time I feel like an idiot for trying to run for him though I should know those doors are closed. He hasn't even called me since I told him about my dad having double cancer and admitted out loud for the first time I was scared. It's been about four days. Nor has he returned any of my four calls from last night.

Finally I forced myself to get the hell over it, stop being a sop, and get to BED. It was like midnight by then and I had school the next day. I slept with my favorite toy from when I was little though and I swear to you that I rested really well for once.

I Always Loved 'Ira'

So, as the small print says, this is pretty much a journal for my daily stuff and the holding place for my brainchildren. I plan, someday, to make up a code, like an asterisk next to the title of a post with a short story and so on, but I doubt I'll really need a system. It's just out there in case I ever do. This is where I will be writing things or addings things I've already written, and I invite anyone and everyone to comment and critisize. Without much more 'splainin' stuff, here's a bit I've done...

This is the prologue of a story I'm thinking of, a good way to kick things off, I think. Before I start pining between the works, anyway. =D



People made a big fuss of being dead. Sarah didn’t. She’d been dead for six months and had the corpse to prove it. Of course, Sarah would have a hard time explaining why exactly her spirit still inhabited said corpse, but that was the way things were. She was dead but she wasn’t. She still ate. She still drank. She still breathed. Yet she could remember clearly being held at gunpoint. She could remember the bullet inches away from her eye. It was going to blow her brain out of her head, she had been so sure. But she’d awoken the next day, cold, covered in blood, but not dead. Nor was she decomposing, come to think of it. Only one thing had changed since than, one thing that marked the difference between her life before and her life after. Now she saw the other dead too.
Now, not all of them were so immaterial as people liked to think. Sarah saw plenty of pale dead luring victims and taking their life to sustain their wretched existence. She saw the shadowy wraiths that entered a room and sucked a little of the life and laughter from the room. But Sarah was none of these things. She was as human as she was before. She just had died was all. These dead things didn’t notice her either for the most part, spirits drifted onward, shadows dissipated, the pale frights eventually faded. She was alone. But not for long.
He was one of the pale frights Sarah thought of. Though he’d once been alive like her. They had all been, once, but it had been a long time ago for him. Sarah’s appearance had not been as lost on others as she may have thought. His master was nervous. He didn’t know where she stood. Ira’s master didn’t like ignorance. So it was that Ira was assigned the task of finding out just what was Sarah’s purpose.
Sarah looked up from her coffee to find a young man sitting across from her. He was one of the pale, and Sarah’s heartbeat quickened, she knew their horrors, even if she didn’t know them. Ira smiled, hearing her fright; she had some sense then. Or she was faking it, a possibility he couldn’t rule out.
“What are you?” Ira never could be said to mince words.
“I could ask the same of you,” she answered quickly, watching him intently.
Ira let a smile flicker across his countenance. “Fair enough. I am a vampire. You’ve seen us around. We’re dead. But so are you. And we don’t know exactly how that works. Dead, says our vampire senses, but alive says the rest of our senses. So which is it?”
“I was shot six months ago, but I can’t tell you what’s kept me going.” Sarah had no reason not to be honest. “I’m just as human as I was before, just not as ignorant.”
Ira leaned back, frowning; he hadn’t anticipated her not knowing. She wasn’t lying as far as he could tell, he could sense a note of fear in her voice. She was afraid of what she had become. Good, it would make her easier to control. Ira invited her back to the haunt of his particular people. Perhaps someone else could help her, someone would have to know something. Hell, they were some of the oldest folk around, someone had to have heard of what she was.
With Sarah’s agreement on Ira’s insurance she would be safe, the two left for the lair of the pale frights that killed in the back alleys at night and dined in the best houses the next evening.
Though Ira took Sarah to everyone he knew, and though Sarah complied with every question she was given, no one seemed to know the answer to the dilemma. Ira was at his wit’s end, he couldn’t believe it. For all the things his people had seen it seemed absurd that something like this could escape their notice. Perhaps Sarah was a first. The first of a new race to come. Considering that end, they would probably have to kill her. Ira didn’t want to admit it, but he had come to enjoy Sarah’s company. When they weren’t desperately searching for the answer to her riddle, the two of them talked about many things. Sarah was human but inhuman, the perfect companion to understand all of Ira’s thoughts and feelings. Slowly, he began to fall in love with her. As it was with slow love, it deepened over nights and days until he at last proclaimed that he didn’t care who or what she was, he would have her as his companion for eternity. Sarah was surprised, but very pleased, as she told him she had come to love him too.
It was shortly after this that a very old vampire stumbled into the lair. Most old vampires go mad and this was no exception, though he had his occasional moments of clarity and consciousness. Ira’s people, out of pity, agreed to put him up until he was completely mad and fit to end his immortal life.
But there was a problem. The old man soon started going into fits, screaming and crying and trying to kill whoever was at hand. In one instance it was Sarah, and Ira was forced to injure the man seriously to subdue him and lock him up.
That morning, as they lie awake in bed, Sarah in Ira’s arms, Sarah shifted close to Ira’s ear. She snuggled against him and slept. When Ira awoke the next morning, he knew in a terrible instant that every immortal life protected under this roof had been slain. He could smell their blood coating the walls and the floors, and he groped for Sarah even as he knew her weight wasn’t there. Panicked, he rushed out the door to find Sarah, covered in blood, cradling the corpse of one of the friends she had made while she had stayed here. She looked up at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Ira rushed to her, and took her in his arms. Again, she snuggled into him, racked with sobs, close to his ear.
“It never goes away,” she whispered.
“What? What doesn’t go away?” Ira asked, concerned.
“The hunger,” she replied, and Ira felt the fatal sinking of teeth into his neck. He didn’t know if he cried out or not as the woman he loved began to suck his life from him. But information flowed between the two and he understood in a terrible moment what Sarah was and had always been.
“I’m the next evolutionary step in the ladder,” Sarah spat, standing. Ira didn’t know when she had stopped drinking, but he couldn’t move, he felt light-headed. “It’s about time vampires had a predator all their own. It’s a shame really, you were so cute too.” Sarah reached down, stroking the side of Ira’s face. “You said you loved me no matter what I was. Look around you Ira. Look at my slaughter. Do you still love me with what I am?”
Sarah didn’t smile, neither did Ira. The world was growing dark, and Sarah once more stroked Ira’s face. “Do you still love me?” Her face swam before his vision, her mouth obscure through his smeared blood. And then Ira saw no more.