i just cut myself over who got the pan for toasting a single piece of bread. fucking shit. this new year is NOT turning out well

fuck no one listened to me when i was a kid to hear me babbling on about how tomorrow i would have an extra day off at school because of blablitty blah blah blah.
fuck no one even asked about how my day was.


fuck you.

and i'm not allowed to mention the word biasedness.
i'm supposed to keep my mouth shut and pretend that everything's alright.

i'm supposed to be some kind of trophy daughter for you to show off to your fake friends.
to out do each other.

and i'm supposed to be damned fucking happy doing all this.
fuck. i am not okay. my brain cells are whirring at 100miles per hour.

i'm fainting in the middle of my room. cause nothing that's supposed to be in my blood stream is there.
i get a million migraines before the day is over.
i sleep at 3 in the morning and wake up half a million times in between.

i hate the noise that you fucking make all the time.
i don't even know who the you refers to.



i forget how normal food tastes like.
everything is either the devil out to tempt me. untouchables.
disgusting vile chunks of pure fat.

or they're another binge. of sugar highs, a serotonin shot coursing through my veins.
the hunger. craving. and it's not even real.
it's only for something else. intangible , they would tell you.
something you'll never grasp,hold or see.
something that almost doesn't exist, except in your head.


i'm not angry. liar.
lies. lying. lied.
like everything doesn't matter and i don't care.
like the bread crumbs scattered all over the page.
or the black smudges left over the sheets.
or the bruises you'd ask about, when you already knew

how reality tells us that we'll never break out.
how we deceive ourselves thinking that we're making progress, moving,

forward. except we're just going around in circles.
every bend and corner, the false disguise of surprise.
we've been there before. trapped.
forever in this space and time. lost,
to the fairy tales they fed us from once a upon a time.

rewind. the glaring messages. in your face.
beautiful breathtaking images. and perhaps for that one flickering second if flashed across the screen
you imagined, that it could be you. in that stunning red dress.
red. always red. a beautiful rich velvet read. scarab beetle red.never maroon. always red. blood red.


like the waves of anger that you can never express.
ones that you can only swallow back down
everytime the acid singes your throat.


waves of defeat. retreating. cowards.
what ebb and flow? cowards. rearing up to the moment.
letting everyone else around to egg you and push you to the brink.
only to realise that you can't and won't ever (be able to) fight back.


your beautiful praises. never given.
or dished to us. me. only the harsh words of criticism. everyone's alone.
only saved, and slathered, on someone else


i'd like to feel it burn. the bubble of bare skin.
the charred smell. rising. maybe then i'd feel real again.
a real abandoned little doll. after they got tired of playing tea.


less than perfect. more broken than fixed.


how is it that i've read so many books on people saving people,people saving themselves, people being saved.
but i can never save myself.


that i've spent so much time documenting my eating disorder, but never documented myself.
without a record. gone disappeared.

i can't die yet. or wither into obscurity.
i need to bid my time. to rise. to rise.
to have something to show for.
to exist. to live. to be real.
before i can end it all.


everything we do, we do it to feel alive.
like we're finally real.


like we've broken out of the wooden body of Pinocchio.
like we could actually breathe. and not live, suffocated.


te amo.
love. love. love. love. love. love. love.
love me.
please.
please. please. please.
please.please.please.please.please.please.
love me.

jarring. it doesn't even fit.
awkward. even these heavy hearted pleas.
blurring into each other, until they look foreign on the page.

can't recognise them even more.
don't remember. what they mean anymore.


they were right. (who are they?)
but they were right.
art comes from those who suffer.
extremes.

never from those who live their happy lives, optimistic.
painful. it's always painful.
all the things we've swallowed. never truffles.


they're the ones who gawk. confused. and in half understanding.
a quarter. maybe a little less than a fifth.
and exclaim with the pretty pink handkerchiefs.
only they're silk mouchoirs. or some fancy french term.
with rhinestones and feathers.

it's spectacular. so intriguing. awe-inspiring.
because everyone has someone else to stand up for them.
when they're down.
except us. me.





















sucker. you pathetic sucker. like any self pity is going to help.

i kind of want to just breathe.
how come i'm always supposed yo back down?

funny how in your whole life's experience, the one thing they never teach you is how to write suicide notes.

nice ones. ones that will haunt people forever. the same way they haunted you for the same number of years you were the alive.

how you can never manage to spill your ghosts in ink.
how they shimmer and waver and disappear right a the tip.
and you realise that you'll never be able to do it right?
that your demons will stay with you no matter where you run.
and that you'll never be ever rid of them. and the world will forever be blind to their existence.

that everyone else will only see the things that you've been lost to.
and not your soul. not the demons that were plaguing you since the start of it all.
they will never see what you've seen.
never the horrors that lurk uninvited. behind the cracks that nobody ever remembers to dust.


compulsion. boxed up. everything has to be.
tagged. labeled. kept in a record.

i could rattle my heart off. and spill my world.
ever heard of re-fills?

it never works. when you spill the stories, you're only spilling the stories.
nothing's changed or is going to. cept only someone else knows about every single disgusting detail of your vile life.
dirty little secrets. that's a song right?
has been. faded similarly, from obscurity.
but they'll remember.

as you deceive yourself that one day someone will find your words at least mildly lyrical.
maybe not.

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