meow

 its been fine honestly. 

tomorrow is the big day and if my parents find out i will kill myself actually. 

anyway i am listening to metal and i am trying to manifest something to write about. i get ideas when im praying the rosary but im afraid that if i interrupt my prayer i will cause God to smite me.

i finally finished my designs and as i said i will be going tomorrow then on the 6th. no plans for the weekend. im not gonna drink because bad for the healing. sad! i wanted to drink to the point of vomiting blood.

i watched napoleon. i find it sad. poor man was genuinely autistic probably. i think this is the case for most of the men who have wanted to conquer the world. the case with men who try to invade russian territory. its a banal and pointless persuit. i cant imagine these people lay on their deathbeds and are happy with themselves and what theyve done. 

argh! i dont know im braindead today.

long time no see... on the self. myself.

 

its been so rough sometimes. i think im a bit better. ive been fasting and meditating. praying a lot.

i booked two appointments for three small tattoos, i know what i want to get but im not sure exactly how or exactly where. im thinking a cross of saint james on my sternum and an ornamented christogram on my right hip or lower abdomen. on my left, a parallel but with a heartagram. it sounds bad when i saw it out loud. i dont care. 

at mass the other day the priest spoke about how all things inevitable tend to be hard to predict. the second coming of Christ, God, death. i will die, probably sooner than later. sooner than other people in my class. i decided to go for it. 

about a month ago i went to a concert. my favorite artist of all time, my favorite album from the last many years. why not. why not.

ive always been ashamed of myself, my tastes, my likes and dislikes. i didnt seem to fit into any box i wanted to, i was always orbiting on a ring. always landing somewhere in the middle. as i grew, i tended away from these boxes. i went upward instead of left or right.

im intensely sensitive and my sensitivity betrays me. i wanted to be a paleontologist at six, a historian at seven, a tattoo artist at eight, a psychologist at ten, then all of it and more at fifteen. as the age of choosing came closer, i got sick. i lost everything i had, my mind and identity, to illness.

this illness, my new self, maladie, engulfed me and cleared me from my appetite. cured me from my desires, i was chaste in every way that mattered and didnt. i didnt eat, endured cold summers and frigid winters, i didnt speak, i didnt drink. i did it all for a bigger thing than me. not a God, but a fog.

i learned to live with it, i couldnt purge it. i figured it didnt replace me but consumed me and made me a part of it. i tried to then explore ways in which i could, maybe, implode it and make it a part of me rather than the other way around. as to have more territory for me. 

my family is of conservative values. ive been in a haze so long. ive pretended i have ideas that arent mine and dressed in ways that would please them. little floral dresses, i kept growing my hair perpetually through my teenage years only to fall back on my own preferred way to have it- buzzed off. i used makeup i didnt like and spoke like i didnt feel. i started doing my nails as my mom liked, short and pink. i figured that the way to receive the reward of peace was to please my dad, keep sweet and agreeable.

i never was like that when i was younger, i started listening to metal at 10 and would be waiting to be able to have my sleeves done, to get a conch piercing, to drive a motorcycle and own an electric guitar, dye my hair black. i wanted to either keep it hip-length or have a buzzcut. i wanted thick eyeliner like the girls on tumblr. i grew to refine my tastes, but the base of it never changed. i wanted to feel strong and firm. i had a love for lace, pearls diamonds. i had a love of silk and the idea of running away. i loved science and music and history. i was reading novels and spending hours looking at paintings online. i was different in body and spirity. i never minded it, i barely have this any attention even if i noticed it. 

i wanted, however, more than anything, to have the glow that i perceived from the other girls in my classroom. pretty things i saw wandering. i used to hallucinate when in the class, fairy realms and enchanted forests. something within me was not clear enough. the purity and perfection they had on their skins i possessed only inside of my mind, in an abstract and twisted way. twisted like a tree from my dreams, as in made of the same material, only a darker and richer tone. warped into a shape it seemed only i understood. a strange misshapen spiral pulled from the earth.

i felt cursed by God. i feared God when i started believing. i loved him through the fear when i understood you could. fear and love are opposites but can exist in the same universe.

i let go of the traditional values of my family, the ones i worked so hard on implementing on me, as armor. 

but lately i feel like my sorrow comes from that trying to shape this tree into a straight line when its been calcified for so long. maybe leaving it as is, watering it still, decorating its branches could bring it back to life?

im called to decorate my branches, im called to taking care of what i am without the intention of change or beauty. the persuit of beauty has corrupted me for ages. my body is meant to be used and shaped into what i want. its my vessel to care for if i want and my temple to adorn. and my life is a book nobody will read that i get to write. i get to write it as i may, i cant fear judgement like i have. 

i cant permit this to end me. if i run out of pages early, who minds? i was born alone and i will die alone, came into this earth alone with God, developed adoration and grew strong alone with God, will die alone with God, and die satisfied. i will do what i have to do to move my body into the shape of my soul, i will do it all even if it means rejection. if i cant have myself, i cant have anything. even if having myself means losing everything else. if i have myself, if i can look within myself enough to find God.

if i can use my flesh to make something real and solid rather than something empty and beautiful, then i should stop trying to settle for half and half.  

lullaby, low

 

Cross over and turn
Feel the spot don't let it burn
We all want we all yearn
Be soft don't be stern
Lullaby
Was not supposed to make you cry
I sang the words I meant
I sang

lullaby - low

soul love 22 nov 22

I was so terribly acquainted with his face. 

–They say if you love an artist, you’ll live forever.

–Well, that's very nice. Keep still.

I remember those same words, repeating over and over in my studio

and all over the city. I recall every place where

we shared this exchange through the years we cradled.

It's cemented in my mind, it's familiar. If i close my eyes

I’m sure i can still hear it resonating through the stuffed

out halls of our apartment. Because i do this often.

I remember him perfectly, as I knew him perfectly.

His face and his shoulders, mostly. His body as well.

I remember his legs and the exact position of his oldest

childhood scar over his knobby, pale knee.
I remember its color. I remember it looked strangely

white over his knees which, like his elbows, always seemed

to flare pink. Like he had been kneeling or laying over his elbows.

His shoulders were small and boney. I remember the line of his

collarbone curve up to the sides of his frame. I

remember the middle, the tip of his drained

sternum, looking hollow.

–¿What are you up to?

–Not much.

–Dont seem like it. 

–Just a landscape.

–Let me see.

I remember that hands were thin and long, like spiders. I always

took special care to portray them correctly. He lifted the canvas.

I studied his movements, his protruding knuckles, the smallest

blemishes over the peaks of them. As a kid, his father wanted him

to become a wrestler. He wanted to be a dancer, or a painter. He became

a quiet musician, a mute poet, but mostly a half-alcoholic hermit

and slight banker like his old man. He carried himself with a great

posture despite his great stature. I barely recall that detail.

I remember he was awfully tall, ran in the family. It seemed less

prominent with a frame like his. Like a small woman,

ribs like a cats.

I remember how he was slow moving. He took my sketchbook

up to see it proper. I looked at the movements of his eyes. I

remember his irises so perfectly. Grey infested green. His left eye

had a small spot the color of dry moss right below the pupil.

His eyelashes were long and thick, but would drag down, like

silk fans. If you were to look from a matching angle, everytime he looked

at the floor it seemed like he was in a peaceful sleep. 

I remember the way his muted waterline curved into his lashline,

and the way his eyelid seemed so thin. Under the light,

one could see his iris. His eyes were a dull flame, closer to

death than birth. I remember the way his eyelids folded as he

held my sketchbooks up, as to examine them better. He had an

ordinary face but possessed a strange beauty. 

I remember how his skin draped over his sternum like wet

cloth over metal. Every part of his body was a ghastly

vision.

I remember it well. The exact way that his mouth curved.

He had a slight asymmetry. He slept on his right, so the right

side of his mouth would crawl slightly higher than the left.

From the center to the ends, they would go up slightly, at about

the same rate as his cupid's bow, perfectly brisk. Then, they

would bow lower, and end in a tiny smirk. The ends of his mouth

were dimpled and low. His lips were thin and their

edges were sharp.

–Its beautiful. youve outdone yourself.

–You always say that.

–I always mean it.

His teeth were rounded, damaged, small. But not too small

. I could not see many teeth when he smiled, his mouth

was not big. His forehead was high.

His cheekbones were the same. He was all angles, shadows

and cavities. High and mathematically correct. His chin into

his jaw, shadowing into his ear, shadowing into his cheekbone,

molding into his delicate, short nose. The tip casted a shadow

onto his philtrum. Carefully, it seemed. His eyes on each side

of his stout bridge, his lashes casting a shadow onto the whites

of his eyes. His eyelids shadowed into his temples, into his hair. 

But I didn't have to look at him. I knew it all. I knew how

everything looked, at each angle and with every lighting.

I remember how he looked like laying down and on his feet.

Nude and fully draped. I remember the exact course his

blood rushed down his nose when he got too drunk or dehydrated.

After I cleaned him up, I ran my finger through that path as

he started fading into sleep. His hair, each curl, where it l

anded on his face or his neck. I remember which spines of

his protruded more than others, I remember how each bone

and muscle looked at each pose. 

I could draw him, sculpt him from memory. I could, closing

my eyes, make an exact replica. I can, from thin air, pin the

exact dimensions and the exact placements. His high brows,

his stretched eyes, I could create a palette of every single color

on his body if you gave me a place and hour, given we were

talking daylight. Light source and color, given we were talking

artificial light. I remember how his legs stretched. Not muscular,

thin. Not soft, really. Solid enough for him to walk so much.

He walked a lot. The exact peach for his lips, exact blue, gray

and green for each strand of his iris, the exact brown of his hair,

the exact pinks id have to mix with the yellows to create

the perfect beige for his skin.

I remember him perfectly, i remember how thin his skin felt,

i remember how his ribs felt under my hand. I remember how

the exact weight of his skull when i lifted it to put a pillow

under his head, his habit of falling asleep on the table.

His arms crossed, right over left. His legs stretched and his feet

pointing up.

–It really is beautiful. You are very talented. I wish you could see

yourself like I do.

–I don't think I need to. 

And its true. I didnt need to at the time. I kept looking at him.

I remember his natural scent and his favorite perfume over it.

I remember it after five minutes and five hours. I remember his

voice after a night out screaming, after a day in crying, after hot tea,

after a pack of cigarettes. I remember the cigarettes on his breath,

mostly when we slept together, which was not most days. I remember

the pattern he took when rolling in bed. I knew every passing

thought. If he wanted to have sex, I could tell from the night

before. If he was going to break

into tears, i could tell why and for how long and with which severity

a full day or two before it happened. I just knew him like that. I remember

it perfectly. I think I still do, at least. wherever he is.

a bluebeard of wives, sabrina orah mark for the paris review, october 2019

 

“Sabrina,” says my husband’s first wife, “is married to my husband.” I hear this through The Grapevine, a multibranched root system resembling the hearts of my husbands’ two ex-wives planted in the same plot of deep, fertile soil. Vines like earthy veins, growing tough and twisty. A friend brings me cuttings. I hold them to my ear and listen.

I look in the mirror. I have become uglier and stronger. I look out the window. A white shed glows in my yard. I live in “the unguessable country of marriage.”

“Bluebeard” first appeared in Charles Perrault’s seventeenth-century Tales of Mother Goose. A man with a blue beard, several missing wives, and extraordinary wealth gives his newest wife all the keys to all the doors of his very fine house. “Open anything you want,” he says. “Go anywhere you wish.” Except for the “little room,” he says.

I ask my husband to clean out the garage, but instead, while I am gone for the summer with our sons, he builds in our backyard—dead center—a white shed. As the walls go up, his second wife drops their daughter off to live with us, possibly forever. She also drops off many boxes. Contents unknown. The garage is half empty now. The shed is half full. I call my mother. “Now there’s a shed in my yard,” I say. “Of course there’s a shed,” says my mother. “Better check it for wives.”

There are doors no third wife should ever open.

My husband, possibly the gentlest man on earth, came to me in a coat of old vows. I married him knowing he arrived with wives. Maybe I married him a little bit because the vows had somehow deepened the lines on his face. Like handwriting I wanted to read, but never could. I married him knowing, but I didn’t know the wives would keep growing in a locked room in my heart. Sometimes they move around, angrily. Sadly. Wives, like peeling wallpaper. Curling wives. Wives like skin. Wives who tell their daughters things that their daughters, my husband’s daughters, don’t tell me. That silence breathes inside me. “What did she say?” I am always asking. “What did who say?” my husband answers.

“Perhaps,” writes Angela Carter, “in the beginning, there was a curious room, a room like this one, crammed with wonders; and now the room and all it contains are forbidden you, although it was made just for you, had been prepared for you since time began, and you will spend all your life trying to remember it.”

I am not an incredibly jealous person, but it hurts to think of my husband saying, “I do. I do. I do.”

Once a month, for over a year, I am told my husband’s first wife is moving to our town any day now, but she never does. It’s like when my sons put silver spoons under their pillows hoping it will snow in Georgia. Neither the snow nor the wife ever comes. Except for once. But it wasn’t snow, it was hail.

Marriage is hard. There are days when all the dead wives are me. The wife who is never sad. Dead. Hanging on a hook. The wife with a good paying job. Dead. The wife with a clean garage and a window that looks out her kitchen. Dead. The dancing wife. Dead. The famous wife. The wife with straight teeth. The wife who throws sparkling dinner parties filled with brilliant poets. Dead, dead, dead.

What do you call more than one wife? A bluebeard of wives?

Grimms’ Fairy Tales

, Wilhelm Grimm (in the annotations) makes a handwritten comment that Bluebeard believed the blood of his wives could cure his beard of its blue. This is why the wives’ blood is collected in basins. He bathes in it. His dead wives are his medicine. An imaginary disease needs an unimaginable cure. “Magic,” writes Maria Tatar, “happens on the threshold of the forbidden.”

I look through old photographs of my husband. In one, he is with his second wife and their newborn daughter, who is asleep on a pillow. The pillowcase is gray and white and I recognize it as the same soft, worn pillowcase I now sleep on. Have slept on for years. My head fills up with hot static. A biting shame. I pull the pillowcase off and put it with the rags. I should give it to my stepdaughter, but I don’t and I don’t know why I don’t. I just don’t.

I am married to a man I love very much who had many lives before the life I now share with him. Sometimes I look around for myself in those lives. Under the bed. Behind a tree. One day I might just jump out, whispering boo.

Or maybe the wives should put me in a barrel stuck full of nails and roll me downhill into the river.

The first time I met my husband’s father was at his funeral. The casket was open. To this day, my husband’s father is the only dead person I have ever laid eyes on. Our son, Noah, would have his eyes, his mouth, but I didn’t know this yet. After my husband gave the eulogy, but before he could return to the nave, my husband’s first wife flew toward him like a soft white bat. A blur in the air that had been locked in a chamber for years. She collapsed into his arms. Shaking and sobbing and coming into focus, as if she was returning to life. I sat in the pew like a dumb little girl. They shared grief and they shared daughters. And by the time they had broken each other’s hearts, I was still nothing but a child.

If Bluebeard’s wives were killed for having laid their eyes on all the dead wives who came before them, then why did the first wife die? What could she have seen?

I’m the wife all the way at the end of the paper chain. I look to the left down the long hallway. I see the little room. The little room where writing is safe. Here is the combination: key, flower, egg, apple, heart. I open the door. I go in. Look at this place. It smells like being alive. If I could do it all over again I’d marry my husband in this little room. I’d give birth to my sons in this room. I’d die in this room. I would. I will. I do.

Sabrina Orah Mark is the author of the poetry collections The Babies and Tsim Tsum. Wild Milk, her first book of fiction, is recently out from Dorothy, a publishing project. She lives, writes, and teaches in Athens, Georgia. 

if God loves me tonight he will take me

i want to die because im tired. im so tired. i want to die but i know i wont make it to heaven. i dont care. having a body is horror.

yes gaga

 

arizona

holiday season started today technically so i was thinking of talking about christmas from when i was ten i think. i mightve been younger.

this was back when my dads side of the family still put a bit of effort into getting together for christmas. we spent the time in arizona. i was not very exited. i liked texas. but the log cabin type hotel thing we stayed at was beautiful. i learned to appreciate americas beauty early on, mostly after this trip. i remember the hotels shop sold crystals and i was obsessed with crystals. i got a little pouch of small pebble-sized crystals. mostly fake, looking back. my brother got some magnets.

i remember the food. dry turkey, cranberry sauce. i never loved thanksgiving-christmas food, not american anyway. but well. it was good. it made me nauseous at the time. and i was starting to despise food in general. but i could handle drink well. i drank hot chocolates and teas. i dont remember how hot chocolate tastes like. it seems so good sometimes. im more of a black americano person nowadays. always have been i think, since my parents allow me to drink it.

i loved the cabin thing. it was a beautiful, ornate yet homely hotel. christmas decoration is one of my favorite things ever when its done right. my grandmas house stands at the border of texas. its small and was made in the 70s. last time we held a christmas gathering there, it was untouched. the kitchen was all golden brown, glossy wood and weird sand colored marble. the christmas lights were draped over the cheap, old christmas tree. nutcrackers. i was obsessed with the nutcracker as a kid. the little ceramic angels sprinkled over the house. santa claus statues over the kitchen and the tables and desks, and these weird statue thingies that are like small christmas scenes that play music and have little lights.

and these

my brother was obsessed with trains so me and my family( i think it was just me, my aunt, my grandmother, my parents and brother) took the polar express grand canyon railway thing.

it was beautiful, it looked gorgeous. the train was beautiful and gleamed warm lights. i love my little brother. i always was protective over him. i always just wanted him to keep being happy and gleeful.

i dont remember much, i just remember how pretty everything was on that train. it was snowing, i had never seen snow until that point in my life. i remember a picture being taken of me and i think an actor who was entertaining on the train, he asked if i was going to show it to my friends. to which i responded that i didnt have any friends. then my mom scolded me for being such a negative little goblin.

earthmover

 

wondering about how close i am to the day God will strike his final blow. to my jaw or my nose. im so surrendered. i feel terrible. im ill and sad. this heartache is killing me. i wish i was somewhere else. this has been the worst point of my life. im in the depths and i know it can get worse. i know the ways it can get worse but i dont know which one is more likely. 

im suicidal. but i dont want to do it yet. i have things to do and knots to tie. i want to die. i want to leave. i wish that death was more like a slip into a pleasant dream forever. where i could rest. i wish death will be kind, like the edge of wakefulness before sleep. blissful, quiet, slow-moving dark such as the depths of the ocean. nothing to do and nothing to see. the pressure comes from each angle, from each face. 

im so terribly strung out. it feels horrible here. its cold, damp and bleak. my room is dark.

had one of those dreams again where i live a pretty life and im satisfied and all around me is pleasure and this palpable, muted bliss. its a bliss so dense and all enveloping. one of those dreams where, after you just woke up and your consciousness is not exactly aligned in clarity. 

its like one of those where you have the feeling that if you don't move at all and are able to push past the wake, you may be able to slip back into it. and if youre able to repeat the cycle over and over, maybe life in our world could become irrelevant and you could live someplace where the land is flowing with milk and honey or what have you. 

i was at a private concert of sorts i dreamt i was beautiful and healthy. i remember i had a gift, a painting, for one of the artists. i gave it to his manager, or what seemed to be. he pulled me aside while we were waiting, told me that the artist was suffering gravely. he described me his symptoms. i felt bad. i didnt know he was in such great distress, i related deeply. i told his manager, or whatever he was, that i knew what it felt like- that i was a psychologist and if he ever needed any help or had any questions on how to deal he could always call me.

the act started and lasted a few minutes. the artist, who by this point had not met me, recognized me as the girl who was talking to his manager who couldve been his dad or even a security guard for all i knew. he came down after it all happened and we spoke. he was gleaming, his skin was smooth and his hair framed the sides of his face and fell into loose ash brown curls. he looked like me. only a bit. the clear, pearlescent greenish eyes and the pale face and the small frame, young looking face. smooth angles and pink lips and cheeks like a child. 

we spoke and he knew i knew of his issues. i consoled him, he seemed very upset. i tried everything. he maybe cried a bit, teared up a little. he was glittery.

i tried to tell him how much he mattered to everyone around us. how beautiful and talented and kind he was, what a luminous heart he possessed. how rare his gifts are. but i knew it was useless. we bonded over our grief and sorrow. how forsaken we could feel. he cried and spoke quietly about how his sensitivity was a curse as i held him by the side. we were there for a bit. 

 i wanted to tell him what i would tell myself, that it is, but he is a great artist and he would live forever. i told him i was sorry and he didnt deserve this. which is true. he calmed down. he looked at me and i could tell by his expression he was done crying. he brushed his cheeks with his hand.

i dont know if hes real in this realm. he told me thanks, he wanted a cigarette and i had no money. he mattered to me so much. he shared two cigarettes with me. we talked a bit about smaller things. he had to leave, and he caresses my jaw and looked at me in the eyes and he said thanks. he went on his way. part of me wanted to keep in contact. but i knew he had better things to do.

 he kissed my hairline and i kissed his hand and blessed him without speaking. he went on his way and i put the cigarettes in a small ornamented box. i felt starstruck, like i saw an angel. maybe he felt the same thing. one of those encounters where the two sides feel like they saw an apparition. i knew we were going to keep each other near forever, just not physically. he walked off. i stayed thinking. 

in my second dream i dreamt that i was beautiful and healthy. i was with someone. i think i remember him from many years ago. i mustve seen him last when i was maybe fourteen. thats just my hypothesis. its a face i feel like ive seen before, a face i used to be very familiar with even. i dont know who it was though. in my dream, i liked him. he was peaceful and serene. very quiet. in this context he was someone i knew well. i was with many people.

in this dream, i saw dead people and we were in an island full of rain. i was with someone and he liked to surf in the morning. it rained and rained. in this dream, i saw dead people. i saw people i hadnt seen in ages. my old jazz teacher, my aunt. people who have died. my grandparents. i felt like their existence was fragile. one sneeze on them and they would evaporate. it wasnt like that. 

we were peaceful, this stranger and i. we would lay there, over the green ocean waves, cradled on top of each other like cats. taking in the sun. in this dream, there was no God. there was nothing. i was free to do anything and i would never die. i was free in an island paradise. i ate fruit and i was already dead. i was young, healthy, beautiful. he brought me paint in the evenings and small 1x1 canvases and i painted and painted. i painted the man from my other dream, i painted women in big dresses, i painted him. i would paint while he would have fruit for supper. i could smell the salt and eucalyptus on his skin from my small studio. the walls were teal and worn down. the rain fell over me and my canvas, i didnt mind. 

he was white hot, always baked by the sun. stood tall and strong like a tree. golden glow to his pearlescent opal looking skin. eyes shining like golstone and tigers eye. everyones was like that. i wouldnt get too close. we were correlated in some way. all of us. we were in a weird eden and they couldnt hurt us.

i think i have influenza, i wasnt vaccinated for it and i wont even try. i will not get it checked out and i will not take medicine or eat much. i will let myself die this week. see what happens.

today i will lay there and let myself die

im infected from every wound ive nursed this year, ive let myself turn yellow and burgundy.

i watched the deep cuts i house grow purple this week. i watched the slits on my surface crust up and dry down.

im so alone here. im waking up late and reeking. im a slug, i cant trust who i was or who i can be. im disgusted at myself. i could gag.

all i ever needed was love. i cant have even a string between my mind and my body. i can feel myself start to rot. i can feel my consciousness leave my body. im seeing myself from an outside perspective. i want to make revenge out of my body, i want to make a bonfire so tall it will be seen from miles away. i want to make the entire city go dark and gray, i want everyone to breathe in my scent and suffocate. by the time it goes out, i will be gone.

i want to run into the wilderness and let myself start faltering, i want to trip and fall and bleed my knees out. i want to fall so bad i cant get up. on the floor, i want my breathing to hurt. and i want to breathe heavy and rapidly. i want to feel warmth when my cuts start bleeding down my limbs and ribs and face.

i want to realize i wont be able to go on this time. i want to try hard to pin myself down, as to not feel any more pain than i need to. as to stop moving, since moving has started to hurt so much and theres nowhere to go. and i want to be fine with that. i want to be so easily fine with that. i want to know how it feels like to let go of ideas so heavily cemented in my head. something as deep wired as survival, as will to fight if theres no other way to end up alive.

i want to keep fighting limply, just using my lungs, heart and hands. without much real motivation. knowing the end. let it crash over me like a wave. i want to feel my pulse slower, growing cooler, chiller. i want to feel as if the shakiest gasp will feed me the air i need for now. i want to twitch without thinking, i want to feel my body contract. i want to see the moonbeams twinkling and dancing over the ocean. i want to see the sunlight break through glass and onto the marble floor of my childhood home. i want to see my friends laugh around a playing table. i want to see my cats ball up by my sleeping body. then i want to die.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY VILLE VALO

 

i love you you keep me happy and spiritually nourished with your beautiful music youre a beautiful man and always will be i hope you live up to 1000 i hope youre always living in deep pure bliss.

no one is ever going to want me.. :{

 

oh God im sorry but i kind of do hate men. i hate them. ive always avoided being objectified, ive always wanted to be seen as an equal. i now know i dont want that either. i dont need their approval. i dont really mind what they think of me as an entity. i know they dont mind what i think, for example- thats on an individual level though. i think no man would like to be seen as untouchable by women as a whole. i dont think anyone liked the idea of being untouchable by anyone anyway. point is different

i am handled so rough at home. my dad wont hug me. if he does, he presses me very harshly against his chest and it hurts me. he twists my neck and spine and pets me like a big dog. its not his fault. i feel disgusting. i feel unlovable. i feel like i dont deserve anything. whats more. i feel like i dont deserve anything. im so ashamed of myself for where ive landed at. 

i am so cruel. i like him but i feel like im not enough. i feel so inferior. i dont even know if its things he does and says or things i perceive because of my own complexes. im so sad. im going crazy. its like, through introspective, ive accidentally broken myself. i cant trust myself! and im such a cruel person. here i am taking about it again. its like that guy from brand new.  im a bad person and deserve to die, thats how he sounds like in every song from devil and God. and he was! good people arent thinking about if theyre evil or not! 

im so cruel and evil! im soo cruel and evil! and i know this because my throat is KILLING me my nose is super dry and im in pain! i hope my septum is fine.. i hope i wake up tomorrow and life is so nice and kind and im 12 again and awful, bad, terrible things have happened to me but i cant be paid to care.. and im playing the piano in my pink room and im ok. im listening to like daughters and keaton henson and im ok.

for the life of me i dont know what is going on. i see things and hear things. im doing bad.

God deliver me from suffering..

have a happy week... im in hell

 

 have a great week! yay

what the heck!!