Self-Portrait

Wednesday

I'm just trying to feed the baby birds - this only looks like bulimia.

Maybe if I feed them enough, one day their wings will be strong enough to carry them out of the birdnest. My birdnest. Birdnest brain, birdnest hair - I don't care.

I remember the day the eggs hatched in my skull.
Incessant chirping and squawking
Violent, noisy colour pervading all the blanks
The filled blanks as well as the empty
Violent, noisy, anti-lullabies
The insomniac, the bulimic, the fraud
It's the birds, the birds make me do this!

"Birds ate it," I wanted to tell them. "Birds ate my face."

The magpies caught the glint in my eyes
With their beady sight and hungry beaks
Who said diamonds last forever?

Sunday

Sleeping Beauty doesn't even come close.

I can't remember how to sleep, I can't remember how to wake up.
All I remember is how to float in the ether of the distant memory of a dream...

Ethereal seclusion.
My hands are tied with ribbon woven from the wings of a moth - we frazzle in the ether eternally, as the moon sings us the lie of a lullaby.

Wednesday

All I've been retrieving from the well of words within me will now be being poured into pages instead of this blog - I may write some more fragments occasionally, but my novel is where most of my words will be going now. It's thirsty, and needs to be watered so it'll grow.

Sunday

17 dead butterflies and a baby in the womb.


The butterflies awoke me early this morning - so early the world was still asleep under it's blanket of darkness, so early that I could still taste the party four hours ago. It tasted like heroin and unknown familiarity - qualia?
They flutter their diaphonous pages of wings insistently, demanding I awake my ears to the news they have been crafting for several months now.
The beating of their wings sends mellifluous, lyrical vibrations into my soul; they seem to sing about a caterpillar enclosed in his coffin of a chrysalis, who's just dying to meet me...
I swallow them back down so I can't hear their threats - the taste of thyme and rust slides down my throat, as I begin to digest the news: how shall I choose to interpret it?
Do I accept this cadaverous newcomer and welcome what fortune he may bring - or do I remove the foetal corpse from the chrysalis so that I may find shelter there?

Saturday

This is why you should take your anxiety medication.

This morning I vomited 17 dead butterflies, fluttering in the spectral zombie fashion which is so popular nowadays.
But the sickness remains within me, I should have chosen to keep my collection in my pillowcase, instead of the hour glass which I've become. The ethereal, faerie-like creatures fall fatally through, piercing through the walls in revolt. I try to swallow them back down, vainly hold onto the glass to keep it together, but all that happens is it splinters into stars - embedding in my hands to create a beautiful crimson night sky in my palms.
I bequeath this crimson night to one I love and loathe.
I'll bathe you in the night, until my palms whiten and the makeshift stars lose their shine...

17 dead butterflies
Fighting through my neck
Entering the crimson sky
Fluttering plague unto the Wreck.

17 dead butterflies
Wings all painted dead
Once more in my heart reside
When the plague has all been shed.

17 dead butterflies
Presently interred within
And visible behind my eyes
Until the ending again begins...

Wednesday

Lolita and the Humbert Bird...


I didn't want them to, but they did.
My tectonic plates got excited, too excited, hit yours and now I'm not sure whose fault my epicentre is.
I should have forced them to remain placid, but now the crust's broken, the earth's dancing and I'm uprooting the homes of the ruby throated hummingbirds.
The branches entangle around my ruby throat in self-defence, and the rise and fall of the earthy waves show no mercy.
The birds are a beautiful illustration to this catasrophe; their mellifluous, lyrical songs providing the perfect soundtrack to disaster.
My ruby red throat plumes feathers, soft and weightless. My arms, by the multitudinous hands of the trees, bend to look like wings.
I might look like you now, but I'll never be able to sing like you.

Look out for me.
The silent ruby-throated hummingbird, flying solitary, gazing at the wreckage of her epicentre.
A red feather of blood dives into the debris.

I don't think I'll write anymore, because words don't mean anything now.

Tuesday

I don't think I can write anymore because there are no words, no possible combination of words and poorly strung sentences, to possibly explain anything now.

Wednesday

Choking on a Lego brick - inspired by Psychotic.


I promised her I'd construct my next piece of writing out of Lego blocks.

So I'm sticking together the primary colours, building a shelter out of the warmth of red, happiness of yellow and dreams of blue.

The house of cards can not possibly compare to the domains of an imaginary childhood, rented memories I don't want to return.


The tectonic plates are yet to test their strength on my new home.


Even they excite in the event of your smile...


James May had the right idea. Please don't demolish my plastic palace as well...

Monday

She taped the house of cards together
to protect it from the wrath of the tectonic plates.
But when the wind whispers, we all go down together.
I have evidence that it's just the two of me; no weeds growing through the debris for me to either feed or uproot.
Self-destructive celebrations are always the most enjoyable.

Saturday

I think there's another person inside me.

And I don't want to murder it, like he does.
How could he not already love the life that's growing there, like I?

We are babies ourselves.
Perhaps the life I'll give will take care of us and help us grow up, into the adults we're supposed to be?

It's not even definite. I'll find out next weekend...

All I know is, I'll be devastated if I am... And heartbroken if I'm not.

If I end up devastated... Whose life do I sacrifice?
Mine, or yours?

Friday

My friend Shadow


Shadow tries to slip away

So she sews him to my sole

A dim reflection of me he is

Like a dark visual echo


In certain light he multiplies

In darkness he escapes

But the revenant returns again

In reflected hostile shapes


Sometimes he walks afore me

And other times behind

But within my heart I know

He's there, and in my mind


Shadow tries to extricate

Tugging stitches which bind us

And all I wish to eradicate

Are the memories which defined us


Shadow tried to slip away

And this time he succeeded

I miss his darkness dancing

Because it's what my soles have always needed.

Tuesday

Please go back underground.

You were conceived by tectonic plates, dancing life into your foetal form.
And you danced with your parents beneath the earths crust, and you danced your way up through the cracks and mess they made.
You danced upon the rubble, and now you dance upon me.
When will little girls learn to not play in the world's wreckage?
It would be so easy to slip between the cracks and quake it all.


How much higher will you go?
Can I come dance with you on the clouds?
Please?

Sunday

And I raise my head to the coruscating firmament, breathing smoke signals to whichever divine entity cares to decipher my message...

Incorporeal foetal words inside me, begging to be given birth to.
Perhaps I'll go to the hospital, release this life into the blank pages in which they belong...

My baby, it was an accidental abortion. I will endow my life upon you, trade my breaths for your imaginary existence.

We are only guilty of loving too much.

Tuesday

If we are 95% our surroundings, you must be me.


I eviscerated myself and flushed my being away.

Disintegrating, deliquescing.

Particles of me dancing with the fishes.

Particles of me reforming, into the jellyfish I've always been.

It dignifies my nothingness; my lack of heart, brain and lungs.

Come and swim with me in tsunami lake, I'll enclose my tendrils around you in an everlasting embrace.

You'll learn to bloat like I have, my fishy friends will devour you like they'll soon be devoured.

The sirens won't sing for you, music is a privilege of the living.

Surgical gills on your wrists, allow my vampiric tendrils to kiss them better...


I am 95% water. The other 5% is you.
I should have been born beneath the waves.
Mummy and daddy could tell, so my name tells all.
Kiss the floating stars in the coagulating sea.
Wish upon the pretty ones, they shoot into infinity
And escape this liquid coffin.
I wish I could shoot myself too.
Or find my home, with the other jellyfish and Coral plants...

Sunday


You remind me of the lessons the kaleidoscope taught me.

I never knew such beauty could shine through the plethora of sharded glass.

Cavorting with you in our golden tube, showered by the rainbows of a future memory.

A nicotine kiss in the crystal smoke reminds me of the lessons you're about to teach me.



A diamond embedded in your chest, piercing excruciating passion through the bars of the bird cage. Who let her go?

I leave this diamond here in her memory, and a withered rose for the dead.

I slumber, somnambulating in concentric circles between the bars of bones, awaiting the revenant's return.

She's already here, isn't she?



Excuse me, it's just my peculiarity of painting disease pretty,

with my can of words and brush of lips.


Saturday

Pretty little blister kiss.

We're spinning again, can you feel it?
The paper wind rustling all around us,
Yesterday's newspaper's screaming in our ears,
The infinite cliches compressing our heads together,
Your cells imbued with mine,
Colours clashing and cavorting in the desert rain,
Drenched in disease and happiness,
Who is left to turn to?
Who is right to turn to?
Turning, turning, turning on the axis again,
Away from their world this time,
No longer watching detached,
The audience absconded and constructed their own puppet theatre
Out of lint and butterfly wings,
The puppets spinning on their spiderweb strings,
Our strings entangling, a bloody mess of mangled knitted limbs on stage
Aborted road-kill at the gates,
A dome of lies to shelter us and shatter us,
The invisible worms consuming our innards,
Eviscerating the containers of innocence,
Digesting us,
Shitting us,
Recycling us on the earth to be reborn again
On our bed, our flower bed...
O Rose, thou art sick...

We consummated our loathing like lovers;
Like Heathcliff fucking Cathy's corpse.

I have enough blood and noise to paint with now, thanks.
But I don't want to paint any more.

Birdnest Hair


He gave me more blood and noise to paint with.

I gave him vomited vodka and a hug goodbye.

I indirectly apply my blood and noise to the fabric of her skin, a cheap theatre costume for an unwritten play, for a character who is a nonsensical nonentity.

Who wrote the unwritten?

Was it you?

Because I expended my supplies in the theatre, the painting is finished, incomplete. I chew it up and spit it out, like a mother bird feeding her little chirplings. The invisible birds nestle in my hair, chirping sweet lyrical lullabies to bid my consciousness away. I don't chew the frame for them, I kindly let it live and be worn as my suit of armour.


The day after the night before,

Puppets devoured by the stage trap-door.

Monday

Hobbies and Interests:


Well, I quite enjoy haunting the dead...

Saturday

There's something rotten round here.

I think it's me.
Yesterday lasted a week.
Last week lasted a day.
Chronology convolves here.

There's cynicism on my bedroom floor,
Kicked out of my bed from the night before.

Tuesday

Cigarette burns on my arms fight the fog in my head.
The fog is transported to the 3rd dimension, where a paper doll sits, burning, barely perceptible amidst the nicotine fog.
Yesterdays news imprinted on her skin, burning.
No one can see her through the fog.
And if they could, well, what does it matter?

Sunday

Internal Haunting

I remember now...
Today I saw our ghosts sitting side by side, watching the world spin away from them as they silently sipped their coffee.
Did you spin away with it?
Is that what happened?
I watch you turning on your axis, spin spin spinning, so fast it makes me dizzy, sick, nauseous...
I don't spin anymore, just hover; incorporeal and weightless.
Now I'm watching another ghost, soaked in a halcyon day, spinning on a playground roundabout.
The bruise-like scars remind me how I jumped off too fast, my ghost couldn't keep up, so she spins there still.
The halcyon stains me blue.
I'm cold.

The Trick is to Keep Breathing.

These meds have killed me and transformed me into an animated corpse.

Wednesday

Feeling like snakes to dust.

I don't think the doctor really wanted to listen to me.
I let the wasps out of the jar and took the stings... She sat there and watched, looked through my medical/mental health history and then gave me a prescription for citalopram.
That's it.
No talk of therapy or counselling, "just be a good girl and take your medicine"...
I find it ironically hilarious that inside the med box there's a little info sheet which states that "thoughts of suicide or self-harm may occur, or may increase" as a side-effect...

Tuesday

I want my innocence back.

I'm playing hide and seek by myself.
Can someone help me find me, please?
I'm losing.

The Healing Powers of Tea and Kindness

Yesterday I went insane again, and then I disappeared. I found myself later in a Victorian tea house with some of the loveliest people imaginable. They gave me elegant pots of tea and crystal sugar cubes, sweet milk and a matching china cup and saucer... They even told me I didn't need to pay. Incidents like this restore my faith in humanity. It was beautiful.

My phone is inundated with well-wishes from my friends. I have no idea how to reply, let them know how much I appreciate their concern, so I don't. Even though I want to.

I feel like my skull's too small for the two of me, so tomorrow I'm going in for repairs. I'm terrified. Doctors scare me. But it's for the best, right?

As a side note, I'm really not as annoyingly miserable as I seem here - I just use this blog as a place to vent all my silenced thoughts and emotions. I need to put them somewhere, they're too heavy to carry around all on my own. And then the load feels a little lighter and I feel a little relieved. Smiles.

In other news: I recently joined an online LGBT community http://www.prettypinkpearl.co.uk
My name there is Coral - hit me up, yo!
It's a relatively new site, so more wonderful people like YOU should join. :)

Thank you for reading.

Sunday

Last night I possessed myself.

I didn't mean to.

I didn't mean to ruin the special occasion. I didn't want to have a mental breakdown in the restaurant and cause a huge scene. I didn't mean to get hysterical and cry and scream and collapse and black out and lose consciousness and have a panic attack. I didn't want to have to be given a sedative to calm down just so I could remember how to function and be human again.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

Saturday

The Ventriloquist's Doll

Why am I doing this?

I slept for a month last night, and woke up the same way I always do: amazed that I'm still alive. It's quite an achievment for me, waking up and not being dead.
I've been trying really hard not to kill myself, and it's been three years since my last (direct) attempt. But I'm bored of trying not to try. It's exhausting. All my energy is expended on surviving.

I need to find some skin that fits, maybe I can sew my own out of these remnants...

Departure to Desire

I'm going home. I can't stand wearing this false form any longer.
It's going to devour me whole...
Not if I devour it first.
***
I think I've outgrown you, and that scares me.
What will take your place? What if what I want doesn't fit me either? Will anything ever fit me? Or do I have to shrink myself for you? Or you? Or you?
***
You wear your insanity like a suit of armour.
Just go home. If you remember where you left it.

Friday

The Underrated Importance of Disintegration

It's hard to tell where I am with my eyes closed, but I think I'm at your door, my imagination painting pictures from the palette of undecipherable noises. Next time you leave the fallible security of your tree house, I hope you see the noisy portrait I left for you on your door.
Whether you've gone or not, I'll be there. In the corner wearing my indifferent obsession, behind the guise of smoke and glitter.
You don't even realise I'm pulling your strings, operating every fall for my own sardonic pleasure.
I am the breath erecting goosebumps along your wooden spine.
I am the maquillage upon your splintering face, the termites behind nibbling away...
I am the moonlight in February, reminding you of your biggest mistake.
The pigeon who brings your messages, that is also me. I tamper with them before I deliver, pecking at the truth to create prettier words to pollute you with.
Ventriloquist, too tired to throw my voice anymore. One last time... Can you catch it?
Do you recognize the silhouette in the mirror? The shadow of the rainbow in June? The discarded teddy bear, now a buffet for maggots?
I painted this scene, and I can easily erase it. White-wash with my obsession, delusion.
I need to start again.
Just give me more blood and noise to paint with.
I hate that I miss you.

Thursday

And here I spill my thoughts to you...

Even though you don't exist and therefore won't be reading this. I kind of hope you do.
You probably have better things to do in your imaginary sphere than consider mine...

I'm taking a day off from life to fall into a fictional one. I finished "The Perks of Being a Wallflower" by Stephen Chbosky. It was beautiful. One quote particularly resonates with me:
"I would die for you, but I won't live for you."

Do you ever read a book and think you are someone else and then when you stop reading it you can't remember who you are? And then after a while you realise that you weren't so certain about who you were anyway? So you carry on forgetting and think of ways to wake you up.
Because I want to wake up, I've been taken by the zombie faeries and can't find my way out. The big ones keep me pinned down, but I don't mind. The small ones are the most evil. They flutter inside your brain and pull the light switch, have a bloody feast in the dark. It's hard to focus when the lights are off in your head and zombie faeries are devouring portions of you. And because it's dark you can't see at all, you can just sense them there, and the world outside becomes blurred and out of focus. Operational error.
A cure: leeches? Blood-letting? Self-evisceration?

I need to break my ship free from this glass bottle, sail upon the shards and actually feel, experience.
Maybe the zombies and I could make friends and sail together.
But I want to give them a taste of their own medicine, and devour portions of them too.

I hate people like me.

I'm not really anyone. I'm just a patchwork quilt, a collage of other ideas and other people and other ____, etc. A montage.