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.


Hobbies and Interests:

Well, I quite enjoy haunting the dead...


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.


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?


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.


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...


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
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.


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?


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.


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.


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.