The Hollow

Who Knows.

[lavender-lem0n]

Revelations

Dark dirt grave; dug up for evenin

Last rights whispered to last loved seasons.

Rosehip curves lured to Venus

Cold tips, hot breath;

droppin' Jesus

Prayer bruised knees lifted as praise, open palms.

Back-seat, back road;

iron tinged teeth, soft leather mouth.

quaker shakin'

White stone sliced; bled warm over earth untilled

Soaked through, lost shoes.

Called unto Heaven

[lavender-lem0n]

The Sacrifice

I hold your offerings at my altar.

The curve of your smile,

dark and wicked.

Your eyes roam my body, greedly.

My form, sensuous and caprious; an old god molded into flesh.

You covet me in all forms but it's my soul,

Flippant and omnipresent,

you long for most.

I hold your offerings at my altar.

Your desperation is unmistakable;

wholly mortal; beyond my own understanding

I am divinity beyond devotion,

yet not beyond desire.

I hold your offerings at my altar.

[lavender-lem0n]

Fight or Flight

CONTENT WARNING: partner abuse, physical abuse, domestic violence, mention of death by strangulation.

PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS AND FEEL THAT ANY OF THIS CONTENT OR CONTENT LIKE THIS COULD CAUSE UNDESIRED THOUGHTS OR REACTIONS.

This is similar post I've done in the past where my thoughts finally align and I am able to connect some emotional dots. leaving my reoccurring thoughts and visions that go along with it somewhere accessible so my head can feel a little lighter. Hope it can do something for you.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I'd heard a lot about the moment when you realize just how unmatched they as a afab person are against someone who is amab.

To disregard the more inclusive definitions in favor of briefness; there will come a day for some women when they realize that they could never win in a real fight against a man.

My mother,her mother,her mother and so on and so forth all have a story of when they got their reality check when it came to just how 'tough' they were compared to their male counterparts.

I believed them when they re-told these stories of course, but somehow I got into my head that if I were to come face to face with a man ready to do his worst; I could at least hold my own long enough to get away.

All that effort you put into being 'tough' is a hard thing to see flash before your eyes as you try and dig your fingers under someone else's for any amount of relief from the pressure on your neck.

Carrying enormous stacks of chairs, stacking my loads of fire wood as high and heavy as I could without hurting myself, toting four toddlers, two on each hip while babysitting.

It all seemed silly in that moment. My strength meant nothing against his. Even if I could muster every last bit of myself, have my own mother lifting a car moment, it still might not be enough.

The first time I wasn't so scared. ignoring all other consequences of our fights, I would much prefer the former's violence over the latter's.

I knew the first guy could hurt me pretty bad if I got too close, but he'd never be able to follow through with the sheer force of will it takes to end someone's life with your bare hands like the second. In the end the first; well he was scared of how badly he could hurt me once the mask was off.

His facade broke down quickly, when he realized his words didn't effect me in the ways they should. I laughed at his theatrical rage, told him he looked like a overgrown toddler and took his beatings with the deft numbness and an unearned smugness I had so often taken with my step-dad.

In a way it felt good just to prove to deny him my fear. To show that he couldn't really get me. Even if he was big and loud. I was bigger and I was louder and I cared so much less.

He wanted me to hate myself as much as he hated himself. I did not need his approval and he despised that. He hate to hear me say 'I know' when he complimented me. He had never known anything about himself good or bad his whole life. I taught him just how bad he could be I suppose.

I jumped from one to another and soon I was subjected to a rage I couldn't stand up to. I saw him for what he was years ago; we had dated for a while and it ended for many reasons including his anger, but honestly I still can't believe how easily the switch from slamming doors and throwing tantrums turned into what it did.

When he finally gave into his rage and tried to strangle me I could do nothing to help myself. I had two options, hope and pray he stops before its too late or somehow someone barges in to save me like it happened in the movies.

Thankfully, he did end up letting me go right before I stopped fighting to keep my eyes open. I wanted him to watch me die. Maybe her realized that he might just, and stopped short of #2 degree and left it to DV. I saw nothing in his eyes but his desire for me to shut up, and to love him entirely. To own my life.

I still think sometimes that my efforts to avoid getting walked all over was the exact thing that got me trampled. I wanted him to show me just how much he want to hit me. I despise passive aggression and I'd rather you throw a punch than threaten me with the idea of violence

I don't think all this anger serves me anymore. I saw just where following your anger can do to you/what you can become. I will never forget their anger so I can forgive my own. Because anger will not save you in those last black moments.

You will never be angry enough to save yourself. No one can pull strength from anger. More often than not indulging in anger depleats the mental energy it takes to walk away. The resentment will not change the reality.

In fact all anger is a biological trick to keep the body in a false sense of safety. Anger is not safety it is attempting to control. Control is not safety. I trust in my goodness and don't need anyone else to understand.

[lavender-lem0n]

The Ritual

In the party town that sports an infamous party school notorious for its wealthy student body and successful alumni there is a ritual. Only to be preformed by those who reside in Mammon's house. Those who feed on scandal and are insatiable for sympathy.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Each week, Monday and Wednesday at 9:00am the municipal court is open for the 8-15 college students who had been arrested and charged with a DUI over the weekend. They all stand before the judge to plead guilty in search forgiveness by way of the county's adjudication program, in which, a first-time offender can pay a small fine and take a twenty-five dollar course on 'how not to drive drunk' or whatever ,and in six months the mishap is expunged from their record leaving them squeaky clean.

These cases are always dealt with at the top of the morning. They want to make sure the university's bright young scholars don't miss any class time. In order to make the process even more speedy and dystopian every person charged with DUI represented by one lawyer. Everyone stands together like soda cans waiting to be shot down. Some in the line-ups aren't able to stay away from our nations original pastime and are not as lucky as there first time offending peers, but usually their comments and consequences get lost in the repetitive monologue that the judge delivers before sentencing each person.

"By entering a plea of guilty you hereby forfeit the right to a trial and will upon entering the guilty plea will be convicted of the crime you choose to plea guilty to. You are also forfeiting the right to continue and enter a plea of not guilty. You also give up the right to be presumed innocent , and the right to have your government prove beyond a reasonable doubt that you are guilty. You give up the right to confront or challenge witnesses or to have the court order witnesses you might have in your defense to give testimony if you wanted to present a case. Do you understand the rights I have just explained to you? No one has threatened, bribed, or otherwise coerced you into giving this plea of guilty? And you still wish to plea guilty today?

Over and over this is repeated for every single case until each emphasis and pause is disdainfully committed to memory. They rhythm becomes almost hypnotic, the repetitiveness lulls you into a blissful acceptance of their sentencing, never really registering the fines and fees until after the call and response is completed and the judges' matter of course is being discussed

They shift impatiently in their stiff suits they glance around in a silent effort to parse who the 'real' criminals are. I'm not with these people, I'm not supposed to be here, a glance to the bailiff you're with me right?

Those who are not this lucky line-up sit on hard wooden pews to wait to be called up. Most glance at the large double doors in the back of the courtroom every time it creaks open. Bail bondsmen sit in the back and wait to take responsibility for their possible no shows. Sometimes prisoners are brought in from the correctional facility to sit and wait shackled together on the first row. Those who plan to plea today are anxious to see their public defender, hoping to not have to go up there alone.

Those in the DUI line chat and laugh in the lobby with their attorney. Some are even known by name sans reference of their court file. These people are getting filled in on the process and are assured that their desired outcome is already 'pretty much guaranteed'. They look down at the gallery of people who are obviously used to this whole song and dance. While they go free others wait to be released of the vice-like grip of the law.

"You wish you were me," seeps from their pores, drips from their teeth and in many ways its true. I do wish.

Each time I am called to the stand all I have is the trust that my suggested plea of guilty is the right decision without having anything explained to me apart from where and when I would need to appear. I try my hardest to remember everything that my representation explained to me months ago in the cramped interrogation-style room that the jail used for this sort of meeting.

And you wish to plead guilty?

y-Yes..sir

I'm gonna need you to speak up so there's no mistake on the record

He points to the stenographer who waits intently for me to repeat myself. My face turns hot.

Yes Sir. I Do.

I am handed a folder and shuffled off the the sidebar. The court secretary tries to explain what is inside my new folder but the adrenaline drowns her out. She smiles and tells me to have a good day and I am almost put off by her causality. She hands me the folder back to me with the normalcy of a cashier handing back a receipt This as normal as anything of the sort to her.

Charge, plea, paperwork.

Please, when I call your name step forward and line up one after the other.

And how do you spell that?

Have a good day.

I nod

You too

I face the rows of pews, squeeze through the saloon doors that separate the gallery from the bench, and stride down the long isle trying to keep my head up and not look at my feet like child in trouble. I am not ashamed.

When I push the doors open to the municipal lobby I half expect to find something other than the metal detector and blue short-stack carpet and rows of seating that greeted me that morning, but of course as I re-enter reality it is still Monday, it's 10:30 and I still have to clock in for work in a few hours.

[lavender-lem0n]

Journal Entry

Look-o-Matic 3000: Changing dead batteries, Untangling wires, and Updating systems.

Have you ever tried to sync your breath with someone else's? It can be comforting and intimate for a moment, but if you try to keep it up, you'll notice your chest becoming tight from the effort of trying to carry on a pattern that's not your own. It's not sustainable.

What's that saying? 'you can't lead a horse to honey, but you can attract them to drink vinegar?' something like that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I caught on quickly to the fact that others valued me for my body. When others started to point out how they envied me I was told to be gracious. I was told I should smile and thank them; try to ignore that uneasy feeling in your stomach.

"What pretty eyes! I wish I had eyes like yours. I could just snatch em right out!"

"I would do anything to get my hair that color. I wanna chop it off so I can make a wig."

Aunts and older ladies with gnashing teeth and blank eyes. Nothing that they said meant anything. lies? I asked. compliments. My mother later told me.

My hair has always been a pleasant dark copper and I used to keep it incredibly long; or rather my mother used to keep it that way. My lashes were long and persuasive when batted over my big almond shaped eyes. My face set in a soft dreamy look that could read angelic, if you're into that sort of thing.

Apparently, when you have a little girl with pleasant dark copper hair and persuasive eyes; you put her in beauty pageants.

I can't recall much about that point in my life. Nevertheless, the smell of my last pageant, arid hairspray and burnt hair in the locker room of my elementary school, is something that stands out as a pulse in the thin line of my life; flashing before me as I catch traces of it on someone passing by.

I had stopped thinking about how I looked by then. I took complements and kept them close, but they never really meant anything to me. They felt like weird empty statements that you paddle out to little kids when you meet them. Unfortunately, this was not the case with my mother. She understood, far better than I ever could, just how valuable those compliments could be.

So it began.

I was being put in these things before I could talk, but I eventually I could no longer rest on my laurels. I had to put a little effort in. Practicing my walks, sleeping in foam rollers, trying on millions of dresses, each one itchier than the last.

I admired the sequins, the ruffles, the way they sparkled under the spotlights. Still, I dreaded being zipped into those things.

My last dress was yellow with big puffy sleeves and a huge tutu skirt dripping with ruffled lace that flounced when I walked. It felt much different than how I had imagined during practice. I could not wait to take it off.

In the weeks leading up, my cousin Kristina would come over and have me climb onto the slanted roof of the storm shelter and mark out my X's with sticks from the mulberry tree. She would teach me how to hold my hands, how to smile, where to look, as I walked from one spot on the "stage" to the other. I learned quickly. ran and re-ran each motion impatiently, begging Kristian to let me go play with my little brother. When I finally got on stage I wished I had listened more.

I can still hear the hairspray pop and sizzle in the stage lights; I remember each curl straining to be released from their bobby-pin prisons. I hated this part most.

My hair was heavy, and never held a curl, unless; of course, I spent the whole night before rolling each individual strand so tightly that I felt like it was threatening to rip from my scalp. Then I would need to sleep in these hair spray soaked curlers, spend all day in them as well, each bobby pin stabbing me to make sure the curlers stay tight throughout.

Most of the time I felt like those deer I've often seen wandering through campus; sitting in my car in the early morning hours, trying to smoke off the shake the Adderall gave me. Stumbling across the asphalt; they would pause in the median of the parking lot to find refuge. Out. Of. Place. Far. From. Home.

Now, when I'm in greenrooms, getting into drag, the hair, the outfit, the crowd of bodies swiveling cautiously as we dress and undress I don't feel the same ting of anxiety. I wonder if I've been trained up to know that any audience is generally forgetful. Parents, too tired with the effort of getting one kid on stage, not paying all that much mind to the performance. Aunts and uncles clapping mindlessly, only here to congratulate at the end. Little siblings who could care less to know why they're not at home on a Friday night. No one really cares.

[lavender-lem0n]

Journal Entry

Whodunnit: The Mystery of the Disappearing Boy

I keep my eyes down. I try to remind myself not to; to keep my chin up, fake it til I make it, but eventually I will succumb to that hot, desperation clawing up the back of my neck and run.

"Everyone can see how out of place you are," they sneer.

I find it hard to convince myself that I'm that cool, untouchable person I picture in my head. Especially when my gaze wanders and rests on my shadow. Tall, dark, and mysterious it slides easily underfoot; flat and expressionless.

Unreadable.

Sometimes, I stare hard and will myself to meld into my silhouette. Maybe then, I think in a passive aggressive sort of way, I can feel like I am who I'm supposed to be.

I've been told that I'm too quiet, too loud, too much.

They say walking is just catching yourself again and again. Somehow, I can never trust that my feet will meet solid ground.

Whenever someone does bother to acknowledge me, I feel as if I've been caught up. My mouth moves fast. My eyes dart like flies. My breath hitches. Takes my shoulders with it. I feel like something wriggling at the end of a string. The truth tramples out of me, pushing me to the ground. I am swept away with the crowd.

** -----------------------------///////// --------------------------- **

Leaves that are allowed to collect on the sidewalk; big, dark, wet piles crushed down by foot traffic for a few days, will often leave behind their imprints on the cement. Hundreds of perfect copies graffiti the ground.

"You will not forget me.," They scream.

On those mornings that feel as fragile as a robins egg; when the sky's so severe and white it feels like it might swallow you, I lower my gaze, reverent as a friar, to the squares of sidewalk. I blink quickly to capture my millionth snap shot. Leaves and sticks and dirt scatter and scrape against the slabs and I am hungry for more. Gluttonous for the rich, otherworldly, bluish-greens and thick rusty oranges.

I take a deep breath and for a moment I feel how small and important I am.

** -----------------------------///////// --------------------------- **

"I think that's the closest I've ever gotten to the effects of a psychoactive drug. In those moments right before I fall asleep, and I forget you're actually there; I can just feel your touch, because you're so quiet; I can't hear your breathing, you just fade until all I know is your hands." says my lover.

I laugh.

It's in those foggy moments right before I slide into sleep that I let myself think about loving you.

I've been told many times that I'm like a ghost, a wisp, an apparition; appearing as blissful and ignorant as a dream. I remain something that's only tangible in the slivers of light that pierce through that blue darkness. Stark, and cold, and as lovely as ever.

[lavender-lem0n]

Journal Entry

What Comes Next? : Ramblings from a relapsed people-pleaser.

I think, right now, I'm more lost than I've ever been in all my life.

There's no anger this time, just the sad, cold acceptance of starting over.

I'm surrounded by care and kindness. People that helped convince me I could leave. They promised they would not let me go hungry or without somewhere to sleep. Despite it all, I feel just as alone and out of place as I did the first few weeks after moving here.

These past months, maybe even the whole year have been a systemic regression of everything I've built over the last 4 years. I don't know if it's a curse, or if I'm simply reaping the fruit of a selfish seed. I can't tell if one is better than the other.

I used to have no expectations for my future. Sure of failure. I believed nothing, no matter how hard I worked, prayed, or hoped, would ever manifest for me as it did for others.

After leaving home, I guess I let myself get soft. I allowed myself to think better of the people around me and my circumstances, and after I was admitted into college, a real film program no less, I began to trust that maybe I could be rewarded for my hard work. I began to trust that the goalpost won't move or disappear just because I wasn't 'cosmically worthy'.

Until I was alone in my dorm room, I was convinced they'd tell me there had been a mistake. Even then, I was sure my financial aid wouldn't go through, or I'd show up to class and wouldn't be registered, but nothing like that happened. And I started to trust, slowly, that my efforts would be rewarded in one way or another. I got my hopes up.

That's rule number 1. Never. get your hopes up. Never believe a promise, no matter what it is or who makes it. Even if it's fulfilled, snatch it quick and hold it close, cause there's always the possibility that that promise, those kind moments, could be snatched up and out; leaving you high and dry. Nothing is certain, not even your next breath.

I think some folks believe they're spreading wisdom, when they use that verse.

"Live everyday like it's your last!"

"Be good today because you might not be able to make it up tomorrow!"

The words always terrify me. Reminding me of something that's staring cold and just out of sight. I can see myself, like a deer in headlights, too scared to move out of the way, watching wide-eyed and waiting, for the inevitable.

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Do you reckon the deer even knows what comes next once those two bright spotlights are staring them down? Do they think it's some sort of predator with glowing eyes and a loud rumbling growl, or are they sure it's man-made; their bodies knowing it's an abomination of the natural order? I think, no matter what, they've all seen enough of the aftermath to understand how this transaction works.

/////////////////////////////////////////////**********//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I'm lucky to have a place to stay until I can find something more permanent, but the situation feels painfully familiar, yet altogether new in the hopelessness it's breeding in me. Before, I was never expected to make my own decisions.

I never decided to pack up and shuffle off to whoever would watch me while my mom worked. I never decided to stay at all those motels because the fighting got too bad. I never decided to start visiting my dad after he found out I existed. I was shunted from place to place, blissfully unaware and obedient. I was.

"So well trained!" everyone would say to my mom.

She would thank them while I thought about mentioning that I was not, in fact, a dog. I couldn't understand why everyone thought I was such a wonder kid until I met people my age; I spent about three years being raised in a daycare, and I began to see exactly what they meant.

I played quietly, never made messy floors or stained carpets. I was too busy lining up all of my Barbies in the window or pretending I worked as a very diligent librarian.

Eventually, this all ended once I was old enough to ridicule. I was no longer sweet and quiet, but strange and embarrassing. My cheeks, no longer chubby, but fat. The gap in my two front teeth, no longer charming, but embarrassing.

I quickly learned that is what love was to them. I learned to not cry or yell for them to stop. I learned to take a joke, to not be a crybaby, to lighten up, and I began to develop my own brand of vitriol, quick and cruel, never letting them see what hurt me. Stabbing and cold. I was not joking. They would not penetrate my beliefs. I would not doubt. Biting before the attack. I suppose that makes me the assailant....

Now, instead of my cool indifference, I trust and feel and want. I expect, I give chances, I believe. Once that mask drops it's hard to hide again. Now I can hurt and doubt and wish. So, I'm the yelling that scares the neighbors. I'm the storming out of the house to find somewhere safe.

I'm the broken home. I walked off the carefully marked trail and got myself stranded.

It's a heavy thing to hold. I wonder if I'll get stronger over time or if the weight will eventually crush me.

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The room I'm staying in smells like the hallways of the psych ward I got put in when I was 14. I always wonder if I should call that place something less ominous, but I can never bring myself to give them the respect of calling it a 'mental health' facility.

They mainly specialized in putting problems on pause while the hospital collects thousands for giving parents a break from their troubled teens. I can't knock it too hard though, I was there for eleven days, it was the longest I'd ever been away from home. When they told me I was discharged I dropped to my knees and begged to stay.

/////////////////////////////////////////////**********//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

Since I lost my car, I've been at the will of favors and my feet, and it's hard to make the 174 miles it takes to get back home with either.

After the crash, I've wondered often how I could have ever lived without a world that takes from me that helpless anger that tends to linger in a stale heart

"I'm going for a drive. I'll be in my car. I just need to get out of this place."

/////////////////////////////////////////////**********//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

I made up my mind early on that I would leave home as soon as I was able.

I told my mom so. She knew it was true because she was the same when she was my age, ready to be anywhere that wasn't ruled by yelling and long, mean silences, and not knowing. Unfortunately, all that running the roads led her straight to me.

She should have never had kids. I don't tell her so, but sometimes when she looks at me I can feel the thought seeping into the air.

She dropped out of college when she found out. After my brother was born, another fling who had not interest in raising him, she got another job, and when a man who was willing to be with her and help raise her two kids she settled down and spent her life right where it started.

"It could be a lot worse," she would say.

If you didn't agree she would begin describing all the things her father and mother had done to her.

In the pictures of her I've seen from before 'the incidents' as she liked to call my brother and I. She always looked happy even when she wasn't smiling. She was fun. She sang all over town and people always told her she could be a star one day. Everyone who knew her said she was "pretty", or "cool", or even "popular".

Over time, I've watched her shrink into a resentful wife, desperate for anything close to emotional intimacy. Stagnant and repressed. I began to see us as she did, burdens built on forgotten passion. I don't know, maybe she's happy. Maybe she forgot.

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I only worked hard for her. I wanted to show her that she was giving me better than what she had. She was doing a good job. I was an overachiever, neurotic about my academics, I tune with all of her moods, perfect to my detriment. I figured that was the best way to have a fighting chance. My uncle was ' just like me,' he would brag, and it gave me hope that I could do what he did. Get the fuck away.

I made all As and a B I allowed for math. I kicked myself for not being more disciplined in that area when it came time to take the ACT. I cried and cried when I scored poorly the first time. I was sure all my efforts and dreams would be shattered by being subpar in this one subject.

I took as many AP classes that my school offered. Enrolled in the Duel Credit program with community college as soon as I was able. I knew I didn't have the resources or opportunities that many others did, but I was sure I could work harder and longer and care more than anyone from those fancy schools ever could. Letter after Letter. Essay after Essay, Saving, Planning, and filing more paperwork than I was thus to experience.

No matter the consequences, I would earn the reward that seemed so coveted by society. I would, finally, have something physical to show that I was good enough.

As I look back, that broken finish line is too far to see, and there's no new checkpoint ahead, not one I can parse out, at least. The future feels like a gaping black hole, waiting for me to foolishly wander into the darkness and disappear.

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Once I was finally away, I began to feel the stupor lift, no longer desperate to keep the peace, but hungry for freedom. I can barely see how I was able to suppress myself all those years. There was a real person inside of me. Someone who thinks and feels and does just like all the 'real people' that I had been watching in the waiting room that was my subconscious. I had done what I said I was going to do and now I let my body sink into this world I had been skimming on top of. I was so kind, and more interesting than I could believe. I took to this new person like a duck to water.

All that to say, I don't know how I let this happen. I let people make me feel small again. Hurt me. Embarrass me. How had I become something I thought I had buried.

I keep looking around wondering how I've let a year slip by. I try to think of a day of it that wasn't spent begging someone to care for me. So far from home, and somehow the old habits crept back up. Fawning, fixing, fighting and feeling so deeply sad and disappointed that I continued to betray myself.

I know I am better than that. I deserve so much better, and just like at home, I will provide for myself if no one else will. I will never again neglect or ignore myself like others have, and I have for too long. I am kinder than that.

With time, there will be a shedding of sorts; I am wondering what will be left behind. I like to believe that this lost emptiness in the pit of my stomach must be how caterpillars feel once their DNA has turned to primordial soup, ready to be molded by universal patterns covered only by that small delicate webbing that protects all that they are. Do you think they know what will happen once they're encased in the chrysalis, or are they just following their biological instinct, doing what has always been done? You'll be okay. You aren't the first, you won't be the last. Trust your body.

I will try and go on like this. With the animalistic faith that all I need to do is live. No more no less, food, water shelter, social; putting one foot in front of the other. Working with the days I have not ones I hope for. I will be okay because that's just how it has to be, what has always been. The body must continue, it is against all natural instinct to give up living. You'll have to rip that away from me. I will not go quietly.

[lavender-lem0n]

Thanks For The Concern

"Do you feel safe at home?" 

°Yah, absolutely.°

× Smile, raise eyebrow, maintain eye contact ×

No.

"Because you know we're here if you need anything."

× Unclench your fists, swallow hard. Breathe ×

° Sure totally.°

I'd never asked anyone for anything. Get out of my business. Who's 'We'. Now I'm the community charity case.

"I don't want to pry"

× soft smile, not too forced, don't be so stiff ×

°No no, of course not.°

You are. You're blowing my cover. I can't be this person. You're ruining everything.

"I'll always be in my office, stop by anytime, really."

× nod, eyes up, smile ×

° Sure yah, thanks for the concern.

God I need you to leave. I'm going to start shaking. Or screaming. Or just go totally crazy, thrashing and baring my teeth.

× unclench your jaw, breathe, wipe your eyes×

Thanks for the concern. 

[lavender-lem0n]

TW: SELF - HARM, BLOOD, KNIVES. PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSTIVE TO ANY SUBJECT RELATED. THIS IS A TOTAL VENT POST PLEASE STAY SAFE!

To preface this is a Journaling exercise I did to try and put my compulsions into rationalish ramblings. And I got to the root of something and didn't do anything stupid so let's go. Again please don't read if you're sensitive. This is just something kinda personal that I'd like to share and keep here to not forget. Thanks ×

It's 4:20 am and I haven't been here in six years, and it isn't like it used to be.

My blade is fresh and sharp. Not like those thin ones I used to pry from the rusty dollar store razors I found at the bottom of bathroom drawers.

This one's sturdy, with a handle, slices through plastic like butter. And eventhough an edge hasn't marked me in ages and my skin prickles when I press ever so softly, I feel far more sure of myself then I ever did scrambling under covers to wipe up the red pearls shining in the stark light of my phone's flashlight.

The lights are on, I'm all alone. There's no one here to bump around in the night and scare me away from what I'm about to do.

There's no scanning eyes checking, watching me change, evaluating my flesh. I can only be accountable to myself and I don't know if I feel like stepping in.

I feel like a neurotic dog gnawing at its cage; every bite offers only a cold iron pain, but the thumping tick of blood pumping and pounding is the only thing reminding me I'm still here.

My body is real. It can hurt, and once the stinging starts and I feel that familiar warm flush I can look and see my body for the heaving, mawing thing that it is.

I can finally inhabit somewhere other than my mind.

[lavender-lem0n]

Genesis

A deep seeded rot, feasts on fresh sin.

Be not afraid for it isn't innate, but is begotten.

Torn between worlds;

A motherless child, an unholy daughter.

Desire for need, forgives sins of the father.

A blossom midst thorns, choking on want.

Sordid and sodden, back to darkness it sought.

Hungry and haunted, I pray to twisted vines.

Yet, soulless or sinless is all that's divined.

[lavender-lem0n]

I_S_L_A_N_D_S

{ The Dinghy}

I was born on an island.

Dug up from its earth; swaddled in its thick vines.

Its languid days stretched into inky nights, like a many-colored thread unraveling endlessly from its spool.

The island grew me wild and strong like strange sweet fruit. My soul shifted like sand; flowed like water.I answered only to the sun and moon.

I wallowed in the warm sand; slipped my fingers and toes deep down into the cool dirt, let the grains slip through they sizzle and pop as they fall.

The canopy tossed my voice back to me, quivering as the words bounced from trunk to trunk until they warp and fizzle out and soak into the soft soil.

I built a castle with a seashell throne. Decorated in pearls and kissed by the sun. I ran through the trees singing and dancing and shouting on high.

~~~

One day, as I walked along the beach after high tide looking for shells I spotted something washed ashore. Something that made my stomach churn with the tide.

A dingy dinghy.

The bow cut through the wet sand like a knife. The waves shatter against the sun-bleached hull threating to carry it back out with them.

I pull the boat onto the beach. The bow continues to rip through the wet sand and leaves a jagged trail.

I stare at that little boat for a long while. Its worn with obvious scares from being thrown around at sea, but its still all in one piece...

A crash landing on the only planet in the whole galaxy.

An impossibility.

The knotted wood gawks back at me.

Eyes like mine, except unblinking.

Expectant.

[havingapoemwithyou]

may by Tom Disch

[catgirlfingies]

Reblog if think trans people are neato

[wereology]

rip oscar wilde you would’ve gone fucking insane over saltburn

[lavender-lem0n]

Devil's Son

When I was little my momma told me I was evil. She took and sat me under the steeple. Preacher said I was too far gone. She say's she's no Satanist so I can't call her mom

[lavender-lem0n]

Florida

The daycare, The office, The McDonalds.

That's what I remember.

I remember the car rides. I felt so important because you let me sit in the front seat.

I remember begging to go to the touch museum, and learning about the Water Cycle.

I remember watching Anaconda hundreds of times. I couldn't pronounce the title and screamed "Big Snake!" when I wanted to re-watch. You would laugh.

I remember napping under your desk and your boss's scary dog. I don't think he's so scary anymore.

I remember frozen pizzas, and red snow-cones, and egg Mcmuffins, but most of all.

I remember being your best friend.

[lavender-lem0n]

Grammy

Your house used to feel like a dragon's hoard. Glittering gold. Treasure trove. Now I know those jewels only weighed you down. Sordidly sinking. Barely breathing.