Dave

i still miss you.

you didn't just end your life that day - you ended mine.

i just wish i could have put you back together again.

remember holding your head in my lap, and all the blood.

sometimes when i wash my hands i still see it.

rivers of red running down the plug hole.

the last parts of you mixing with the water and being washed from my skin.

i remember sitting their for hours.

until you went cold.

and kissing you, even though you had half a face.

tears and brains and blood.

all mixed together.

it was eternity. me and you.

i could feel your soul in that room.

thats why i didnt want to go.

thats why i didnt call them.

i remember it getting dark.

and then it getting light again.

just me and your corpse.

i remember you leaving, i felt it. when your parents came in.

to see me.

wrapped in your chocolate blood.

dirty dried blood.

i just remember holding on to you.

and not letting go.

but the medical people came and they made me let go.

they tore you from me.

and put you in a black bag.

took you away.

and i remember screaming

"He's afraid of the dark!"

when they covered you up.

But they didn't listen,

and i cried for you.

i cryed so much they made me have a drip.

and they took me away to a cold, dark hospital.

but i couldnt see anyone.

because they didnt know if i'd killed you.

how funny, they thought I might have killed you?!!

so i couldnt see my mum

or my dad

and i was left all alone

except i could feel you.

id sit at the bay window

all day.

then after a while my mum and dad came

and tried to love me enough

to make me speak again.

but they couldnt

didn't have a heart left.

you took it.

i didnt want to live anymore.

but in that place,

i didnt have the option.

i was too tired to die.

too tired to move.

sightless sockets and that bay window.

looking at the grass.

and then one day,

the grass changed to my back garden,

and i was home.

and i spoke

because words made my mum smile instead of cry.

and i didnt want her to cry anymore.

and words made dad's heart pains get better

so i didnt speak for me

i spoke for them.

BECAUSE UNLIKE YOU I'M NOT A SELFISH SCHIZOPHRENIC FUCK.

i LOVE you.

but i fucking HATE YOU.

and i can do better.

you might have died that day.

and part of me did too

but i will NOT be your legacy.

it's a god job you died.

because right now

if i could

i'd stab you through that fucking vacant hole you called a fucking heart.

REMEMBER, that one you PROMISED me.

So yes.

I miss you.

I love you.

But overwhelmingly, I FUCKING DESPISE you.

If words could kill.

This letter is a bullet.

Because you are dead to me.

As I was to you.

And it might be a tad retrospective.
But I'm dumping you.
I refuse to be your emotional prisoner.
Have a nice death.
Don't wait for me.
I ain't coming!

cough medicine.

16 bottles in 7 days...Is that normal? When do I admit its the only thing in my life preventing me from completely breaking down.
In a lot of ways i'm grateful for the ability to numb myself with anaesthetic for £2 a bottle. In other ways I wish i'd discovered it sooner. Nothing like wasting your life laid out on your bed completely high as fuck and glazed over in your eyes. DMX, Codeine, i'll drink it all if it stops me from feeling.
I stopped looking for someone to save me and instead found an answer in the medicine cabinet.

It is soft and warm, and I am not soft or warm but I imagine that it would be nice to be that way. I have never known it. I know a cold, hard, raging fury deep inside of me and I am tired of it. I am tired of the feeling, I want to die so I don't have to feel it anymore. I would like to be soft and warm. I would be terrified to be that way. I could be hurt if I were soft and warm. I could be hurt by something other than myself. It is harder to be soft than it is to be hard. I could be hurt by something other than myself.

"By means of shrewd lies, unremittingly repeated, it is possible to make people believe that heaven is hell -- and hell heaven. The greater the lie, the more readily it will be believed."


Is it a sign of tolerance or insanity when some of the things Hitler wrote actually make sense?

A decade of cutting away
dead flesh, cauterizing
old scars ripped open over and over
and still it is not enough.

Something was welling up inside me, clenching at my heart like a fist. Biting my lip i placed the razor shakily on the washstand and reached for the soap, fixing my eyes on the rising foam as the brush swirled round and round inside the cup. But the pressure inside me didn’t stop. It swelled between each of the knobs of my spine, pressing out between my ribs. It felt as though i might explode at any moment. My hands jerked and eyes burned,eyelids scouring them as though they were lined with sand. Frightened, I gripped the edges of the porcelain basin of water, trying to force the feelings back, but on and on they came, stronger and stronger. I could not calm down. The pressure swelled in my head, forcing itself against the fragile cap of my skull. It roared in my ears, filling my throat and nostrils till I could barely breathe. I dug my fingernails hard into my wrist, leaving white half-moons in the flesh, but felt nothing, nothing but the blackness that I could not hold back. Desperately I hurled the soap-cup across the room, saw it smash against the wall but heard nothing. And then distantly, as though I were suspended above my own body, I watched my hand reach out for the razor. The pressure inside was different already, its clotted darkness streaked with a growing sense of purpose. Very slowly, hand not quite steady, I drew the blade down my unsoaped cheek, pressing it quite deliberately into the flesh until it sliced into the skin.
         The cut was shallow but it worked with the perfect predictability of a valve on a steam engine. The release was exquisite. As the blood flowed out so too did the terrible blackness. The rush of the blood soothed me, purged me. And it showed me that I am alive. I felt elated but at the same time quite calm.

I was trying to cut myself. I wanted to cut for the cut itself, for the delicate severing of capillaries, the transgression of veins. I needed to cut the way your lungs scream for air when you swim the length of the pool underwater in one breath. It was a craving so organic it seemed to have arisen from the skin itself. Imagining the sticky-slick scarlet trails of my own blood soothed me.

this is confusion.

having 50 million things to say but not being able to explain a single one.

today is one of those cold winter days when everyone seems to be busy. they all scurry around like little ants, buying shit they don't need for christmas.

first of all i don't like christmas - the modern idea of which is centred around the notion of spend, spend, spend rather than any real values.

silly me for thinking christmas was meant to be about love and togetherness, rather than the size of your wallet.

i've never asked for anything for christmas, when i was a kid i gave all my money to the children in need appeal (this big charity night on TV where all the money goes to sick/poor children).

i've always believed that the only things worth having are those which cant be bought. what i really want for christmas is a cuddle, i want to have fun with all my friends and be happy. i want a kiss from a boy i like under the mistletoe. you can't buy what i want, and i might not get it, but it's the only thing of value to me.

This darkness. What is it but a theatre in which we work our magic; where we can express our desires and our fears, our dreams and our pain. In this dimly lit place, we seek the visions that both inspire and horrify us.

it's times like these when you know who your true friends are.
only when you're teetering on the edge do you realise who will pull you back and who will let you fall.
to the few that caught me, i love you more than words can say, if i could express my gratitude, words would not do it justice.
to those who pushed me, one day you will fall.. and i will catch you. but you will not know my soul.

there is no sunshine anymore. No laughter to warm my heart, no hope to make me think tomorrow is worth waking up for. There's no manual that tells you how to operate from absolute zero. And that's all I am. Just a shell of a person where all the empty dreams are housed.

If I took my life tonight noone would remember me. But would it matter? It would be strangely beautiful to walk amongs the snow flakes under the darkness of starlight. It would be familiar to feel as cold outside as I am inside.

My head hurts, I can barely breathe from the choking tears that engulf me in soggy stiflingly floods. I'm spoilt, I know it, and I know I should pick myself up and carry on. But what if you've been doing that your whole life? And the pain never stops. Just when you find happiness, health, love, it goes away just as quickly.

I don't want to die, I just want to feel alive. And death is the only thing that feels like living for me. At least ill be a cadaver, more good would come of my death than my life, I'm sure of it.

Lets go for a walk in the snow at 2am and hope I never have to write in this cursed fucking thing again.

Goodbye.

P.s always..x

To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it:
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.

At least you know you’re still alive—that’s the one great thing about post-breakup anger. You want him to drop dead—well, maybe suffer some agonizing disfigurement first—and you can’t stay his name without spitting it and you want to slap every happy couple you see on the street. Not very pretty, but it beats being numb and limp.

I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words.

never ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever give up.

If I longed for destruction it was merely that this eye might be extinguished. I longed for an earthquake, for some cataclysm of nature which would plunge the lighthouse into the sea. I wanted a metamorphosis, a change to fish, to leviathan, to destroyer. I wanted the earth to open up, to swallow everything in one engulfing yawn. I wanted to see the city buried fathoms deep in the bosom of the sea. I wanted to sit in a cave and read by candlelight. I wanted that eye extinguished so that I might have a chance to know my own body, my own desires. I wanted to be alone for a thousand years in order to reflect on what I had seen and heard—and in order to forget.

We don’t even realize it but technology is destroying the fabric of our society. More people use the Internet these days than ever. We are now socializing through boxes with virtual personalities. Gone are the days where we would actually go out to places to meet people. It’s so much easier to just log onto a chat room and create instant friends than actually having to make a concerted effort to build real life relationships. Social consciousness is now on autopilot.
         We have mass murders in High Schools, rotting polluted oceans, corrupt governments filled with greedy actors, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.
         Do we need a revolution? What would we be revolting against exactly? The price of gasoline? Not enough cheese in our Big Macs? Not enough porn on cable?
         I just think it’s human nature to be selfish and miserable. We’re all just a genetic accident. We all have this disease called life and the only cure is death.

The sky
Is a suspended blue ocean.
The stars are the fish
That swim.

The planets are the white whales
I sometimes hitch a ride on,

And the sun and all light
Have forever fused themselves

Into my heart and upon
My skin.

Somewhere a seed falls to the ground
That will become a tree
That will someday be felled
From which thin shafts will be extracted
To be made into arrows
To be fitted with warheads
One of which, someday when you least expect it,
While a winter sun is shining
On a river of ice
And you feel farthest from self-pity,
Will pierce your shit-filled heart.

Heart, I told you before and twice, and three times, don’t knock at that door. No one will answer.

I write only because
there is a voice within me
that will not be still.

Excerpts from my Dead Lover's Letters

"If you loved me with all the power of your soul for a whole lifetime, you couldn't love me as much as I love you in a single day."

"I knew as clearly as I know I am to die, that I love you more than anything I had ever seen or imagined on earth, or hoped for anywhere else. "

From his diary "I love her for what she has dared to be, for her hardness, her cruelty, her egoism, her perverseness, her demoniac destructiveness. She would crush me to ashes without hesitation. She is a personality created to the limit. I worship her courage to hurt, and I am willing to be sacrificed to it. She will add the sum of me to her."

From an unsuccessful suicide letter "When we die, as when the scenes have been fixed on to celluloid and the scenery is pulled down and burnt -- we are phantoms in the memories of our descendants. Then we are ghosts, my dear, then we are myths. But still we are together. We are the past together, we are a distant past. Beneath the dome of the mysterious stars, I still hear your voice."

"You are closed and shuttered to me now, a room without doors or windows, and I cannot enter. But I fell in love with you under the open sky and death cannot change that.

Death can change the body but not the heart."

It was a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. Rationally, I knew my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasped for air and my head spun like my efforts yielded me nothing. My heart must have been beating, too, but I couldn't hear the sound of my pulse in my ears; my hands felt blue with cold. I curled inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scrambled for my numbness, my denial, but it evaded me.

And yet, I found I could survive. I was alert, I felt the pain--the aching loss that radiated out from my chest, sending wracking waves of hurt through my limbs and head--but it was manageable. I could live through it. It didn't feel like the pain had weakened over time, rather that I'd grown strong enough to bear it.

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

She awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day her heart would descend from her chest into her stomach. By early afternoon she was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for her, and by the desire to be alone. By evening she was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of her grief, alone in her aimless guilt, alone even in her loneliness. I am not sad, she would repeat to herself over and over, I am not sad. As if she might one day convince herself. Or fool herself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because her life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. She would fall asleep with her heart at the foot of her bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of her at all. And each morning she would wake with it again in the cupboard of her rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping.

By the midafternoon she was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

.

Just for future reference, don't use words like "love" anymore. It's a very sensitive word and it wears out quickly. Romeo barely says it, but John Hinckley filled up a whole journal with it. To put it into your terms, it's a currency that's easily devalued. Pretty soon you're saying it whenever you hang up the phone or whenever you leave. It turns into an apology. Then it's an excuse. Some assholes want it to be a bulletproof vest: don't hate me; I love you. But mostly it just means--more. More, more--give me something more. A couple of years from now, when you're on your own completely, if you really fall in love, if it really comes to that--and I pity you if it does--you have to look right down into the black of her eyes, right down into the emptiness in there and feel everything, absolutely everything she needs and you have to be willing to drown in it. You'd have to want to be crushed, buried alive. Because that's what real love feels like--choking. They used to bury some women in their wedding dresses, you know. I thought it was because all those husbands were too cheap to spring for another gown, but now it makes sense: love is your first foot in the grave.

It's why the second most abused word is "forever".

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment only. 
I would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.

Have you ever tried to use someone before? And no, I don't mean in the sense where you borrow money and don't pay it back, or hitch a ride once more that courtesy allows. I mean the real using, the kind that doesn't hurt someone's wallet, or time, but their feelings. That raw pool of internal gloop where all the hopes, dreams and fears are housed.

It turns out that it's possible to use someone without any intention. It's as simple as talking to someone, laughing with them, flirting a bit, going round to their place to watch a DVD - and BAM - it hits you. Like ice. YOU DON'T EVEN FUCKING LIKE HIM. And you realise to your own horror, that all this time you've projected your inner delusion on to this poor guy who actually genuinely likes you back -he cooked you dinner, bought your favourite drink for you at work, waited for you in the pouring rain to make sure you got back safe in the dark to your car. And you realise in that instant that even if he was Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp - even some divine cross breed of the two - that you wouldn't want to kiss him. Because your heart isn't your own any more, it's his. And as much as he doesn't love you, you can't erase your feelings with the power of thought. As much as you want to turn a light off and it go out, love isn't like that.

I'm no less capable of loving him than the earth is capable of breaking out of it's orbit from around the sun. And with realisation of that comes the utter devastation of the powerless. The familiar slide into nihilism that comes over me with a melancholy comfort. A blanket of thorns over which I wrap this wretched thing that used to be my heart. 

I don't know if the worst thing was realising that I used him, or the afterthought of complete loneliness and longing for someone I can never have. Desire isn't new to me. If willpower alone could have resurrected a corpse, I would have done it by now. But there is no magic, there is no happy ending, and I know that more than anyone. 

I'm so tired of being the person stood on the sidelines, looking in at all the happy people, with their perfect cookie-cutter lives. Married, kids, a house, well travelled, and most of all HAPPY. Why oh WHY can't that be me?! Was I put on this earth as a study into human misery? 

The rage of maddening thoughts pounded my head so fucking hard that I felt like laying down on the floor of John's apartment and dying. Not even doing anything to aid the act, just lying their, eyes closed, refusing to eat or drink until this is all over.

No more broken heart.

No more longing.

No more sadness.

I knew I couldn't take another instant of this. That I could NOT be me for a second longer. As if another instant would detonate me. End me.

So I called up an old friend (read: dealer), and within 30 minutes I'd snorted 5 lines of coke off the kitchen table. It's comforting to know that divinity can be achieved for £50. White powder brings me immortality. When i'm high on coke the world is my play thing. I'm immortal. I can drive my car as fast as I like through the streets and no-one dare stop me. And most of all, everyone loves me, even you. And for a fleeting moment, i'm actually happy.

Ah, the sweetness of illusion. The bitterness of waking up from my cocaine high, ashamed and alone. Without you. You won't even speak to me, and I cry into my pillow. Just like last night.

And i just want more coke. Not because i'm addicted. But because it's the only place you love me.

my people

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn, burn, burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'

I have wrestled with death. It is the most unexciting contest you can imagine. It takes place in an impalpable greyness, with nothing underfoot, with nothing around, without spectators, without clamour, without glory, without the great desire of victory, without the great fear of defeat, in a sickly atmosphere of tepid scepticism, without much belief in your own right, and still less in that of your adversary. If such is the form of ultimate wisdom, then life is a greater riddle than some of us think it to be. I was within a hair's-breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say.

It would solve a thousand problems if I rolled the car over an embankment. It's not like I haven't thought about it, you know. On my license, it says I'm an organ donor, but the truth is I'd consider being an organ martyr. I'm sure I'm worth a lot more dead than alive- the sum of the parts equals more than the whole. I wonder who might wind up walking around with my liver, my lungs, even my eyeballs. I wonder what poor asshole would get stuck with whatever it is in me that passes for a heart.

I thought about all of the things that everyone ever says to each other, and how everyone is going to die, whether it's in a millisecond, or days, or months, or 76.5 years, if you were just born. Everything that's born has to die, which means our lives are like skyscrapers. The smoke rises at different speeds, but they're all on fire, and we're all trapped.

There's nothing to mourn about death any more than there is to mourn about the growing of a flower. What is terrible is not death but the lives people live or don't live up until their death. They don't honor their own lives, they piss on their lives. They shit them away. Dumb fuckers. They concentrate too much on fucking, movies, money, family, fucking. Their minds are full of cotton. They swallow God without thinking, they swallow country without thinking. Soon they forget how to think, they let others think for them. Their brains are stuffed with cotton. They look ugly, they talk ugly, they walk ugly. Play them the great music of the centuries and they can't hear it. Most people's deaths are a sham. There's nothing left to die.

But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.

i spoke to god.
but he never spoke back to me.

How many cuts could I count? How many could I place in time and context? I had to admit that I couldn’t remember the occasion of almost any of them, their catalysts, whether epic or mundane, completely obscured by time. So many moments of supposedly unendurable pain, now utterly forgotten. You start to think, Maybe I don’t need this anymore. Maybe I never did.

I stopped cutting because I always could have stopped cutting; that’s the plain and inelegant truth. No matter how compelling the urge, the act itself was always a choice. I had no power over the urge, but the act itself was always a choice. I had no power over the flood tide of emotions that drove me to that brink, but I had the power to decide whether or not to step over. Eventually I decided not to.

Stopping, however, was not at all the same thing as ending the desire. Even now, I still sometimes ache with a fierce, organic need for cutting’s seductive, minimalist simplicity. I expect that I will always be the kind of person who is too much aware of the boundlessness of chaos; it’s like having an unfortunate sixth sense, alive to the teeming, invisible undercurrents of anarchy streaming past us as every moment. I don’t say it makes me stronger, or more interesting, or gives me character; it’s just a part of my fabric of self.

When I met him nothing was ever the same again.

The sky was never the same colour, the moon never the same shape: the air never smelt the same, food never tasted the same. Every word I knew changed its meaning, everything that once was stable and firm became as insubstantial as a puff of wind, and every puff of wind became a solid thing I could feel and touch.


Choking with dry tears and raging, raging, raging at the absolute indifference of nature and the world to the death of love, the death of hope and the death of beauty, I remember sitting on the end of my bed, collecting these pills and capsules together and wondering why, why when I felt I had so much to offer, so much love, such outpourings of love and energy to spend on the world, I was incapable of being offered love, giving it or summoning the energy with which I knew I could transform myself and everything around me.


How to seperate the humiliation from the loss, that's the catch. You can never be sure if what tortures you is the pain of being without someone you love or the embarrassment of admitting that you have been rejected.


None of this is important in itself, but I feel somewhere that it has a lot to do with why I have always felt separate, why I have always felt unable to join in, to let go, to become part of the tribe, why I have always sniped or joked from the sidelines, why I have never, ever, lost my overwhelmingly self-conscious self-consciousness.

It's not all that bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing - they are not all bad. Those devils have also been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me.


Thank you, to my sculptors x

"fade out again".. the droaning lyrics of radiohead meld into my brain, taking me to an autumnal place of dreary white walls, clouds so thick you can't see the stars and a thin vail of persistant drizzle. 

not enough to drown my soul with inner turmoil. but enough to make it indecently wet to the point that it's possible to catch pneumonia, and suffer a long, agonising and painful slide into desecration, then enevitable death.

how i love radiohead. so cheerful.

the onlooker.

I like looking on at other people in crucial situations. If there's a road accident or a street fight or a baby pickled in a laboratory jar for me to look at, I stop and look so hard I never forget.

I learn a lot of things I would have never learned otherwise this way, and even when they surprise me or make me sick, I never let on, but pretend that's the way i knew things were all the time.

everytime i get sick, i get scared that im dying. please, not again. please.

take me as i am.
or throw me aside
in your brown paper dreams.

i am not an iron railing,
you cannot lean on me.
i am not the wind,
i will not let you see me sigh.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbepKZC7Po

it's calm in the eye of the tornado.

is it worth feeling like nothing. in order to be your something.

my faithful poison

It felt so good. It made me feel light, free. ... I suppose I should feel ashamed, or disappointed in myself. It’s like a relapse into old, familiar, self-destructive blackness. I had been doing so well, and now I’m back to where I started from. But wrist-slashing is a kind of anchor for me, a sense of safety and security, even though I know it means I’m not well. It’s like a person returning to a mental institution that she spent a considerable amount of time in. It’s good to be out, she knows it’s the right thing. But it’s terrifying when people deem you mentally healthy, because that’s how you appear, when you know you’re not. And returning to the asylum means returning to safety and familiarity. It’s a sense of liberation, for it enables you to return to what you’ve always been, rather than being imprisoned in the social constructs of the outside world, where you must build a new (and sometimes false) life for yourself. Wrist-slashing is me. It is the reaffirmation that something is wrong with me, when other people and I start mistakenly believing that I’m okay. It’s a significant part of my identity. Apart from making me feel good in a “hooray, I’m back!” sort of way, it also enabled me to bleed the hurt and anger I feel towards [him] out of my system. It enabled me to simultaneously become purer than him (for he has been dirtied in my eyes) and tainted like him.

bring me to life with a kiss.

you could have it all
my empire of dirt
i will let you down
i will make you hurt

NIN- Hurt

nothing profound, but still a revolution

its funny, maybe there is a cure to depression. and maybe it's one that's been staring me in the face the whole time. it involves going out into the world and attacking it each day head on. giving every bit of yourself to your job, your friends, your family. educating yourself in culture, literature, music. becoming the best version of you that you can be.

maybe it's wishful thinking. or maybe, just maybe, this is the start of my life turning around..

..probably manic optimism.. even when im optimistic i'm a pessimist! natural order restored..

Love hurts. I say that because I know. Love is... or was amazing. It's an incredible feeling to know what he's going to say. It's more incredible the way he has me on the edge of my seat because he's so completely random, I never know what's coming next. It's hard to explain, but he filled some void in me, and now, without him, I'm missing something again. I wonder if it will ever truly, whole heartedly be filled again. I just don't want to know what it's like to hurt any more...

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.

It is impossible to think that I shall never sit with you again and hear your laugh. That every day for the rest of my life you will be away.

letter from dave to me

B,

I feel certain that I am going mad again: I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems to best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can’t fight it any longer, I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is that I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that –everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been..

D x

The logic of suicide is different. It is like the unanswerable logic of a nightmare, or like the science-fiction fantasy of being projected suddenly into another dimension: everything makes sense and follows its own strict rules; yet, at the same time, everything is also different, perverted, upside down. Once a man decides to take his own life he enters a shut-off, impregnable but wholly convincing world where every detail fits and each incident reinforces his decision.

The world of the suicide is superstitious, full of omens. Freud saw suicide as a great passion, like being in love: “In the two opposed situations of being most intensely in love and of suicide, the ego is overwhelmed by the object, though in totally different ways.” As in love, things which seem trivial to the outsider, tiresome or amusing, assume enormous importance to those in the grip of the monster, while the sanest arguments against it seem to them simply absurd. 

You never lied to me. You said your love wouldn't last forever, and that you were too pure for this world. At the time I thought it only words, a wasp in the night that would freeze with the first autumn frost. But your wasp never died. You kept it locked away in a jar inside yourself, and as the days dragged to months and to years you let it eat away at you.

Me and you. We weren't just lovers. We were two people trying to lick away the dirt.

who are you to think that you know me?
who are you to throw your stupid beige life into the path of mine and expect me to step around you, rather than walk straight through.

i am not charitable.
i am not kind.
i do not suffer fools gladly, and when i walk over you i will not apologise for it. no-one apologised to me.

if you step too close i will burn you, so unless you want to be set on fire by my negativity i suggest, sir, that you get out of the ring.

unless of course, i'm worth burning with.

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk everything, you risk even more.

"Do you like me as I am now?" The bluish whites of Dave's eyes were like a question mark on his pale face. he seemed to have stored up a wave of courage in preperation for this chat. "Naturally, you needn't lie".

"How long have we known each other? It's almost 4 years, but it seems much longer, and we'll last a century, ten thousand years because I love you. But if you don't hurry up and get well...I can't think" I reply.

He looked at me with steel before saying "If one day I die - no don't interrupt me, I mean when I die, at that instant when I close my eyes never to open them again, what kind of a person will you think I've been?"

I didn't want to eat any more. My tongue had lost all feeling and my stomach was numb too. Separated by the plates, glasses and forks, we held each others eyes for a long time. The whites of his eyes turned bluer until, as the playwrite Joan Hawkes put it, 'they oozed a misty liquid'.

"I will H-A-T-E you", I enunciated clearly.

"Death is the expression of exhaustion, a solution arrived at rationally once one has known the deepest depths of tiredness. I've thought about it for a long time, perhaps all my life, and having thought it through, i'm not ashamed of dying. A person like me can't go on constantly polluting himself, annihilating his soul". he jabbed the left side of his chest with his finger, but it would have looked more natural if he'd used a dagger.

"It's an impulse in the dark of the soul. psychologists always say impulses are dangerous and discourage them, but an impulse comes uninvited". His voice was crystal clear and cool, his lips pale and unemotional. despite the impersonal pronoun he was talking about himself.

My despair turned to anger. "I'm not going to bullshit you. In one work, you're degenerate".

"Perhaps. the dying never have the chance to explain themselves to the living. Actually, a lot of people are even more degenerate". I clutched his hand. cold as ice.

"What are we talking about for god's sake? Don't go on. Why do we have to talk about something so horrible here and now? Don't tell me about life and death, love and hate, the ego and the id. We're alive together, aren't we? If there's something you don't like abou our life: get specific: I talk in my sleep, my novel isn't profound enough - it's utter rubbish -whatever. OK! I can change; I can try and do things perfectly. But for heaven's sake, don't say such horrible things..I'm always dreaming of finding wings and soaring inbto the sky with you, but you're always thinking of abandoning me and leaping into hell. Why?"

A lot of people were looking our way. I raised my head and saw myself in the mirror: frantic tear filled eyes, and a fierce expression. I felt really idiotic. We so obviously loved one another.

"Bev". Dave's face remained absolutely sombre. "right from the start we were too different sorts of people, I said so at the time. But that hasn't stopped us loving each other.; you so full of energy and ambition and me devoid of desire, drifting with the tide. philosophers say "everything originates in nothingness" and nothingness accentuates everything"

I interrupt. "whoever the hell said that can drop dead! Don't read those books any more. You need to be amongst living, breathing human beings. You need to do my physical work. My Dad often says "Work makes a person healthy". You needsunlight and grass , and dreams and happiness and all the joy that goes with them. For starters tomorrow you should go to that damn detox centre" I said crying, the mirrors on the wall were a blur.

He hugged me then. "You're crazy". he took out a tissue and gave it me to dry my eyes. I looked at him through my fog of tears. "i am crazy, because you are too".

That night we barely closed our eyes. We kissed through the night, and the bitterness of our saliva filled the room. Our bed drifted in the boundless sea like a lonely island in imminent danger. We took refuge in each others love.

What a time. What a long lonely time. I never knew the days could stretch out so endlessly. Stretch so far I think they’ll break, but they only heave and sag. The weight of them bears down on me mercilessly. I wake … into another day of dread. Dread with no name or face. Nothing to fight with my body or wits. Just a gnawing gripping fear. So hard and heavy. I can’t breathe. I can’t swallow.
       
The emptiness of my depression turns to grief, then to numbness and back again. My world is filled with underwater voices, people, lists of things to do. They gurgle and dart in and out of my vision and reach. But they are so fast and slippery that I can never keep up. Every inch of me aches. I can’t believe that a person can hurt this bad and still breathe. All escapes are illusory—distractions, sleep, drugs, doctors, answers, hope…

The sky
Is a suspended blue ocean.
The stars are the fish
That swim.

The planets are the white whales
I sometimes hitch a ride on,

And the sun and all light
Have forever fused themselves

Into my heart and upon
My skin.

two souls colliding.
do you feel it too?

i feel unclean.

you cling to me like sulphur, and no matter what i do to mask it i can't escape your stench.

like fog on a winter morning you envelop me, suffocate me, drown me.

i want to flush you away.

like an unwanted tattoo that's malevolent presence taunts my skin, i want to cut you out. 

you are not part of me any more, yet you cling to me.

no matter how many times i wash my hands, your blood never comes out. 

i want to fuck just to forget you. as if by being someone else's you will magically lose your place in my heart.

it's like you left.

but you never undid the handcuffs.

i don't want to be yours any more, and this is one prison from which i'm finding it hard to escape.

separated
two magnets, swinging, circling, repulsing, attracting,
wanting, needing, hurting
separated
by your vision
you unchanging, trying to move toward me
through the storm of my ever-changing emotions
to leave me
to loathe me
to ignore me
i will deal
but what do I do with this love?

i thought
how nice it would be to be here with you
and then I thought
how much better it is to be here
with someone who wants to be with me.

they'll say it's sad,
she killed herself at 24,
how tragic.

but im lucky.
i get to be part of the air
flowers will grow from parts of me
that burnt with apathy.
i will be the stars,
the dirt under your feet,
the bird in the sky.
you'll swim in my oceans,
and dance to my songs.

i'm not dead.
i'm born.

i wish i was you.

anyone.

i wish i could trade places.

i hate moaning about my life. but it's like you were given a royal flush and i have all the 2's. no matter how i play the hand i'm dealt i cannot win.

time to step away from the table.

eyes of ether, i stare back at you, with streaked charcoal tear marks down the pinkest of cheeks. 

i look like decay. 

scars on my arms fade like diamonds embedded in sand, moments of clarity sinking back into sagging puddles of disregard.

externally i'm placid, inside i burn. 

i'm disfigured, a cripple of my own self hatred.

i want the lights to go out.

i want to take all the pills. feel my kidneys ache with analgesia. nausea in my belly. before i lie down with you in my mind and take my final sleep. 

i hope to dream. 

i hope to hope.

please wake me up from this nightmare. 

ah, if only words could scream. 

Meet an empty space,
it wasn’t empty in the beginning,
but it is burned for so long,
that its contents
have long been extinguished.
All that are left are the scars
from the burning
with the odd flick of fire
from time to time
to make sure the contents can’t grow again…

Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.

I don’t know whether you’re young or not. I sort of hope you’re young and sad. If you’re old and happy, I can imagine that you’ll maybe smile to yourself when you hear me going, He broke my heart. You’ll remember listening to music and eating chocolates in your room, or walking along the Embankment on your own, wrapped up in a winter coat and feeling lonely and brave. But can you remember how with every mouthful of food it felt like you were biting into your own stomach? Can you remember the taste of red wine as it came back up and into the toilet bowl? Can you remember dreaming every night that you were still together, that he was talking to you gently and touching you, so that every morning when you woke up you had to go through it all over again? Can you remember carving his initials in your arm with a kitchen knife? Can you remember standing too close to the edge of train platform? No? Well, fucking shut up, then. Stick your smile up your saggy old arse.

That which I have dreamed is always very far from that which I am able to hold fast and write down on paper. An artist seems to me to be a man who looks at beauty through a pair of glasses which, as he breathes, becomes clouded over and veils the beauty he sees. He takes his handkerchief. He cleans his glasses. He sees clearly again. But at the first breath the absolute beauty disappears. It is only the veil, the approximation, that we can perceive.

please don’t let me stop thinking and start blindly frightenedly accepting! I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain, and never shut myself up in a numb core of nonfeeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out..

I suppose being raped and left for dead will add a sobering though to any 4-years old's life. But I am certain that even before that memorable incident I could never really suppress bleak thoughts, especially the most inopportune ones, a habit that has persisted. For instance: called upon to view a friend’s newborn baby, the precious bundle from which protrude adorable bits of infant anatomy, I always find myself wondering (even as my voice supplies the requisite pleasantries) whether it will grow up to be force-fed human excrement and drowned in a barracks latrine, as uncounted Russian Jews were in the Second World War. Or else is it destined to die of a drug overdose at seventeen, choke to death in a restaurant in its thirties, or fall victim to a hit-and-run driver while walking the dog? In short, there is nothing like the sight of a new life to make me wonder how it will end. This must be one of those yardsticks of a person’s basic character, like the one that supposedly distinguishes optimists from pessimists (is the glass half full or half empty?). Is this baby alive or merely laggard in its dying? It does add a dimension of pity to what is otherwise a flat and goofy spectacle of inapprehensive love. And I am powerless to stop it.

Since you walked out on me
I’m getting lovelier by the hour.
I glow like a corpse in the dark.
No one sees how round and sharp
my eyes have grown
how my carcass looks like a glass urn,
how I hold up things in the rags of my hands,
the way I can stand through crippled by lust.
No, there’s just your cruelty circling
my head like a bright rotting halo.

I’m leaving.

You didn’t make me suffer
so you needn’t expect
my hatred.
That would be too splendid
and important a gift.
You’re not worth anything
as precious
as a shred of living flesh.

I’ve killed
your presence within me,
easily.

I’m cleansed.
I’m dancing a festive dance of murder. 

Let’s face it, I am in danger of wanting my personal absolute to be a demigod of a man, and as there aren’t many around, I often unconsciously manufacture my own. And then, I retreat and revel in poetry and literature where the reward value is tangible and accepted. I really do not think deeply, really deeply. I want a romantic nonexistent hero.

isn't it great to find that you're really worth nothing?

*peeing now*

just for you dro! xD

Life is like a box of chocolates. It’s a cheap thoughtless perfunctory gift that nobody ever asks for. Unreturnable because all you ever get back is another box of chocolates, so you’re stuck with unidentifiable whipped mint crap that you mindlessly wolf down when there’s nothing left to eat. Sure, once in a while there’s a peanut butter cup or an English toffee, but they’re gone too fast and the taste is fleeting. So you end up with nothing but broken bits with hardened jelly and teeth-shattering nuts. If you’re desperate enough to eat that, all you have left is an empty box filled with useless brown paper wrappings.

Life.

Life was a fever-dream made up of joys embittered by sorrows, pleasure poisoned by pain; a dream that was a nightmare-confusion of spasmodic and fleeting delights, ecstasies, exultations, happinesses, interspersed with long-drawn miseries, griefs, perils, horrors, disappointments, defeats, humiliations, and despairs—the heaviest curse devisable by divine ingenuity…

My best friend

Here's to the one person on earth with whom I feel safe.

The more we love our friends, the less we flatter them. So I find myself never saying anything nice to him, not because he doesn't deserve it, but because a friend is a single soul dwelling in two bodies. Everything I say he knows anyway.

In a lot of ways I think that friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art … It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that gives value to survival.


We need to build our friendships on truth and wholeness and expansiveness. We need friends who can be with us in our loneliness, not people who will cheer us up so that we don’t feel it. We need friends who get furious with us when we are not being real or true to ourselves, not when we don’t do what they want us to do.

Will you be my friend, my friend of friends, beyond every one, everything, forever and forever?

It’s always thought of as a failure in life if a woman doesn’t have a man. But you will never know if you love someone if you are so needy for something that your thinking is clouded. True love comes only when you are able to stand on your own feet. And then somebody comes along and he inspires you, and he actually motivates you to keep growing. He’s secure and self-sufficient, and then you have space to discover who you are, and not live your life through your lover’s eyes. There are so many people who feel like they can only experience life through someone else’s eyes, like they’re nothing without a man. That isn’t right.

i added nothing to your life you said.

maybe you didn't mean it. but its out their. forever etched in my mind, like a knife through skin. the skin will grow back, but there will always be a scar. 

You know that things aren’t going well for you when you can’t even tell people the simplest fact about your life, just because they’ll presume you’re asking them to feel sorry for you. I suppose it’s why you feel so far away from everyone, in the end; anything you can think of to tell them just ends up making them feel terrible.

I wasn’t trying to die; I just wanted to cut through the fog.

He burns me
like the Great Fire digesting London,
houses sliding into one another,
ash wafting toward the river;
like witches writhing on the stake,
looking eastward, their eyes searching
the caterwauling ocean.
if he only knew
if he only knew
if he only knew

smile.
even though your heart is breaking.

It is a crippling thing, this sensation that a huge hole had been punched through my chest, excising my most vital organs and leaving ragged, unhealed gashes around the edges that continued to throb and bleed despite the passage of time. Rationally, I know my lungs must still be intact, yet I gasp for air and my head spins like my efforts yield me nothing. My heart must be beating, too, but I can't hear the sound of my pulse in my ears; my hands feel blue with cold. I curl inward, hugging my ribs to hold myself together. I scramble for my numbness, my denial, but it evades me.

       And yet, I found I could survive. I was alert, I felt the pain—the aching loss that radiated out from my chest, sending wracking waves of hurt though my limbs and head—but it was manageable. I could live through it. It didn’t feel like the pain had weakened over time, rather that I’d grown strong enough to bear it.
I wonder how long this can last. Maybe someday, years from now—if the pain would just decrease to the point where I could bear it—I would be able to look back on those few short months that would always be the best in my life. And, if it were possible that the pain would ever soften enough to allow me to do that, I was sure that I would feel grateful for as much time as he’d given me. More than I’d asked for, more than I’d deserved. Maybe someday I’d be able to see it that way.

      But what if this hole never got any better? If the raw edges never healed? If the damage was permanent and irreversible?

I was like a lost moon—my planet destroyed in some cataclysmic, disaster-movie scenario of desolation—that continued, nevertheless, to circle in a tight little orbit around the empty space left behind, ignoring the laws of gravity.

scientists say the big bang happened 13.7 billion years ago and since then the universe has been expanding at an ever faster and faster rate. 

galaxies are becoming further and further apart as they pull away from each other, so are the stars, and one day, the night sky that is now so beautiful and full of light will not have a single star.

i am earth in 10 billion years time. the light from the last star has gone out. all i see is darkness. as i look at the sky and even my dreams are empty. ripped from me. 

they say you should wish upon a star, but they never tell you what to do when there are no stars left.

promises are hard to keep.

i willnot cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not cut myself
i will notcut myself
i will not cut myself
i will not xut myself.
i need to release this stress and i dont know how.
its like a valve that needs to let go.
i cant keep the pressure inside my head.
i cant do this anymore
the thoughts hurt me
like razor blades
all alone now
all alone
quiet
stop screaming
quiet
shut the fuck up
LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i need you
i need the razor blade like i need love.
i need to feeel the cleanliness of it across my skin.
purging theinside of me.
leave me behind
i am not me
i am not this body
i am not this life
i am a fucking butterfly
trapped inside an ignorant fool.

i am anthrax.
i am rohypnol.
i am death.
i am the girl who kept the promise.
but i'm the girl who's losing my mind again.

When you're drowning, you don't say 'I would be incredibly pleased if someone would have the foresight to notice me drowning and come and help me,' you just scream.
~ John Lennon

my sweet prince..

my love for you is madness. it envelopes me. i have never felt like this before. and i know you feel it too.

you were worth it. everything. all the mistakes, all the heartaches. you were worth going through all that for.

you're worth waking up for. you're worth working 10/12hr days for. you're worth moving half way around the world.

you're worth me. you're worth my world. 

i love you so much that it makes the i love you's i said before meaningless. we are untouchable.

my sweet prince, you are the one xxx

threesome *warning explicit content* - chapter 1

you get home from work early and walk up the stairs to find me laid on the bed in a tight black corset and frilly black panties that are stretched tightly around my ass. you can see through the doorway that i'm not alone. you hear moans of pleasure, it's obvious another woman is in the room with me. we've talked about the idea of a threesome for a while but you didn't think i'd actually take it past the fantasy and do it. we were waiting to surprise you when you got in from work but got a little carried away, i love the touch of her soft body... i've known about my bisexuality for a while, but i've never really acted upon it, until now. 

it all started with a kiss, we felt the stickiness of our lip glosses collide and could taste each other well before me locked tongues. you open the door then and see her, a pretty blonde with a mischievous look on her face. her legs are spread on the bed and from where you're sat you have a clear view up her long tanned legs to her pussy which glistens with moistness. she's clearly dripping with anticipation of the night to come. 

we see you then, my face lights up like it always does when you come home. you see that devilish look in my eye as i open up a bag of sex toys that is laying at the side of the bed and take a thin pink vibrator out and turn it on. i get on my knees on the bed, sluttily spreading my legs for you. i reach around my panties to pull them to the side and plunge the vibrator inside me, letting out a moan. you can see the pleasure on my face. i take the vibrator out, its so moist now, no lube necessary, and i plunge it into the sexy blonde whilst at the same time kissing her and reaching into her bra to rub her nipples. 

i havent forgot you though. i always give you a kiss when you get in from work, tonight will just be a little different. with a moan from her i pull out the dripping dildo and greedily start sucking it, making sure  i lick every last drop clean off the plastic. she tastes so sweet, or maybe that was me, our wetness has blended together on my tongue. you're already hard by this point, i can see your jeans straining against the swelling of your huge cock.  flirtatiously i climb off the bed and walk towards you, cheekily adjusting my panties back into position so you can't see my lips. as i come closer to you you meet me halfway and i kiss you, passionately, you rape my tongue in your mouth, savouring every drop as you suck clean our juices from my mouth.  

whilst we're kissing i work my hands down your body from lovingly playing with your hair, to feeling your smooth chest, to unfastening your pants. i reach inside your boxers. you're so fucking huge i can't control myself, i have to put my hand around you, gently i feel your girth and a naughty look crosses my face, i know you'll be stretching my tight pussy so much tonight, i moan in anticipation.

the blonde wants to hold your cock too, but i won't let her, you're my man. the thought of another woman touching what's mine makes me jealous as hell. you look pleadingly at me, i can see you want to taste her. she looks to edible laid on the bed with that glistening moist pussy. you can see the disapproving look in my eyes, and i tell you "no". you dont like being told no. you want to put me back in my place so you grab me by the arm suddenly and tightly. it hurts me and i whimper a bit in pain. 

you forcefully push me towards the wall, violently ripping my panties from under me and setting my tits free from the corset that was confining them. you snarl at me "no slut tells me what to do" and you throw me at the wall, banging my head on the plaster and catching my arm on a loose nail in the wall which draws blood. i love it rough, and seductively i lick the blood off my arm. this drives you crazy, you take it as an act of disobedience. forcefully you spread my legs, i'm protesting by now, telling you to stop, but it only spurs you on. you reach inside my tight pussy with 3 fingers and feel how wet i am. you're not gentle and it hurts. you take your dripping fingers out and summon to the blonde to lick them clean. shes a good slut, she doesnt protest. she looks at me bitchily, happy she can please you in some way i can't. it makes me want to tear her hair out. i give her a look of daggers. you catch this and slap me across the face with the same hand she was just licking clean. 

you've decided by now that you need to teach me a lesson.  you liftme up hard against the wall, sinking your hands into my fleshy tits, making me scream, then you force my legs apart yet again and pound your cock inside me with such a fury its hard for me to gather breath. i scream louder, and more violently, but you keep pounding, every thrust forcing my hips into the wall and jarring my body with pain. your cock is so huge inside me it feels as if i've been ripped in two. 

you pull out then, and don't even catch me as i drop to the floor like a used rag doll, a washed up slut who's purpose is fulfilled. you dont look back at me, you've taught me a lesson, and you move onto the blonde, she's been a good girl, you'll be a lot more gentle and giving with her........

disposable.
from your white board life.
erase me.

Sometimes, I get so consumed by depression that it is hard to believe that the whole world doesn't stop and suffer with me.

Told I talked too much
made too much noise

I took up a silent hobby
Bleeding.

it's funny, how someone who is exhausted can simultaneously lust after sleep and also detest it.

night - a brief time, to escape from the thoughts. yet so vulgar and cold are the dreams that haunt my nights.

peace and war. every night. my dreams as bipolar as me.

nothing is harmonious. my cells even split too fast.

one big schism.
one big contradiction.
one big mistake.

Let us be like
Two falling stars in the day sky.

Let no one know of our sublime beauty
As we hold hands
And burn

Into a sacred existence that defies
That surpasses

Every description of ecstasy
And love.

A thousand times I’ve
traced your name on my skin, on
damp windows, summoned.

His voice touches places inside me like someone moving through a house, flicking light switches. ... And even if it was dark and there was shellfire or an arctic gale blowing, I’d still be able to understand him, because our thoughts nestle against each other, like pigeons on a wire....