for those who want to continue to read my writing, i've moved both writing and my journal to
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breathingwinter</lj> feel free to add me, & i'll most certainly add you back!
2 carved | carve your name
her dirty soul
live your poison then scrub 'til it bleeds
05 January 2009 @ 19:55
for those who want to continue to read my writing, i've moved both writing and my journal to
breathingwinter</lj> feel free to add me, & i'll most certainly add you back!
16 November 2008 @ 22:01
revisions:: I Want My Innocence Back - Emlie Autumn
02 November 2008 @ 19:55
let me first say - what the fuck? I try to write about the happy, beautiful, real, and it ends up - weird. read & um ... well, thoughts, if you might share? even one word? pleeeeease? good/bad/otherwise. I think it's kind of blah, but it's also kind of a warp of my usual writing and ... yeah. constructive criticism also appreciated!
( can I trust you? but I don't want to. )
( can I trust you? but I don't want to. )
29 October 2008 @ 21:13
from late september/early october, written but unposted:
( I can't think of a decent title, so read if you will )
feeling:: 
calm
calmrevisions:: hrmm ...
26 October 2008 @ 15:38
hiding:: um - what the shiny fuck is this?
revisions:: blah blah descriptive piece blah blah double meanings
23 October 2008 @ 19:22
are we not all drifting in the vastless abyss?
reaching out for a hand to touch, to hold, as we fall, fall, fall eternally?
we don't really want wonderland, just a soft, warm hand in ours.
so what happens when we land?
feeling:: fall
22 October 2008 @ 19:21
in the interests of protecting my friends' pages from complete decimation through my incessant posting, I'm just going to put my writing under cryptically titled cuts from now on.
( we belong in the sea )
( we belong in the sea )
feeling:: sea
revisions:: 1
16 October 2008 @ 14:44
broken girls rarely kiss: a mind can only be misplaced so many times.
catharsis comes in many forms, of which pain is the most purifying. burning, searing, physical pain
you can recognise the broken girls by their dirty hair and tear-stained eyes. this takes careful observation, of course, for even when they are clean and smiling the signs are there.
they carry small worlds with them, and you may see the shimmering mirage of the ghost of a lifetime hovering over their heads, perched on their shoulders, strung from their ankles or weighted to their chests. you'll only catch a glimpse, though, for they are hidden well.
their laughter is more sincere than a baby's.
blood under the nails is like dirt: you're not sure how it got there, but you can trace it back to where you've been.
many broken girls have talent, just like the rest, but their talents are often hidden in plain view: they love deeply; they give freely; they warm souls; they express themselves perfectly; they have an eye for true beauty; they aim for the stars; they clean the gutters with their ideals. many of the broken girls have a talent, but it is never seen.
broken girls have a sense of things gone wrong, even if they don't recognise it. they have inhaled, by necessity, of the fetid, murky miasma and are, like a cat sensing water, wired to run to safety.
broken girls are always tired in some way; tired of or in want of something. relief, respite, renewal, reality.
broken girls are damaged, each in a different way. and some of them, despite the dirt on their palms, continue to shine and glow and bathe the world in their hidden beauty.
and of broken boys? of that I cannot say, for I believe that they hide themselvess well, either in the depths of their grave or behind a solid facade which they rarely allow to whimper.
catharsis comes in many forms, of which pain is the most purifying. burning, searing, physical pain
you can recognise the broken girls by their dirty hair and tear-stained eyes. this takes careful observation, of course, for even when they are clean and smiling the signs are there.
they carry small worlds with them, and you may see the shimmering mirage of the ghost of a lifetime hovering over their heads, perched on their shoulders, strung from their ankles or weighted to their chests. you'll only catch a glimpse, though, for they are hidden well.
their laughter is more sincere than a baby's.
blood under the nails is like dirt: you're not sure how it got there, but you can trace it back to where you've been.
many broken girls have talent, just like the rest, but their talents are often hidden in plain view: they love deeply; they give freely; they warm souls; they express themselves perfectly; they have an eye for true beauty; they aim for the stars; they clean the gutters with their ideals. many of the broken girls have a talent, but it is never seen.
broken girls have a sense of things gone wrong, even if they don't recognise it. they have inhaled, by necessity, of the fetid, murky miasma and are, like a cat sensing water, wired to run to safety.
broken girls are always tired in some way; tired of or in want of something. relief, respite, renewal, reality.
broken girls are damaged, each in a different way. and some of them, despite the dirt on their palms, continue to shine and glow and bathe the world in their hidden beauty.
and of broken boys? of that I cannot say, for I believe that they hide themselvess well, either in the depths of their grave or behind a solid facade which they rarely allow to whimper.
feeling:: writing
revisions:: needs to be revised, although I'm not sure how
14 October 2008 @ 17:22
from 28 september, 12.22pm
"it's not supposed to happen like this," she mumbles, running her fingers absently over her bottom lip.
"that's what they all say."
"no, I mean, it's not -"
"trust me. if it wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't be."
"my jeans are too tight."
"take them off."
"I can't breathe."
"shut your eyes." she closes them, but her breathing is still unsteady, stilted, strangled.
"I'm sad. I'm so sad that I can't stop crying, even though I'm not,"
"I know. you're lying, but I know."
"I never chose this." her voice is trembling.
"neither did I."
"but ..."
" ... yeah. I know."
"I don't think that ... I don't think that ... I'm not really that kind of girl."
"what kind of girl?"
"that kind."
"sure you are. you are whoever you make yourself."
she looks down at her hands, her body, her self, but her eyes are still closed.
"and what am I?"
"you're dead."
"really?"
"would I lie to you?"
"would you tell me the truth?"
"can you breathe yet?"
"no."
"then how can you speak?"
"because living doesn't require breathing. I'm created from ashes; ashes are carbon, carbon without oxygen, with all the oxygen -"
"don't give me that bullshit. answer the question."
"I love you."
"who doesn't? now, answer the question."
"I don't know."
"are you alive?"
"you said I wasn't."
"no, I didn't. I said you were dead."
"how can I -"
"are you alive?"
"I don't think so."
"so, you can't breathe?"
"no."
"so this conversation doesn't exist?"
"no."
"it's not supposed to happen like this," she mumbles, running her fingers absently over her bottom lip.
"that's what they all say."
"no, I mean, it's not -"
"trust me. if it wasn't meant to be, it wouldn't be."
"my jeans are too tight."
"take them off."
"I can't breathe."
"shut your eyes." she closes them, but her breathing is still unsteady, stilted, strangled.
"I'm sad. I'm so sad that I can't stop crying, even though I'm not,"
"I know. you're lying, but I know."
"I never chose this." her voice is trembling.
"neither did I."
"but ..."
" ... yeah. I know."
"I don't think that ... I don't think that ... I'm not really that kind of girl."
"what kind of girl?"
"that kind."
"sure you are. you are whoever you make yourself."
she looks down at her hands, her body, her self, but her eyes are still closed.
"and what am I?"
"you're dead."
"really?"
"would I lie to you?"
"would you tell me the truth?"
"can you breathe yet?"
"no."
"then how can you speak?"
"because living doesn't require breathing. I'm created from ashes; ashes are carbon, carbon without oxygen, with all the oxygen -"
"don't give me that bullshit. answer the question."
"I love you."
"who doesn't? now, answer the question."
"I don't know."
"are you alive?"
"you said I wasn't."
"no, I didn't. I said you were dead."
"how can I -"
"are you alive?"
"I don't think so."
"so, you can't breathe?"
"no."
"so this conversation doesn't exist?"
"no."
"I love you."
"I thought you'd never kill me."
feeling:: writing
01 October 2008 @ 19:27
she cried when I ripped her heart out, and I couldn’t work out why. why?
she screamed, at first, and then cried, beating her bruised fists on the cracked pavement.
I just stood and stared.
she took a pocket knife, carved my name deep into her thigh, and watched the blood trickle down over her calves & tiny little toes. it didn’t matter to her. she rubbed the blood deep, deep into her skin, at first sticky and then tacky, rubbing as it poured out for hours & hours.
I didn't blink once.
my head tilted, trying to figure the mess out. it all seemed very illogical, to me.
she lay in bed for a week, after that; a bed on the cold linoleum floor which she dug her nails deeper into every night. engraving no words, just emotions and thoughts and me.
after a week, she bathed. rinsed her hair clean of the grime; cleansed her body of the dried blood, biting her lip hard at the sting as the barely-scabbed wounds reopened. I stepped into the shower with her, tried to kiss her, tried to trace my fingers over the beautiful bare flesh of her neck that called to me. but she screamed and collapsed; let the gas-heated water run and run and run until the dark overtook her, until the sun was hours below the horizon and she had begun to shiver inside. she smelt delicious, her skin like cocoa butter & her hair breathing an unidentifiable herbed shampoo into my air.
I watched as food became an obligation, something to be forced if she could bear it. sunlight tore up her beautiful skin, but she never wore makeup any more. her eyes looked pale and sunken in her face, her lips a purpled shade of dull pearl, and she never laughed anymore.
I watched her, every day, not making contact. I was always near, always, but if I came too close she would break down again, and they would send her away from me, with little white pills of varying sizes which she choked on in her haste to devour. she wanted to kill me, I know, but I couldn’t help it.
one day, it was the two of us alone with her three bottles of whites and a bottle of vodka, and I leant forward to stroke her beautiful cheek. but she spoke to me then, for the last time, before she chose to leave.
“you will never be my pain. I don’t want you.”
and I loved her so.
feeling:: .
revisions:: 1
01 October 2008 @ 17:00
I always make cups of coffee and forget to finish them. They leave tan rings all over my mahogany dining table. Sometimes, I finish them the next morning as I down my meds, which taste like salt & bitterness. It tastes oversweet and silky smooth, and warms my soul as it chills my veins.
feeling:: .