Excuse me, Operator,
what time is it again?
The mechanic response echoes
on an empty line
Sorry to bother you like this,
I just called to find out
if you still think I’m worthy
and did you know?
some people would hurt you if they could get away with it
I scream into the handset after the signal’s been cut off
It’s easier to talk to the ghost of you
’cause you were never a great listener
I cannot tell mind and matter apart,
I draw an image of a razor-blade and let it cut my skin
I used to think artists were crazy
while I opened my mouth like a heathen
and fed of the marrow of your words
had sex with the concept until my patience ran dry
endless nights of never-sated cravings
the daydream that turned into a nightmare, and then into you
Now I’m chasing the sheep out of my bed
and into a never-ending void of static
My mind goes still,
every voice behind my eye holding its breath
Excuse me, Operator,
I’m still here, right?
how brave she must be
to face her enemies
hands bound behind her back
a rusty lantern levitating before her
setting her eyes ablaze.
don’t let the halo fool you.
She’s no martyr
She’s not heaven sent
or divinely gifted.
she will not knock on your door
and ask your permission
she will make you
pour holy water into her wounds
while screaming in ecstasy,
stretching her hands up to heaven.
she doesn’t believe in god
she doesn’t believe in justice.
she falls asleep fantasizing about self harm
wrists that are opened and then sewn back together
she makes up these scenarios
not as a means of inflicting damage
but as a road to retribution
too long she’s been pushed aside
chopped into pieces and carefully sealed into
thrift shop bags
who wants to buy a sexy, self-destructive no-girl?
who would like to buy an unfinished sentence
echoing into eternity?
this time, she won’t be the hog
tucked in the bag
but the one selling
this is all of me
watch me burn
cast your incantations
fire to smoke to embers to dust
the desire to change is eternal
So, I decided to make some space on my blog for drawings. This is my latest. Self-portrait.
OC’s. Based on excerpts/headcanons from my book.
Really old ones that you might have seen before.
Also kind of old ones that I’ve never posted.
Some from my sketch-book. The latter, illustration to go with my post Morphazine.
Last one. Anxiety attack, illustrated. Kind of a quick vent-art from this week, which has offered quite a few challenges and breakdowns. As you can see.
All works (c) me.
Let me show you my new dress.
It was cheap.
wear and tear-article,
patchwork of crushed hopes
belonging to some little child
in a factory
you made this for me?
now I can stand here, in the roaring crowd
at the eye of the town square
tiptoeing all over the sharp stones of existence
showcasing just how normal, stuck-up and
indifferent I am
But then I bled trough.
It happened quickly.
I didn’t even notice the tear in the fabric
until some kid pointed at my stomach and laughed.
“Look! She’s wounded! She can’t even walk!”
his mother hushed him, dragging him away from me
“We need to be grateful for all we have,” she said.
I scurried home,
tears pouring down my cheeks
I locked myself in my bedroom and spent the rest of the day
wrapping myself up in linens
layer after woven layer,
would cover the fanged hole in me
and stop it from leaking
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, “tomorrow I’ll be prepared.”
It all started out well
I was gliding trough the polished city streets
earning compliments on my exterior,
someone told me they wanted to take me home
slit my throat and fuck my corpse.
what do words mean anyway
An old woman came up to me and asked
just how I’d managed to become
so admirably ignorant
and was about to start explaining the basics of apathy
when I felt the fabric around my hips starting to melt
and the familiar scent of smoke
from underneath my skin
oh, why does everything dissolve like tendrils
like hot wax,
clogging my veins?
Now I am become transparent
the destroyer of contemporary fashion.
with nothing at all to cover my shame
I try out another shirt,
clothe myself in layer after layer,
each one adapting the shape of the previous
there’s no escape
cotton walls are like a bomb ticking around my waist,
reminding me of how much time I have left.
How thick would you like your armor today, Sir?
Make it wool,
make it silk,
or glimmering marble,
so I can be a statue,
a work of art.
Critics can stare,
nod, and pretend they understand what’s going on
as I’m standing naked on the town plaza
wearing the face
I took his saliva and distributed it evenly
over my soaring wounds
I was a harlot again
filthy consolation girl throwing my skin off
for anyone who as much as touched me
But they couldn’t know
what was going on behind my shut eyelids
They didn’t know of the man following me everywhere
Sitting on my shoulders
Sucking on my bruises
They didn’t know he was cruel
they never heard him yell into their heads
things they only speak of in hell
or lower elementary school
Neither could they know
our battle was a long fought one
while he built towers for me
I would sit there
like some fucking Rapunzel, awaiting a savior
or maybe just a momentary relief
a rough canoodle
behind the labyrinth of thorns
someone would come up to me and say
“hey. I like the things you do”
I would be stunned
over how they dared to challenge this monster
whose bare apparition would have turned the noblest knight around
there are, in all honesty, some battles
better left unfought
but I would look up at them and their face would beam
and it was then it hit me
that they couldn’t see him
they didn’t know they’d just stepped up and thrown a rock into a volcano. They didn’t know the glimmering light in which they appeared to be illuminated.
They thought I knew all of this.
I think I slipped again
Am I too weak to hold it in place
Shifting between the bones in my rib cage
I’ve had trouble breathing
Focusing on daily tasks is difficult when fingers
always find their way down to the pointed end
making sure it’s kept still
touch it, tickle it
I dare you
make my dopamine levels run high
make me scream because
life is so fucking fun Ain’t it fucking pretty? I like it when it hurts
like it when I feel just how alive I am
4 am in the morning and on all fours
the bathroom tiles
leaving quadratic imprints on my elbows
and I cry to the dead-eyed shower head
that someone touched me again
or maybe it was just me
having a brief moment of euphoria
turning too quickly
now it sits all wrong and I pull at the wooden hilt
screaming into the empty drain
that I do not need you
to tear at me just so I
I do not need to be hit
so that I can lick my wounds later
I do not need you
you’re ruining it, ruining it
Sorry about the aggressive language. I wrote this during an anxiety attack. Just what I needed to break my writer’s block.
Apologies to all my friends on SD for being inactive lately. I’ve been way too caught up in my own world, working intensely on my novel and not paying too much attention to the world around me. I’m trying to climb up from my hole. I miss you all.
I was too young when I made you
Skinny limbs and glass-like eyes
Staring into the bright future
But with each passing year the world grew smaller
Now I realize you don’t fit
Your skin scraping against mine
If I try to pull you trough the eye of time
your stitches break, arms and legs flinging off in various directions
And what do I get,
a bleeding piece of your abdomen
The remnants of a childhood dream
to tuck in under my pillow
This is kind of a sequel to my last piece: “Miscarriage”.
[Fetus in fetu (or foetus in foetu)] is a developmental abnormality in which a mass of tissue resembling a fetus forms inside the body of the host.