L

every light in the city is a different soul
and by the time they go out, i hope they are whole.

the midnight mumble

i think maybe the reason people think i'm a bitch is because i refuse to adjust my self image to cooperate with theirs. like, i am not going to pretend to be a dumb bitch just so that i seem more attractive and less threatening to some idiot dude. i am not going to say less of what's on my mind just because the way girls usually handle their shit is all that behind-the-back bullshit.

and it's a weird thing to try to figure out because on the one hand i know i cross lines that i don't mean to cross sometimes, like maybe there are times when a little bit of censorship might do me good, but like for the most part i guess i'm just like, k. why should i shape my life around anyone but me?
when you die, you die alone. doesn't matter how many people are standing around your death bed, like. when you go, you don't bring anyone with you.

and i think worse than this idea of dying alone that everyone is so fucking afraid of is the idea of dying with a bunch of fucking ghosts of the people you could have been swirling around you if you'd made different choices. i don't wanna get old and wonder if i made the right choices about my life. like, i don't want the final review of my life to be some kinda half-ass quantitative measurement of "did i pick the right answer" yes or no shit.

when i look back on all my shit, i just wanna know that i did exactly what i felt was right in the moment and if you live like that then it's never the wrong decision. i wanna know that i felt what i felt and i said what i meant and i did what i wanted to do. i wanna know that i lived in the exact moment in which i existed and didn't try to be this other person on the outside tryna pick and choose who i think i'm supposed to be. i just want to be.

and maybe that sounds ignorant. yeah, i think it kinda does. probably selfish too. but like, when i die, i'm not taking any of you fuckers with me. and to be honest, i don't really think it matters who's standing around your death bed in the end. life isn't about the people you'll be with when you die. it's about the people you're with while you're alive and vibrant and expressive and just like being as you are.

i think people have a weird idea about the value of the way other people remember you. none of it fucking matters. and for every person in the world who thinks i'm a bitch, great. that's a person for whom i didn't censor myself. that's a person who saw me as i actually am, and that scares people.

people call other people rude or crazy or mean or whatever because that person is expressing themselves in a pure enough state that the bluntness of themselves can overwhelm people who choose not to live like that. who live their life in choices instead of in moments and feelings and instincts and all the things that make us the beings we are. it's the animal base of us all. people forget that we're animals. if you can rationalize 800 fucking reasons that your dog decided to take a shit on the carpet why the fuck can't you wrap your head around another human being doing what they gotta do? which is hopefully not shitting on the carpet, but y'know.

i dunno what brought this on, but i guess i just started thinking about how people see me, and that's a shitty thought category for me in general because i know i come on strong. i know i say shit that makes people uncomfortable. i know i'm impatient and i can be rude as fuck and i can tear people down without a second thought sometimes and these are all clearly flaws but they are my flaws. and when i look back at all the bits of my life that might have contributed to somebody thinking i'm a bitch, i just start thinking to myself: if i could go back... would i change any of it?

and honestly, i think my answer is no. i've done a lot of embarrassing shit, the kinda stuff that makes you cringe when you remember it, but the one thing i've never done is tried to hide what i felt or bottle it up or like wait until a person left the room so i could talk shit about them or whatever. people i don't like fucking know i don't like them. i don't have time to pretend. i don't have time for that passive aggressive bullshit. and i don't expect people to pretend for me either, so really, if they think i'm a bitch and don't have the balls to say anything about it? your fuckin' problem, dude.

i am not going to downplay who i am and how i feel and what i wanna do and how i wanna react and turn everything into a series of fucking multiple choice questions to try and shape myself because that's fucking impossible. you don't pick a mold to grow into. you can't confine yourself within the carbon-copy cookie-cutter characters you think you wanna be because you are not that person. you can never be that person.

you literally can never be anyone else but you. no matter how hard you try. no matter what you try to bottle up or hide or change for other people. you will always be you. so i'm not gonna bother trying to adapt to the cages that other people choose to put themselves in. i'm not here to cater to as many people as possible so that i can be "remembered," because eventually everyone is forgotten. once you die you cease to exist and the memories of you fade the longer you aren't around to revive them. it all goes with time.

so maybe i'm a bitch. i think i know why people think that about me. and it's not like it doesn't get me down some days, not like it doesn't hurt to sometimes realize that maybe there are a lot of people out there who don't like you. but if i had the opportunity to go back and change it, eh, i'd still end up a bitch.

a thinking, feeling, unflinching, animal bitch - but at least there's only one of me. and that's better than a thousand ghosts of the "somebody else" i supposedly could have been.

"you'll get yours,
and i'll have mine.
here's hoping for christmas,
you ask for a spine."

ah, fuck it.

christmas eve eve

i have waaaaay less shit done than i usually do by this time of year.
have to wrap ALL my presents tomorrow because i procrastinated like a motherfucker,
plus the usual pre-holiday clean-up... yeesh. ah well.

okay and the readmore is gonna talk about ma lady biz, so. fair warning.

broken blood vessels never looked so sexy

newly read by brighter eyes,
played like music made of sighs.
he takes my burdens, makes them light.
night after night after night after night.

perfect tandem, tangled sheets,
he kills my colds and breaks my heats.
please oh please, you set me right -
night after night after night after night.

marked up like only i can see,
my baby left his claim on me.
i press down deep and hold on tight,
night after night after night after night.

y/n

you try to tell me happiness is a choice.
but mom, you took that choice away from me
before my hands were even big enough
to hold all the things i'm supposed to be.
i'm supposed to be happy,
or so i was told.
and i'm not sure if i missed the instructions,
skipped a step, took a detour not marked down on your map,
but mom, i am trying to choose your happiness
and every day is a fucking riddle that i get wrong.
show me the way and i will go -
i will go all the way back to the beginning,
back to when you put me here because choice -
mom, your choice -
was to put me here.
i never chose to be born,
and yet you chose to have me.
you chose to take your broken pieces
and mash them in with dad's old shards
and i am just a crack in the mirror,
seven years of bad luck and i have been trapped in the sixth year
for as long as i can even count
and mom -
you talk about choice and then ignore the one you made
to walk out on the children whose lives you gave.
you try to tell me happiness is a choice,
but mom, you're the only one
who has ever had
any of those.

he makes me feel like me but better

a very belated dream journal

last night i had a nightmare that woke me up at 7am in a cold sweat,
and all it was about was my dad telling me i had to go back to work for unigroup.

"you never finished the contract,"
and all that jazz.

i think i'm ready to be working again,
but i can't do it from a cubicle. not right now.

i want to be with people.
i want to have fun.

and i keep finding little triggers here and there,
adding to the list of shit i know i don't want to do,
while the "do" list stays blank.

i need to get writing.

about what?

when the ignorant become the righteous,
shallow people dig themselves
deep, deep graves.

oopsie

got a cheque in the mail from arbonne today... i reeeeeally haven't been active with it at all so i feel kinda bad. it's nice that i have clients who are continuing to shop with me but god damn it ahaha i probably should have been more involved in that whole thang... derp.

i also got a letter from ontario disability services acknowledging that my application was received on time, which is a relief. i have sort of mixed feelings about it though, truth be told. i've definitely improved since the beginning of the application process, to the point where i'm starting to feel like i could maybe start back into working or something soon. i dunno, there's a lot of guilt kinda stewing in me right now because on the one hand i'm sure there are people out there who need it more than i do, but at the same time i keep trying to tell myself that it's not like a contest or whatever, and the fact is that i do need help. even just the medical coverage would be so awesome because right now the medication i'm on is doing its job but it's upward of like $250 every month... and i'm lucky because my dad has no problem paying it but i know he can't afford it, even though he tries to lie about it. gah.

christmas is going to be less brutal than i thought, but still pretty tight. i told my dad that what i honestly want as a gift from him is money to buy my gifts for everyone else, ahaha. i know he doesn't like not having something under the tree for me, so i told him nice warm socks would be nice too. i have a list of gift ideas for everyone that i think ought to be manageable. i just really hope nobody goes crazy getting me something - looking at YOU, steph >:( - because i know i'm going to feel awful offering what meager gifts i can afford this year. if i'm smart though, i should be alright.

i've had two really bad knots in my back since this weekend. one is sort of above my left shoulderblade and the other is kind of at the top of my left buttock, ahahaha. no idea what i did. tried a new sleeping spot one night but i didn't notice any discomfort then? so i'm almost wondering if, upon returning to my usual sleep spot, that's what did it. who knows.

i've been feeling the itch to get writing again. steph's been plugging away with "haven" and it's been super awesome seeing her make progress with an idea she's sort of been nursing for years. it makes me wonder if i shouldn't maybe start applying myself more seriously to the ideas i've had in the past for different novels. so far, despite the fact that i do like some of the characters and storylines i've come up with, nothing's really striking me as something i really want to throw myself into right now. so maybe i'll try some short story work for now, sort of reboot my blog for that, and at least get the creative juices flowing.

anyway, holy moly, another real-life blog post! two in a row! ahaha that's unusual for me i guess. this one ended up being a lot longer than i intended, but i guess if i'm itching to write then any writing is good enough. goodnight!

WIP

this is going to be like an actual blog post about my life, so if you're here for poetry or vitriol or whatever, skip this one ahahaha

tldr;

i refuse to be friends with shitty people.

side b

i knew i shouldn't have looked.

i was born with a target in between my legs,
and no matter what i wanted, it grew -
spread across flesh like the new skin stretching
to fit in more places to shoot.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i suppose that means i was doomed from the start -
dead woman walking.
so many dead women were walking.
i grew into the targets on my breasts,
my legs, my ass, my hips,
my dignity.
i learned to flinch away from the gunshots
of strange men calling,
learned that "baby" and "sweetheart" and "honey"
were just bullets so silver
they somehow got away with it.
i know these things shine in the light,
but so do sharpened blades
and i would rather cut myself than be shot against my will.
i was born with a target in between my legs;
something that should be my own,
but which is constantly threatened:
"it should belong to us."
and the targets kept growing while i remained small -
too small to wrestle the gun out of unwanted hands,
and who can outrun bullets anyway?
every day the chamber is loaded with voices
and aimed at women who can't fight back.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and it has spread across my body in ways that could be beautiful
if not for the things they attract.
i didn't ask to be hunted.
and though i stare in fear at the barrels pointed my way,
there is one thing that scares me more:
sometimes dodging bullets gets you killed faster
than letting yourself be shot.
a wounded hunter's ego,
prey betrayed by what they are.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i have feared for my life ever since.

side a

i have ruined more safe places
than most people find in their whole lives.

the quarter life crisis

i'm clinically depressed,
but i laugh for an hour at pictures of walruses sneezing.
i'm permanently stressed,
i drink water compulsively, can only relax when i'm peeing.

my life is a mess and i'm just 22,
and i know i've got time, but i don't know what to do with it.
thinking out loud, "is this as bad as it seems?"
got my whole life ahead, but i haven't got dreams.

i don't know what i'm meant to be doing,
but i know this ain't it.

when guys try to claim that girls don't have it that bad,
i want to laugh in their face and point them to the self-defense unit of my ninth grade gym class,
where across the mats the boys were learning how to flip and throw each other while a man in a padded suit told us girls to yell "fire" instead of "rape"
because people were more likely to help that way.

we weren't taught how to punch as much as we were taught to claw at the eyes and kick at the groin and keep screaming for help,
don't stop screaming for help.

a week later we were being marked on how we did
as a grown ass man in a padded suit wrestled a bunch of teenage girls to the floor in a simulated rape scenario.

i had an asthma attack in the middle of it and realized,
"oh. if this were real, i'd be done."

i don't think guys understand that while they were being told not to talk to strangers, girls were being told not to talk to strange men.

don't stop screaming for help.

this fear is taught.

11

i wish i had a way to explain to men
what it is like to be cat-called,
but i can't.

all i have
are my words, memories, experiences, feelings -
and we all know nobody's going to take those seriously.

i am crossing the street and a man rolls down his window,
whistles, laughing, calls,
"hey baby!"
he has a moustache peppered with grey
and it reminds me of my father.
i am eleven years old.

there are plenty of men who don't cat-call.
the problem is that instead of getting mad at the men who do,
they get mad at the women who have had enough,
who are asking for help -

because the men who do cat-call will not listen to us.
our voices don't make them afraid like their voices do to us.
i flinch away from male voices not unlike gunshots,
trying to make myself small because i did not ask to be seen.

i want you to know
that i have gone home with men i feared,
slept in the devil's den because he made it quite clear:
i would give on the sheets
or he would take on the pavement.

i am nearing the end of my jog,
approaching my street, and a car pulls up alongside me.
"what's your name, sweetheart?"
and i want to say
FUCK YOU FOR DOING THIS TO ME.
FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME AFRAID.
but i can't.

because he is in the passenger seat of another man's car,
and the back windows are tinted so i can't tell if there are more of them.
so i jog an extra mile, trying to shake off the feeling
of his eyes on me, his laughter, belittling,
and i am not eleven years old anymore,
but now it takes reminding.

i don't turn onto my street where the cars can see me.
i have been followed home before.
i am learning.

i am a fugitive in my own body,
kept in the same place as this flame burning inside of me,
this fear, this hatred, this disgust -

this feeling that
IF I WERE BIGGER, I WOULD MURDER YOU.
and fuck you for doing this to me.
fuck you for making me afraid.

but i am small, and i am weak,
and i keep this fire burning out of pure defiance,
because i know you are trying to put it out.

i am twenty-one, out with my dog
and a group of them whistle and call to me.
i lean down and take off the muzzle.

i am bluffing. please work.

and when i don't respond and they start into
"stuck up bitch, fuck you slut, ugly cunt,"
i want to scream and say,

I AM ANGRIER THAN YOU CAN EVER BE.

i am trapped inside a body that cannot defend itself
in the face of advances that i am told its existence warrants.

if i could make you see, i would.

but nobody is cat-calling other men.
and how the fuck has it fallen to the victims
to have to fix it?

what am i supposed to say to the man who leans out of his truck,
calls me "a pretty little thing,"
that will stop him without consequence?

girls are killed for saying no.

and so he licks his lips, turns to his buddy and laughs,
and there is heat behind my eyes - humiliation, helplessness -
and i hope to god nobody ever talks to his daughter this way.

he is old enough to be my father,
silver accents in his hair,
and against my will, once more:

i am eleven years old.

the problem with saying "i love you,"
is each time it weighs less on your tongue,
with the cage of your teeth less effective,
with the air come too free from your lungs,

and it's hard to take back once you've said it -
it don't matter how hard you regret it.
yes, the problem with saying "i love you,":
it don't always come back where it's from.

i'd rather have my depression be the punchline than the flatline, i think

it is nothing

i've never been in love;
don't know if i might ever be.
i don't know what to picture when i think about the future,
but the only person there is me.

and i'm angry just imagining the lack of you,
i'm ignoring that it's all i ever had of you.
call it selfish, call it stupid, call it anything you want,
just don't call it what it is.

and i'm sorry that i only ever thought about myself,
and i'm sorry that i'm thinking of me still.
i'm bad at just believing; can't think you into being,
but if i ever learn, i will.

i know it's not fair - we haven't even met.
but why wasn't i worth you loving me yet?

i've never been one of the good ones;
i just never tried to learn how.
and hindsight's 20/20, hoping scars will turn out pretty,
but it's too late to try to learn now.

and i'm angry just imagining the lack of you,
i'm ignoring that it's all i ever had of you.
call it lonely, call it desperate, call it anything you want,
just don't call it what it is.

i keep blacking out alone inside the shower.
i keep staring at the bottle in the dark.
i keep wishing i could spend every breath of every day,
every hour trying to be where you are.

i know it's not fair - we haven't even met.
but why wasn't i worth you loving me yet?

breathe, hurt, shake.
i just want a name for this ache.
call it silly, call it sad, call it anything you want,
just don't call it what it is.

i've never been in love.

razor sharp wit,
the unbitten tongue -
no one cares you can fit
the truth in your lungs,

and the fools carry on,
as fools often do -
but none of their noise is as pretty as you.

wake up feelin' like i do,
like someone asked, what's wrong with you?
i wake up feelin' just the same,
still cringing as i shake the shame.

i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.

wake up feelin' like i do,
still wake up, like i promised to.
i wake up feelin' out of breath
like someone might have mentioned death.

i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.

wake up feelin' like i do,
my disappointment overdue.
i wake up feelin' sad and slow -
i wish you'd all just let me go.

i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.
i feel nothing.

time goes by so slowly,
i can't wait to go to sleep.
i know i said i wouldn't do it -
i would never put you through it -
but it's a promise i just can't keep.

i am tired,
been holding my breath too long.
i love you so please let me go
to the place i've been wanting all along.

better

"how are you doing," he asks me.
"better," i say, which is sort of a lie
because i am never getting
that.

what i should have done
was laugh hysterically
because

it's all a joke, right,
it has to be a joke,
just a joke, right,
ha.

"how are you doing," he asks me.

i am not doing anything.
i am not, i'm not

better can be measured in increments
but something is always so far off about it,
like the time:

"how are you doing," she asked me.

"get better soon," she said.

and who am i to tell her
that this is not just a matter
of restoring things to right -

i have never been
that.

i'm just a fool.
i'm a fool for trying
when only the good die young,
and i have never been enough of
that.

"how are you doing,"

i have never been
better.

"please, god, please."

the prayer:

if i lose you,
if he loses you,
if we all lose you,

just do not lose yourself.

needed

what i needed was out,
and what you needed was me, in.
there is no winning.

now, what you need is out and i
am too far ahead to reach back for you.

i am here for you, but i know
it's not the same as being there,
for you.

i'm sorry.

life is kind of funny, in a sad, dark way:
i never knew i was worth being needed by anybody
until i was too far away to remind you
of your own worth, too.

please be okay.

outta yer head

i just wish i knew what was or wasn't normal behaviour.
i keep checking in with my boss because we aren't very busy right now and i just want him to know that it's not like i'm slacking on work i could be doing, it's a lot of hurry up and wait happening, and i just want to make sure he knows i'm not bumming off, i dunno
and he keeps just like reassuring me that it's fine and that he trusts me and that i don't have to check in, but i feel like i ought to anyway and just ugh.

sometimes i really wonder how broken i look to other people.

"when you get better."

what a loaded statement
while i am loaded up on medications
that still don't keep me full, i

try to understand that you don't mean it like that
but i have never been good at understanding,
and isn't that the problem.

"when you get better,"
and this is all i've ever been
and all i ever will be

is sorry for that.

i know it's not enough, never enough,
never, never, never,
is -

"when you get better,"

is never, never, never.

prescription

the label reads anti-psychotic
but it's just the pills,
not me.

pisces

it's a fog that rolled in
the minute my mother and father made eye contact
and it hasn't rolled out since.

my forecast never called
for anything but grey.

and so, you see,
when you try to tell me that
"it will get better,"
i try to picture the sun, i do -
but i don't know what it looks like.

summer's never coming.

i'm the february gloom.

ablaze

i want you to do something,
for me.

i want you to invite your ex-boyfriend
into your house. i want you to tell him,
"make yourself at home."

i know he lied and cheated
while you were honest, but so am i -
trust me, trust me, trust me.

call up your estranged grandmother.
tell her to drop by for tea.

find the time, someday, to invite her over.
"come in, come in," you will say.
"please, take off your coat."

i want you to hold your front door open
for the girl who laughed at you in high school,
made you feel so fucking small -

wave her in.
tell her, "welcome."
it's okay.

trust me.

i want you to invite every little bad thought,
every insecurity and every negative emotion,
every scrap of self-doubt or self-hatred
that you have ever felt, let them
wash over you and in, in
over the welcome mat.

i want you to welcome into your home
everyone and everything that has ever made you feel
like less.

and i want you to sit everyone down
so they're nice and comfortable,

and i want you to go to the drawer in the dining room
and pull out the matches,

and i want you to say to everyone,
"let me just step out for one quick moment,"

and i want you to go outside
and burn that fucking house to the ground.

i want you to take everyone and everything
that has ever made you feel like you were less
and i want you to

make them less.

i want you to do this, please, for me.

because when the flames die down
and the ashes of all these sad, angry, awful things
has blown away on the wind, i promise -

i will teach you how to do it
for you.

young lady

my mother used to warn me, used to say
"you're an attractive young lady,
you have to be careful."

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

that i should have to exercise caution
for fitting into someone else's idea of a pleasing aesthetic
was always such undue punishment -
that these thoughts should even be placed
in my young mind, that -

the man talking to you in the breakfast aisle of the grocery store
wants to have sex with you. this whole conversation,
"i prefer the one with granola,"
he's been imagining holding you down,
pinning your body, so small beneath him,
fucking you, fucking you, fucking you.

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

"you have to be careful."

that i should have to question, second guess,
why anyone would talk to me,
why? why, if not for
that.

that dirty thing i keep being told i'm supposed to like
while in the same breath being told to fear it, be careful, so careful,
and in the exhale, under the breath there, i can hear it:
this is what you're good for. this is it.

this is all.

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

when i was young i used to fear
halloween and monsters under the bed;
ghosts, werewolves, witches.

i grew up the moment i learned
that what i really ought to fear
is men, is sex, is my own body.

i wore makeup for the first time in eighth grade,
and my mother cried, said,

"be careful, be careful, be careful."

and i wiped the lipstick from my unkissed mouth,
felt it come off charred, burnt black.

i hid my body, this weapon against me,
clenched my jaw, lowered my brow,
hoped to god this was it, this was careful -

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

my first pair of heeled shoes, and my mother's boyfriend
told me that high heels were only invented to make women
look better for men.

i found files on my mother's computer,
letters she had written,
explaining to her boyfriend why it hurt her
that he was attracted to me.

never been touched and i was filthy, dirty,
ruining this, ruining, ruining.

i never asked for the attention;
just wanted to play with the facepaint,
just wanted to hear my footsteps click and clack.

i grew up when i stopped fearing the dark,
when i stopped believing in werewolves and witches
and started trying to arm myself with their tactics.

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

my lipstick is black
and my heels have spikes
and when i walk away you better know not to follow.

i will destroy my own body before anyone else has the chance to.
and i will take you down with me.

"you're an attractive young lady,
you have to be careful."

don your lipstick,
put your heels on,
walk away.

aces, maybe

we grew up turning boys' sexuality into a joke
and girls' sexuality into nothing at all;
a secret people only whispered about
when they were trying to hurt somebody.
quick learner, i was - put up walls around my wretched body,
hid alien urges, buried beneath the foundation
of the woman i was trying to become.
now years have passed and every man i try to be with
tells me it's not enough if i don't want
the way he wants. years of being told that sex is wrong
and now i'm being told that i am wrong for listening.
i'm scrambling to tear up earth and find
my rotted urges. i can bring you the scraps -
sunk from the soil; small and dirty.
will you want them as they are?
nobody taught me any better than to hate myself,
and now i am just supposed to know.
i held funeral services for my budding sexuality
at thirteen years of age and now
i dare you to stare at this corpse, laid bare,
and promise you still want me.

fault

my brother's life is like a warzone,
but not the way he imagines -
he's the only one dropping bombs.

up and down his arms, in dips and divots,
scabs and scars. he makes you watch him carve them out,
looks at you, says,

"look what you've done."

my brother's life is like a warzone,
and when it is over there will be parades held
to honor the suffering's end.

and in the eyes of those who battled -
in the eyes of those who knew my brother -
you will see it come in waves:

devastation.

relief.