I went to the doctors today, because unlike all the other pretty little girls of the world, my mentraul cycles are bloody wars which cause a fog of dysfunctional depression, severe cramping, as well as other adverse side-effects.
Ok, that's a little dramatic.
But in all honesty, who can blame me for desperately seeking help to a problem I suffer individually? Maybe everyone. No worries though, for now all my dreadful days of blackened emotions and nighttime horror-flick fun are over, thanks to what people nowadays call contraseptives. No, no, I'm not sexually active, just hormonally ridiculous. Babies? Who needs to prevent those? All I need to do is get rid of my acne as well as bloating, restlessness, and insomnia.
Tomorrow my mommy will bring home a box of pretty little pills that are to be taken daily, and I will (dishonestly) hide the fact that pregnancy is unlikely from my fiance, as well as pray that this becomes a solution, not a new difficulty to deal with. How delightful!
Perhaps I will have some tea with that.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Neurological Damage in a Sea of Bitter
A few nights ago I had a dream; I was walking through middle school, in the darkness. There were people there, I know there were, but I couldn’t always exactly see them. I’m not even sure if they saw me. Well, he did at least, though there didn’t seem to be recognition. He tried, I’m sure, but the memory was gone. Perhaps it is a sign.
Better than the sleepy scares I've had of him before. Dead wife with dead eyes glaring down at me as he slowly creaks onto the bed. Live wife innocent and lovely, singing church songs at my side, while his eyes tell me frightening stories of wanting. So much better than being awake and wondering what is wanted, which part of me is real and which is simply a misguided accusation.
There are always the other ones, which have a angry stranger, that sometimes I believe I know, but really, he is just for my sister. He watched me from a third story window, and we made love on an old mattress. I was torn up by his madness, burnt by the joint pressed between finger and thumb. Waking up in a sweat, trying to swallow, listening to his shallow breathing like a breath of fresh air through my phone. He asked me once if that poem was about me, I lied, and said no.
Again, three nights ago I sat against this wrong lap, kissed those sad lips, and wanted something different than what I know. I hate waking up disfigured, and yet I can never run away from sleep.
Someday, when I'm away from all these hauntings, and my body falls into dreams next to his maybe I'll never feel these tingling nightmares touch my mind again.
Better than the sleepy scares I've had of him before. Dead wife with dead eyes glaring down at me as he slowly creaks onto the bed. Live wife innocent and lovely, singing church songs at my side, while his eyes tell me frightening stories of wanting. So much better than being awake and wondering what is wanted, which part of me is real and which is simply a misguided accusation.
There are always the other ones, which have a angry stranger, that sometimes I believe I know, but really, he is just for my sister. He watched me from a third story window, and we made love on an old mattress. I was torn up by his madness, burnt by the joint pressed between finger and thumb. Waking up in a sweat, trying to swallow, listening to his shallow breathing like a breath of fresh air through my phone. He asked me once if that poem was about me, I lied, and said no.
Again, three nights ago I sat against this wrong lap, kissed those sad lips, and wanted something different than what I know. I hate waking up disfigured, and yet I can never run away from sleep.
Someday, when I'm away from all these hauntings, and my body falls into dreams next to his maybe I'll never feel these tingling nightmares touch my mind again.
Monday, March 16, 2009
"We Think It Is Self Pity"
I think they should start to make books, which in a way are sort of "look for me, I'm hiding", except instead of Where's Waldo? it would be Where's Jeff Mangum?. It makes total sense.
I also think that I should learn how to sew, so instead of going to the store and seeing dresses for $80 and buying them, I could make them myself for $20.
There is a bunch of holes in my head, and one of them is being plugged at the moment with an evil device I like to call a mobile phone. There really isn't much anything mobile about it though, seeing that it will stay very still if you leave it to its own business. No matter how many seconds, minutes, days, months, periods, decades, eras I spend watching cellphones, they seem to stay put when there is not human interference. Another way in which humanity disrupts the natural order of things. A phone would not be mobile (much less cellular!) were it not having some man, woman, or child moving it about in disorderly fashions.
People are strange. They think depression is the same everywhere, as if to say that in every house the clutter is exactly the same, the dust in the corner of the hall has all the same genetic DNA acquirement's that every other hallway is made out of. I don't know why every gray is the same exact shade, or every broken bone an equal cut. And when they do think to say that you are not acting in a normal way, they try and arouse happiness in you, or in anger tell you to get over it. Somehow when you say you don't know why your skin feels like it needs to be torn off, as if your muscles should be moving in every direction at rapid speeds not know to man, they disregard your lack of knowledge as disbelief. I don't have any fact in my emotions, so the faith in them means nothing. I don't know anything about any of this, other than what I've felt. I've never heard anyone talk like I feel, or claim to understand it. This enigma seems uninteresting, alone and silly in a world of suffering.
I'm just a dramatic poet, a quiet girl, a person in love that changes in the ways most people say you aren't supposed to change. I'm a variable, and yet one which lacks color or shape. I'm micro in comparison to the things around me. A weed in the ocean of a flock of flowers, but one that blends in. One that can't steal the fame or fire from the natural plants surrounding me.
Some days I don't even know that I'm writing, what I'm writing. Then again, it has been so long, words are just another friend I thought I knew, but it ends up I'm just an ignorant fool. Sometime I want to have it back, that time where I casually made love to all those words, apathetic to everyone else and their opinions of my compositions. I would type fast, slow, both sacred and nonchalant. Maybe that part of me is gone, or maybe I am better off this way. Writing is a passion, but it also needs to be taken care of, like a child. It can become rowdy and obnoxious, desolate and dry, starving or haunted. These are all my choices to make, and yet, if I truly think about it, they are nothing but reactions to everything I see, feel, touch, hear, want, know, taste, love, hate. Everything is.
Like this small amount of words, all my poetry seems randomly put together. Muck shoved into one pile. Colors being washed with darks and whites. Delicate tablecloths mixed with cotton t-shirts and blue jeans. I'm blunt, blatant, ugly and metaphorical. It is all a mess.
I'm just a wretch.
I also think that I should learn how to sew, so instead of going to the store and seeing dresses for $80 and buying them, I could make them myself for $20.
There is a bunch of holes in my head, and one of them is being plugged at the moment with an evil device I like to call a mobile phone. There really isn't much anything mobile about it though, seeing that it will stay very still if you leave it to its own business. No matter how many seconds, minutes, days, months, periods, decades, eras I spend watching cellphones, they seem to stay put when there is not human interference. Another way in which humanity disrupts the natural order of things. A phone would not be mobile (much less cellular!) were it not having some man, woman, or child moving it about in disorderly fashions.
People are strange. They think depression is the same everywhere, as if to say that in every house the clutter is exactly the same, the dust in the corner of the hall has all the same genetic DNA acquirement's that every other hallway is made out of. I don't know why every gray is the same exact shade, or every broken bone an equal cut. And when they do think to say that you are not acting in a normal way, they try and arouse happiness in you, or in anger tell you to get over it. Somehow when you say you don't know why your skin feels like it needs to be torn off, as if your muscles should be moving in every direction at rapid speeds not know to man, they disregard your lack of knowledge as disbelief. I don't have any fact in my emotions, so the faith in them means nothing. I don't know anything about any of this, other than what I've felt. I've never heard anyone talk like I feel, or claim to understand it. This enigma seems uninteresting, alone and silly in a world of suffering.
I'm just a dramatic poet, a quiet girl, a person in love that changes in the ways most people say you aren't supposed to change. I'm a variable, and yet one which lacks color or shape. I'm micro in comparison to the things around me. A weed in the ocean of a flock of flowers, but one that blends in. One that can't steal the fame or fire from the natural plants surrounding me.
Some days I don't even know that I'm writing, what I'm writing. Then again, it has been so long, words are just another friend I thought I knew, but it ends up I'm just an ignorant fool. Sometime I want to have it back, that time where I casually made love to all those words, apathetic to everyone else and their opinions of my compositions. I would type fast, slow, both sacred and nonchalant. Maybe that part of me is gone, or maybe I am better off this way. Writing is a passion, but it also needs to be taken care of, like a child. It can become rowdy and obnoxious, desolate and dry, starving or haunted. These are all my choices to make, and yet, if I truly think about it, they are nothing but reactions to everything I see, feel, touch, hear, want, know, taste, love, hate. Everything is.
Like this small amount of words, all my poetry seems randomly put together. Muck shoved into one pile. Colors being washed with darks and whites. Delicate tablecloths mixed with cotton t-shirts and blue jeans. I'm blunt, blatant, ugly and metaphorical. It is all a mess.
I'm just a wretch.
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