white on white, unforgiving night, sin on sin, love letters on skin, heart saying amen

.



i felt a sense of dislocation. the kind of what the fuck feeling you get after you have sex with someone you really didn't want to have sex with, and you're laying there thinking about anything you can get your mind on, just because you don't want to think about now and what you've just done. you can't leave fast enough but you feel as if you should at least be courteous.
i felt stone around me; my lips parted with some sort of feverish uncertainty, fear and hope. i need someone to punch me.







you always do that. and i don't like it.



.

the earth is wild and i can't sit still; ran to you like water, threw my body in...

.


summer sure is summer.
it shocked me how different it was, to hug someone that i've always wanted to hug but never thought to, just because i never thought he'd return the feeling.
but then arms went around me and a chin nestled into the crook of my neck. i felt the earth turn wild and his voice shake.














allowing harm, causing harm. if you could choose one, which would you opt for?

written in half-doodles all over my philosophy syllabus:
the analytical mind, wooh.
avoiding narrow-minded dogmatism (males) (just joking about the males)
ethereal thing.. like god
ugly? corrupting the youth! hemlock!
philosophy is by no means atheistic
it's like killing santa claus, and who wants that?
what we want to believe is a powerful influence on the value we put in arguments
let's get this rolling
break schematic
2 smalls? i large? 2 smalls it is
it never works out
backloaded latinism
prior to imperical observation
but.. to me, baseball is AMERCIA (!) in right white pants and chewing tobacco

i don't know yet if i enjoy philosophy class so much because professor henry is a good instructor, or if the general subject is so enticing.

cheveux

.





sometimes i wish that the sun was a little more afraid of the night.
and sometimes darkness stops my veins, arresting me as if i have every reason to fear.







a little trim, a little color.
bam.





/

against hands

.



.









Palms, damp like the surface
of contemptuous stones
on the steaming, still riverbank;

Fingers—knuckles—
like aching hills of a burned homeland,
often bloody and almost sharp;

Nails clipped short, cracked and unclean;
Thick wrists.


Your two hands—

My life’s first scale,
weighing the fear against the need,
a life of the flesh,
my resignation against
the truth of the next world.
The shine of the sea against
the glass in my eyes. As if you were God
and justice only a whim.
The imbalance—
the weight—





.

one

.





... yep, leave it to my mother to get me listening to epik high.


my sister tends to be weak. at least physically. she'll get sick too often, is as thin as a waif, even falls victim to the side effects of gardasil. i've never been that way. i've only been seriously ill a couple times in my entire life and whenever i get dizzy or flu-ish, i always take care of it myself, not letting my mother know unless it gets really out of hand. but my sister tells my mother about every little pain she has, has to take yoga for her back problems, never eats enough...
it makes me worry about my mother. i'm sure that eventually my sister will grow out of it and be able to stabilize her health when her immune system strengthens as she gets older. buy my mother worries so much about her. as mean as this sounds, sometimes i want to tell my sister to just suck it up, because every little complaint she makes about pain is amplified in the anxiety of my mother. and my sister really is a little girl when it comes to physical pain. she can't stand it, whereas i pierce my ears during long rests in band. and i guess when you're 12 it's better to be normal and averse to pain instead of a masochistic little freak like i was...
but honestly, the look on my mother's face whenever my sister gets dizzy again, or has an upset stomach again, or looks pale again...
it makes it hard to sympathize.







.

y tu mama tambien

.












i am the tide, rocking you forth, breaking from you as i struggle to keep all my reasons in my arms. i shut my eyes against the aching self that we've lost; my faint, whispering visitor, the bruises on my eyes that you've left remain, gently throbbing like the arching heat of summer. where are you.


















sculpture.
finished last night.
materials: cd's and a glue gun.




.

secret. urgent. oh.

.




is it so much to ask, i wonder...


summer's started.
the military is giving our soldiers drugs
just to stay happy.

henry's coming back.
i'm still huge.










.

only after you lose everything are you free to do anything.

.






in a state of self-imposed depression. succumbing to the weaknesses of the mind and, more importantly, those of the heart. my human condition.
fuck it all.





realization of the fact that the only person you poured so much love and desperation into is drifting further away. heart clenches with every little show of indifference. beg him to look, please, and see. he leaves you know that it's because he can't bear the sight of you. all your energy devoted to trying to show him you love him, yet at night, after fucking, you whisper i love you, not even sure, and close your eyes because he already knows and just doesn't care, even if he wants to give a damn he just can't. but that's not even the worst of it. the worst of it is that you become, as a product of your fears and desperation, so willing to degrade yourself. it's not even conscious, the realization occurs in retrospect, that you would have been ashamed to have acted the way you did and accepted the things you did if it wasn't for the pathetic sense of anxious need you feel. but i understand, and i feel sorry for her, and hate him all the more because it's all too flattering for him.
masochistic bitch.
all of us.



what the fuck are we doing, looking through red-rimmed daisies and thinking, not doing, complaining like unloved bastards without a god to burn and blame. it's all the same shit and the same weakened breath of air that comes out of your mouth, leaving that putrid stench in the air and a shade of grey on your lip. what do we do, us faithless, other than fuck and fancy ourselves intelligent.

susurrus. susurrus, susurrus, susurrus.

.












i'm painting my closet doors. mondrian. something about war, and another thing about peace. last night was spent with paint on my hands, war on the wall and thoughts of someone in my head. i remember rembrandt's crucifixion--three crosses--in my head. lights and metal, sharp.










a lot of the time, trying to understand is not comfortable; there are no pleasantries in comprehension and your brain is ravaged with empty, open-ended questions that you know are impossible and pointless. and at those times, nothing really helps you to sleep, or even calm the rush in your head.














what will the MOON look like tonight, when i'm crammed in my room with paint, my bones wet and burning with want of purpose and motivation. where will the energies run. what will i amount to.





.