Forgive me, but it's essay time. Read it if you have the patience. If not... just answer the following.
Name at least one thing, person, or event that has made you glad you were alive today.
For me: Singing along with La Vie Boheme from RENT, comments from all my sweet SG friends, chat topics about what an attention whore I am, writing advice from the ex-girlfriend, a brief chat with Ophelia, and Shalome's devil horns.
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Perhaps in the body of a dancer, a model, a visual artist, the foci of the body would not be in the delicate, lotus petal wrists. Slippery like salmon, the veins, arteries, and tendons tease away from my boyish fingernails, badly squared and uneven. This third eye, unblinking, wails to be gouged. Before my sun tattoo, a spur of the moment hope of purging the airiness under my skin, I scrawled on jet black crosses in hopes of protection. Whether from Shannon or from myself has been a point of contention, but there they were. On the days my hands threaten to disconnect from my body, the center of the sun is an equal-armed cross.
Now I can imagine the blood welling up in Heathers scratches. These rain droplets, bubbling over surfaces that seem like runs in hosiery, dont attain any sort of reality. Draped over flesh, skin is no more than another veil to be pushed back. I rarely bleed. Accidents happen, and they are only that. Glossed over like magazine pages, I lick my thumb, press it to the corner, and move along. Understand, please, that this is only a release.
If my phone wakes me in the night, Im ready to distract Trinity from herself. Even though I dabble lightly in pain as an art, I understand the need to be drawn away from the temptation. She will likely never call, but my phone is on. In my life, this is omnipresent. My initiation was not the glass-thin arm of April, raped by a straight-edge razor, though Ive always implied it. My first taste was not of love, but revulsion. I did not like Amber. If Id never tasted the rich pride of those kittenish razor marks on her ankles, would I have stayed the same path?
Shannon has the welt-pink shine of bravery all down her arms and legs, and in a blazing ribbon across her neck. Circumstances brought her to a place I will never visit. She was a special case. I no longer admire this; I only accept it as the truth. Still, I recall the serenity I felt lying among tangled sheets, caressing her scars gently with my lips and fingers. I will never be that girl. The implications of this no longer stare me in the eye, daring me to go further. I am not a danger to myself.
Knowing this, there is no harm. I can press my nail into my flesh, draw the air, await release. Will it be sweet?
Name at least one thing, person, or event that has made you glad you were alive today.
For me: Singing along with La Vie Boheme from RENT, comments from all my sweet SG friends, chat topics about what an attention whore I am, writing advice from the ex-girlfriend, a brief chat with Ophelia, and Shalome's devil horns.
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Perhaps in the body of a dancer, a model, a visual artist, the foci of the body would not be in the delicate, lotus petal wrists. Slippery like salmon, the veins, arteries, and tendons tease away from my boyish fingernails, badly squared and uneven. This third eye, unblinking, wails to be gouged. Before my sun tattoo, a spur of the moment hope of purging the airiness under my skin, I scrawled on jet black crosses in hopes of protection. Whether from Shannon or from myself has been a point of contention, but there they were. On the days my hands threaten to disconnect from my body, the center of the sun is an equal-armed cross.
Now I can imagine the blood welling up in Heathers scratches. These rain droplets, bubbling over surfaces that seem like runs in hosiery, dont attain any sort of reality. Draped over flesh, skin is no more than another veil to be pushed back. I rarely bleed. Accidents happen, and they are only that. Glossed over like magazine pages, I lick my thumb, press it to the corner, and move along. Understand, please, that this is only a release.
If my phone wakes me in the night, Im ready to distract Trinity from herself. Even though I dabble lightly in pain as an art, I understand the need to be drawn away from the temptation. She will likely never call, but my phone is on. In my life, this is omnipresent. My initiation was not the glass-thin arm of April, raped by a straight-edge razor, though Ive always implied it. My first taste was not of love, but revulsion. I did not like Amber. If Id never tasted the rich pride of those kittenish razor marks on her ankles, would I have stayed the same path?
Shannon has the welt-pink shine of bravery all down her arms and legs, and in a blazing ribbon across her neck. Circumstances brought her to a place I will never visit. She was a special case. I no longer admire this; I only accept it as the truth. Still, I recall the serenity I felt lying among tangled sheets, caressing her scars gently with my lips and fingers. I will never be that girl. The implications of this no longer stare me in the eye, daring me to go further. I am not a danger to myself.
Knowing this, there is no harm. I can press my nail into my flesh, draw the air, await release. Will it be sweet?
VIEW 6 of 6 COMMENTS
al:
I had a dream that that terminator was coming for me.
koleeta:
oh you spiky blue thing you