When you talk about things they get better. Bullshit.
I hope you’re with someone who makes you feel safe when you’re sleeping tonight.
I won’t kill myself trying to stay in your life.
I’ve got no distance left to run.
I wash the pill down with the cold coffee that’s been sitting on the top of the books that are starting to pile up unattractively on my nightstand. And suddenly the days swap and I’m standing in the middle of the dirty train station; the town where I work awaits me, always, exactly like this: grey and dirty, hostile, cold with the reflection of the trees slowly swinging from side to side on the surface of the river I don’t know the name of.
Every second now my head will burst in two because of the impossible pain pills have so far done nothing about. A láska je umění nechat být. Love is being able to leave alone.
My old Casey&Dave poems coming back to my mind on nights like these. Then new ones, much darker, as the world in my mind’s stepped over the threshold of the endless night. With, occasionally, people carrying designer lamps over to light up a little piece of the inside of my head, people calling out my name in loud whispers.
Appreciating my presence. ?
as I leave you with restless liars and dealers on the take.//
These sleepy Saturdays, family lunches and watching the clouds with no make up on. Waiting for someone, anyone, to come pick me up and take me somewhere, anywhere, away from the four walls I keep taking pictures of people down from to put pictures of other people up. The smell of melting snow. Ugly grass everywhere for us to look. The wilderness downtown.
Prom. With all those people I don’t want to deal with and alcohol I don’t feel like drinking and leaving early because really, what the fuck.
And the next day, counting all the little bruises and scratches that social life is. Nightfall over my hometown. I go the same places when I’m sad and wait for someone to figure the pattern out. Or not. Being left alone is good enough. And one day, I’ll forget all the evil and I’ll be able to move on and be friendly and accept everything about myself that I hate; the hysteria, the ugliness, all of it — but naw, not today, not yet.
Me and my friend, we’ll go for a walk and end up at Tesco buying rolls and ham and banana juice and on our way back we pass a million places where either of us had spent a lovely time at some point in the past, with someone we are now trying to forget, more or less. I curse too much, it’s over the line.
But in my mind, it’s summer already. I need to get away from myself.
I could pretend that I don’t care that people say I’m evil but it’d be just too much effort after months of trying not to be bothered by people saying that I’m an alcoholic and a liar and that my friends are all junkies. So, I do care. It saddens me. Getting past the denial phase is how the getting better begins. Or not?
I bought £200 worth of a prom outfit that eventually turned out to be something between Lykke Li, Florence of F.&TheMachine and a sleeping gown. This is what I call trying to conform and failing miserably. … I couldn’t care less for prom dresses and everyone looking their fucking best for a night that will end up meaning absolutely nothing to them in a couple of weeks. It’s not about birth or death or even less significant things like marriage or graduation. It’s just a night and I fucking hate walking around in heels because it’s one of those things I’m not very good at.
The truth is, even if I did give a fuck, what use would it be? My parents won’t be there to see their little girl just like they’d always skipped all the parents’ meetings at school and all those recorder concerts when I was younger.
This happened while I was still with my ex boyfriend, it was an ugly day round about that time that I came home from Britain for a few weeks, we and a friend of my at-the-time-boyfriend’s with his dog, we went to this nasty pub, this was all before I started drinking so much, and the friend, the guy with the dog, he talked about what kinds of things attract him on a woman and then he talked about hands and he told me to show him my hands and then then he said he didn’t like them too much.
Yesterday was all my fault because I have hysteria and fear issues but it’s getting better by the hour and every time I feel a fit coming I paint my nails. Play the piano. Watch my brother play Mass Effect 2 on PS3 and only focus on the romantic story line.
On Monday, the therapist asked me: “What is bothering you the most at the moment?” and I try to think back to my answer, which was "There’s nothing," — because I wasn’t lying. I’m fine. Sometimes I just need to take a minute to remember it.
And I won’t stop until my tears are shed. I don’t know, perhaps by not dealing with some stuff I’ve given it all the room to become something it’s never been. Today, meaning it as a joke, I said that maybe I’ve done so much evil I don’t remember some of it. But I still can’t let go off the thought.