"silly rabbit, tricks are for kids/ a key to a coma where the friend of a friend lives..."

they sit at a round table and discuss your future. whether society would gain from your bloodshed. would you tell us about the view from the pedestal? describe the things we will never see? will you be cut deep into stone or washed away like the sand of a foreign tide?

the history books would write themselves if nothing ever happened in the world.

gulping at carbon monoxide like wide-eyed guppies won't change much, except maybe who will stand on the frozen ground above your grave a thousand years from now...

i'll bring the flowers and paint the town black for you. we all will. just try to stay sane until we can find an envelope big enough to hold our tears and your pipedreams.

"there were clawmarks on the inside of her heart...he certainly didn't want to go."

scream envy until you're blue in the face and green in your heart.

i know i told you blood is under everything, but under all the blood and gore and guts and annihilation is a song.

when you're home alone watching reruns of some shitty sitcom on a saturday night, something fuzzy and familiar runs through your body. in that casket of antisocial tendencies and sobriety, a song sleeps in your head.

when you set that house on fire, burnt it to the ground and buried all your hate, the crackling, warbly voice of destruction sang to you.

when you carved his name into your arm with a razor blade and some rubbing alcohol, your own voice screaming in pain serenaded the rushing of your blood, accompanying the crimson drips as they hit the white tiles triumphantly.

listen carefully. fall in love with the lights off. end it all to start anew.
lovelovelovelovelovelove.

"thousands of little blue lights. tiffany's blue. valium blue."

i can't see in the dark

i can't breathe in the sea

but none of that means

what you mean to me.

for bad poetry, turn to page 65.

it's stupid to get attached to something like that. it was such a bad idea - like touching live wires or believing in magic - but it was bone crushing. earth shattering. romantic, an idea i fell for.

for naivete, turn to page 34.

who the fuck needs people, anyways.

but at the end of the day, it was just four boys i've never met and some notes i could never duplicate.



it was the light at the end of the tunnel. but the tunnel's never ending and no one knows what wattage that light could possibly be. lumps in throats turn into holes in hearts turn into bullets in heads turn into bodies in graves.

for death wishes, turn to page 108.

selfish.

they're nothing but bodies.

bury me stuffed to the brim with nostalgia. i want to crave the yesterdays in the afterlife. i want to go back to when the world didn't give a fuck ( it still doesn't, of course) and change everything. i want the world to give in, give up, sit back, grow up, and die young.

i am the unknown, even to myself. an encyclopedia with nothing on the pages. the inside cover says "you never lived up to your potential, you know".

for loneliness, turn to page 29.

if you love me, you'll pick up that brick and crack open my skull.

or maybe just sit with me for a while?

unused, but still faded.
fake love has never been so cruel.

fuck you, it's magic.

reread some of my first songs, circa fourth grade.
utterly terrible.
(still better than your love letters...)

my biggest fear was failure. i can't give a fuck about death, or spiders, or tight spaces.
(like the inside of your skull...)

i just didn't want to live uneventfully.
i guess i'm still like that, sort of.
except more like an attention whore than anything else.
(flashflashflash...)

Halloween is here. a wise man once drew a comparison between me and a jack o' lantern.
"obnoxious exterior, with a fire in your belly that burns for nothing but the attention of others."
(i should have took the hint when he told me orange was my colour...)

go buy the new cobra CD. listen to "the world has its' shine." with love, from me.

XO.

not the other way around.

27 pages of memorable fucking speech and i'm at a loss for words.

the fourth moon of pluto. the eleventh commandment. the cat's tenth life.
we all know the city's past gone but we can't help but wonder if something good's gonna happen.

(it won't.)

busy best friends, callous ex-friends, tying loose ends.

few things make me smile. i am hollow.

congratulate me.

before i trudge off to my nyquil-induced coma.

when the snakes die, we put roses in their heads to make their ideas decline from beautiful to withered in less than a week. it's nature's way of saying "it sounded better in my mind...." or "maybe we should go back to the drawing board."

you've got diamonds for eyes.
the shimmering beauty immediately contrasts a hard glare and high standards.

cut, carat, colour, clarity.

"what about the fallback plan...?"

through all the rain, our hearts smiled. thunderstorms were our anthems. clouds capped our cups of coffee. what a mouthful.

tingling, but numb.

weeks flew by, and i don't think my priorities have ever been straighter.

be yourself, because those who matter don't mind and those who mind don't matter.

savour your time.

be passionate about what you do.

sing like nobody's listening.

live without regret.

love without condition.

don't doubt your decisions.

break dance not hearts.

truefuckingloveforever.

<3

Sophomore slump or comeback of the year?

another year. another season of our lives completed. we're halfway there. the epiphany of my life. i'd call it a slump. i do what's expected of me because i don't know how to do anything else.

traintracks at night are a dangerous place to be, but we're blinded by the sun in the day. besides, what's a few shots of adrenalin among friends? quit crying your eyes out, and baby come on. let's slit our wrists and burn down something beautiful. poetry can't fit me into a rhyme scheme. science calls me inconclusive. math says i don't add up. "it's called bleeding so you know you're alive and unloved." well isnt that fucking great.

what if i decide that ignorance is bliss? it's not like i know anything about the afterlife. what if you got bored of living? the predictable intake of air, the blood in your ears. your mouth. your eyes. everywhere. blood is under everything, and you know it.

the scary thing is, blood is actually clear. ever wonder why burn patients bleed to death? that's why. blood plasma. like you're crying out of every pore. the p[s]alm reader points out my short lifeline. "you're either a hero or a coward, and i'm not liking your chances". what's the point of keeping a puzzle piece around if it doesn't fit into any puzzles?

so, which is it?

well, the comeback kid died anyways, so who really gives a shit?

...let's call it "who the fuck cares about you."

for once in my life, i want to know why i'm so goddamn undesirable.

the one thing i swore i'd never be is the one thing i see when i look in the mirror.

wishmeluck. pullthetrigger. sayonaratomediocrity.

forget about me.

summertime heatwaves.

one-liners turn into liner notes.
12:58am and i can't bring myself to sleep.
wish i had something to say but i think i'm too far away for you to hear me out.
it's funny, because you're just across the table.
a foot and a half away.
my mind is off again.
1:01am and i'm obsessing over you.
dissecting your insides with a scalpel and some tweezers.
"oohs" and "aahs" from the gallery.
my brain is shot. my hands slip. your EKG is a flat green line, humming a perfect note.
now i'm obsessing over what you once were. the corpse of your past.
1:04 and i am signing off.

goodnight.

-XO

leave the umbrella at home. let's dance in the rain and forget where we are together.

sometimes my life feels like one big summer hit single. people love me one minute, but once the leaves change, there's a new top 40 and i am collecting dust on your shelf again.

<3 youknewitwasmeallalong.

the jets fail in midair. cue the explosion. it's raining blood and guts on the launchpad, and that umbrella smile isn't going to do much now.

the rocketship of my life, baby.

my head is a jigsaw puzzle, but there's pieces missing and it doesn't look much like the picture on the box. "contents: one normal, healthy teenage girl" turns into "optional baggage, emotional weightlessness, unsharpened knives, and a toss of the dice included!".

i'm drunk off of my own self-worthlessness. swimming in my head. the dead man's crawl to shore with sand in my eyes and a fire in my lungs. drowning. breathless. fuck, i'm sorry mom, i just couldn't do it. fuck, i'm sorry dad, i don't know if i can take any more of this. oh god, i'm going to crash and there's nothing anyone can do about it. water fills up my lungs. there's nothing in sight and the verdict is in - survival rate is slim. and the pressure - dear god, the pressure - my body would collapse if it wasn't so full of bullshit and apologies. jesus christ, my skin is tearing, stretching out until i can see my veins, my bones, my lungs, the water sloshing around and trying to kill me. and ironically, this reminds me how goddamn thirsty i am. i laugh until i cry, and there's seawater in my eyes. water water everywhere, and not a drop to drink.
and i realize how ridiculous this is, because i am about to die and all i can think of is a stupid fucking cliche that no one understands anyways. haha. i begin to laugh again. a cliche for every occaision, and we've come full circle.

i'm so fucking sorry for throwing this on you.

We could live like this 'til your burnmarks fade, but then it wouldn't be love.

Just for the record, i talk about you way too much when you're not around.

"why do people automatically say "good" when someone asks how they are?"

i feel infinite at night, when we're laughing and singing and trashing the local park.
we are untouchable. invincible. a smile away from falling off the face of the earth with nothing running through our veins but oxygen and music.

we read each other's minds.

coffee stop. our song on the radio. tim hortons run amok. an ode to our ramblings.

scattegories. singalongs. mario party.

our legacy carved into the stars.

a teenage vow in a parking lot,
til tonight do us part,
i sing the blues and swallow them too.

call me ishmael. hunt the fish down just for the glory.

i am the other end of the rainbow. the only connection between me and your pot of gold future is a striped, candy coated lie. a ray of light that will dissappear after you've blinked the tears from your pathetic little bambi eyes.

wake up, kid. you're not allowed to be naive anymore.

take off the rose coloured glasses and get a real prescription. trade in the backpack for a briefcase and get to fucking work.

i am a traincrash in slow motion. i mean, no one knows that it's coming, but someday, you're going to get floored. derailed.

all because the truth hurts worse than anything.

slash a dollar sig(h)n into your wrist and pray for the child that dreamt of a stethoscope and vicodin dreams. or maybe the scales of justice and a burning courthouse heart.

"mom, mom, mom, mom, mommy, i couldn't get past the fetal pig in biology class. now i'm the cadaver."

help me out, i've got a case of the mid-teen crisis and i think it's terminal.

Marco Polo didn't know the rules to his own game either, come to think of it.

my own personal infinity is bleeding.
the wiry substance of my future is melting in my hands.

something isn't (write).

but at the same time, i don't think i've ever been happier. or more depressed. or clearer about my own life.

"it's complicated."

of course it is.

i wish i knew what the hell i want from myself.

it's trite. it's cliche. it's stupid. it's in right now.

i just don't have a single particle of confidence left in me right now. it's totally unjustified.

just like that girl on search for the next doll. the gorgeous one who was tall and exotic-looking, but got kicked out because her dress size was just too big. her finger was just not stroking her throat the right way. her dance wasn' t quite perfect.

why didn't she win?

if she can't make it, who's to say anyone can?

it worries me that i'm just too much of one thing and not enough of the other.

someone asked me how i wanted to die today, and i just don't know how to even field that question. shouldn't you have, you know, solid dreams before you think about completely trashing them?

i mean, of course i have dreams. i just don't know if i have the talent or looks or smile or tools to even get there.

i've got a water gun and a paper sheriff's badge. right the wrongs.

i've got a ballpoint and a scrap of paper. write the wrongs.

i can't fucking do this right now. i'm scared. fuck, jesus christ, i'm scared of my own life.

friday night seems to mean bad disney sequels.

but we laugh about them, which i guess is the important part.

twelve a.m yields strange music videos and ideas gone wrong.

maybe it will help me find my muse.

mostly, it just makes me feel hollow. it's the kind of music that eats your heart out and leaves your insides fluttering with metallic shields. the acoustics sound tingly; sharp knives weaving through the fragile chassis of your tissue.

it does nothing for me.

where is the life in this 4/4 time?

most of the people preaching on my TV teach me how to hate, divide, discriminate, echo on the inside of my hollowed-out chest.

do they teach to hate because they hate to love? or maybe it justs works out nicely like that. or maybe it's the sugar-coated politeness and the way your heart is severed from your head that keeps civilization moving.

self preservation? but it's so...short term.

maybe i'm overshooting things.

crack in the window pane.

i hate oasis.

i hate the betrayal i've created in my own little head.

i want out.

(but just so i can rinse out my thoughts and start over.)

would i do it all again?

(do what all again?)

yes. because i love it. i love it but i hate it but i can't hate it because i love it too much and it's a part of me and that's just not efficient.

these people on my television teach me to hate.

or maybe that's all my sick, twisted head can process from the residue the happiness leaves around my eardrums.

sugar we're going down, but the best part is making the trip.
so hold on tight, press your lips against mine, and be my number one with a bullet.

amimorethanyoubargainedforyet?

quicksand.

i don't think i've ever felt quite like this before.

it's the mute on your violin. don't bother mourning over it.

i'm worried. scared. depressed. apathetic.

every single teenage cliche, and everyone think's it's fine.

the music feels like sandpaper.

family isn't there anymore.

home isn't there anymore.

the floor's falling out from under me. everything and nothing at the same time.

the only person i've ever told is the only person i would trust with my life.

the only time i feel at home is when i'm disturbing the peace with the two of you and an ipod. the rest of the time i feel like a ghost. a brick.

i look pretty sinking.

i thought the music lost it's pixie dust, but i think it's good for another round.

just so long as i blur my eyes and wring my hands together.

i'm scared. i just want it all to end.

i just want it all to end.

i'm you consolation prize for all the taken trophy wives.

inadequate is the word of the day.

you just want to win something. maybe for the trophy on the mantel, maybe for the glory. but mostly so you can tell the world that you were the best.

that glass ceiling is a motherfucking bitch, ain't it?

the laughter and scoffs. because your attempt is so goddamn funny, isn't it? or maybe worse - maybe you don't hear anything at all. maybe the people don't know and don't care.

you fail. it's like running into a screen door.

incomplete thoughts. it's raining again, but you can dodge the water.

XO.

the patient.

do you ever wonder
what could've happened
if you had just
waited
another year or so?

you've
overcomplicated
a lot of things
in your lifetime.

you're eager
(the boys like that.)
you're cute and peppy
(everyone likes that.)
but one thing you need
is
patience.

because
you're
just
not
getting
what
it's
like
to
wait.

nocturnal.

nighttime is the only time of day that i can think.

you might even take your woolen head and drown in the world.

the stars swim.

next time, wear your lifejacket.

my head spins so quickly i see stars before my eyes.

My eyes are thick and clouded with my tears and your liquor
20/20 vision, shot to hell with just one shot glass.


//


I need my prescription checked


//


‘cause my face just hit the floor
You’re just not the quick-fix drug that I’m looking for

//


You hold your breath, hoping self-salvation may come around

//

And it seems
This case of writer’s block has got me back in time
With myself
But I still can’t seem to pen a line

//


You call it an obsession
A disease, incurable but for a stone thrown at a glass heart in the vain hope that it will shatter.
To be completely honest, my desperation barely manages to hold its’ own anymore.
The paper bag filled; water with acidic overtones

//


Why?
The unholy bible lost its’ sex appeal to Hollywood.
Your front gate lost its’ curb appeal to the rain.
The innocent boy - the one in the wrong place at the right time, the one we read about – lost his court appeal to the crown prosecuter.
The world is dead, but I am not.
That’s why.

//


Hand over heart, you think to yourself
Bitter taste in your mouth and a storm in your chest,
“I am going to die.”
Be honest, you’re nowhere near.
You just took one too many Aspirin with breakfast this morning.
But just so you know
Whenever you want to, you can just disappear.
Make it effortless.
Make it scandalous.
Make it rip a new hole in the side of your head.
(to let the breeze in, of course)
Make it burn my heart with a branding iron.

Maybe then, and only then, could I try to forget it all.

//


Keep a secret, keep it safe
Maybe then I’ll go unscathed
Keep a rhythm, keep in time
Then I’ll know what’s yours and mine

Just so you know: this was never about you.

-XO

i'm head over heels with someone i really can't deal with.

and it's killing me.

inspiration seems to be avoiding me lately. just as you sit by his apartment, praying and waiting for him to come out and say he's sorry, say he loves you after all, kisses you and makes it up to you in the most physical of ways...but you know that it will never happen.

all i ever see is the "never can's" and the "not again's" in the back of my mind, waiting for an appropriate time to cut into my thoughts and ask "can i have this dance?"

Headaches and bad luck leave me awake and heartstruck.

your tongue is numb from all the frostbitten words that roll off your tongue and sting in the most delicate of ways, but the only way that you could ever leave a lasting scar is by never speaking to me again.

cross my heart and hope to die [in your arms].

you're in love with the shadows of your mind.

it's just been so difficult for you to curb your t-t-terrible st-st-st-stutter.

in a romantic state of mind on a New York street corner. you're sorry, but you just can't help it.

all you can do is lean against the streetlamp, binoculars in hand.

his curtains are open tonight.

yes, it's pathetic. yes, it's illegal. but he likes the attention and you like view.

nosleeptonight. tomorrow's not looking good either.

jetplanes and champagne. bad songs and sham pain. it keeps you awake. you think it means something. it doesn't.

'A' for effort, of course.

eyes flicker back to the window.

forget it.

sundaynightlights.

she takes two advil for breakfast and four sedatives with her tea...

4am. the city lights burn your tears before they can even hit the ground. neon currents flow through the air, twisting to avoid the dark alleys and the anonymous bars scattered around the block. stand in the fluorescent afterglow, wait for a taxi[dermist] to pick you up.

never forget this moment. it's the first time you ever felt loved in your life.

feel the cold rags pressed against your skin. you're soaked with gin, right down to the final sequin. you're a looking-glass girl, with running mascara and a broken set of Blahniks.

everyone wants to be a part of your depressing little puzzle.

drunk.

with.

e.n.v.y.

don't ever forget it.

blackout.

"I wear scarves and hoods cause it's the only poker face that I've got left."

do you ever want to just let go and dance like nobody's watching?

my life plays out a thousand ways in my head, but it never quite synchs up with the real thing.

there's always one song that just won't get out of my head. always.

rest assured, you're not part of this rhyme scheme.

everything feels trite, cliche, recycled.

i just want to be better than i am.

(don't you know who i think i am?)

too well-dressed for the witness stand.

last night, i watched your car crash in slow motion.

the headlights smashed first, sending the plastic of your front bumper flying in all directions. the shards spell your name as they disappear into the atmosphere.

next, the framework is bent to all hell. the car is rearranged as you jolt in the driver's seat.

the steering wheel explodes in a violent burst of air. the car screeches as it tries to save [your] face.

your fragile, pretty little face. the only thing you have going for you.

feel the flash of the crime-scene paparazzi. head-on collisions are the most photogenic.

what a pity, i think as i hear you shatter against the force of the airbag. that won't look pretty in the morning paper.

the tires turn inwards, perpendicular to where they once hung on the fragile suspension. burnt rubber smell mixes with gasoline. disgusting.

then i notice the flames.

the whole rear end of the car is consumed in fire. the burning pleather joins the acrid smell of your demise. whatever bodies you had in the trunk are charred to hell.

how appropos. you chose to crash and burn.

then the action dies down. the car slides maybe another twenty feet, surrounded in a morbid halo of smoke, flames, and pieces of tire.

just like the angel from hell that you are.

the doctors rush to the burning wreck, praying for a pulse. cigarette ash is stuck in a landslide of makeup and blood, running down your face.

how attractive.

and with your final breath, the final thought running through your head, your lips stutter and say:

"i bet i look like shit."

the screen fades to black. the curtain has dropped on your little performance.

the critics give it five stars.

congratulations. you officially just made death look glamourous.

more people would've come to your funeral, but everybody who cared is hospitalized or shitfaced in a gutter.

more people would've come to your hearing, but everybody who saw it happen is just too well-dressed for the witness stand.

but you wanted it that way.

didn't you?

so here i am, sitting alone, watching your car-crash in slow motion.

just to piss you off.

sigh...

i just want to sit on a roof somewhere and talk to the stars.

make the clock stop at five minutes to midnight. your skin is electric.

sometimes, i just want to let go. i want to breathe in the cool night air with someone. i want to close my eyes and forget about myself. i want to concentrate on your heartbeat. your breathing. take the focus off of me and just listen to you.

i want someone to sweep me off my feet without even trying. i want to not give a shit about what people think of us. i want summer. i want rain. i want quiet.

calm before the storm.

let's see our name in city lights.

i can't sleep again.

sometimes i wonder what would happen if i just erased myself and started again. throw an empty roll of film into a dark room and see what develops.

close your eyes. tell me something new.

learn to differentiate between yourselves.

sometimes i wonder what it would be like to close my eyes and fall asleep and just live in my own head for the rest of my life. everyone's a little different, in a "same piece, different puzzle " kind of way.

they'res only a few people in this world that don't make me sick to my stomach.

they'res only a few people in this world that are worth it all. they are the people that make you want to sit back and watch the stars burn out in the midnight sky. after all, the sky is just a puddle of ink, just like words on paper.

it's all relative.

sometimes i wonder what could happen. if i closed my eyes and counted to ten, would you still be there? or would you run off like you always do?

sometimes i wonder what would happen if you hugged me. would you hug me? i doubt it.

sometimes i feel like an outsider in my own head. i can hear the echo bounce off the walls. no one is there. but i'm still unwanted.

sometimes i wish it could be night time all the time.

sometimes i just want to sit in my basement and write all day instead of facing you. you terrify me.

i'm intruiged.

i bet you're rubbing your eyes and wondering what the fuck is going on. i bet you're waking up in a strange alleyway with a bottle of whiskey in hand.

i wonder if you care.

mostly, i just want to stargaze on your roof and wonder if i'll ever get there.

mostly, i want someone to read my writing and say something. this is not meant to be beautiful. this is not meant to be a starry-eyed kid's reflection in the mirror.

mostly, i just corrode.

i want to go through the looking glass. ive got the alice in wonderland complex. everything makes more sense when they'res no one else trying to crack the puzzle. i want my own little world, where everyone understands it the first time around and words go unspoken and hearts go unbroken and everything is beautiful in a depressing sort of way.

i want to spill my thoughts on to a piece of paper, like a gory sort of alphabet soup. i want you to take one look at it and say "i understand completely."

a lot of the time, what i say means something else in my head. i feel like ive got a secret agenda, one so secret that i don't even know what it is yet. i feel like i'm hiding from myself, and to be honest, i'm enjoying the chase.

i want to finally understand what comes out of my mouth half of the time.

i want to know why i spend most of my waking hours trying to make people laugh. i want to know why i lie awake in bed, thinking of everything. i want my head to shut the hell up for once.

i want to stop being so goddamn selfish all the time.

i want to stop pissing people off with my words and my actions.

i want to stop daydreaming during awkward silences, not even noticing that the other person is uncomfortable.

i want my mother to stop telling me that she doesn't know who i am anymore. that i'm drifting away. that i'm falling apart.

goddamn it. i'm trying. can't anyone see that?

i want to break the mould. i want to be different. i want to be the best writer in the world, but all i can think about are shitty cliches and dishwater yesterdays.

i'm a shipwreck. watch me sink off the pier. cue applause. kodak moment. take a picture. walk away.

it's all over. wash your eyes in rubbing alcohol and turn off your computer screen.

it wasn't worth it.

'the beginning' is really just a fancy word for 'the end'.

"i've just been so caught up in you," she says, her desperate eyes shining.

she kisses him. hard.

the boy says nothing, only kisses her back. his hands travel. his mind wanders.

fingers through his hair. hands around his neck.

and then they really are caught up in each other. tangled beyond comprehension.

love is the last thing on his mind and the only thing on hers.

the electricity doesn't fly between them. the bed must be grounded again.

the only thing that keeps them together is her desperation and his nonchalant kisses.

she pleads. he doesn't care.

it's all loose ends and hollow bedroom eyes.

and you know it.

10 things to do before you die...

Be a side effect.

Get run over by a train of thought.

Play to lose.

Go into a bar and ask for a Molotov Cocktail.

Sterilize your stereo with a gin and tonic and a prayer.

Walk on water, but don’t get caught.

Confess to a crime that didn’t happen.

Be in the wrong place at the right time.

Write an autobiography about your previous life.

Hold a tune. Drop it and see if it breaks. Then pick up the jagged pieces and write a masterpiece.

i'd tell any lie to keep you listening...

i'm the kid that writes about rain when the sun comes out after days of hiding. i'm the fool that always wants what she can't have. i'm the girl who can't get the idea of love completely straight in her head; the one that decides to leave it under a heavy book to get the wrinkles out of it before she really examines it - and then never comes back to it again. i'm the one who forgets the question after she finds the answer, and doesn't remember it until it's too late. i'm the one that st-st-st-st-stutters when i know what to say, but i don't want to believe it.

blur your eyes. read this and take what you can. forget about it.

because you never want what you always have.

two more weeks...

cue: rainy saturday.

there is always one kid that loves the rain. that can't wait for the sun to dip behind those ominous grey clouds. the kids that never get sunburnt because they spend their days in the shade. the ones that count on the sky opening up every time they describe their proverbial 'perfect day'. these are the shadowed kids. the ones their parents worry about. the naivety that seems so simple and pure, but really reeks of the glass ceiling effect. these kids get nowhere fast, and they love it.

because all they want to do is dance in the rain.
all they want to do is watch the clouds cry.

it' s the perfect cliche. the most beautiful depression.

it's you and me.

put love on hold...

you say all you've got are kissed lips and blurry, forgotten imprints in the mirror.

i'm just a starry-eyed kid filled with hope and potential energy.
give me your inertia. i know you hate physics twice as much as i do.

tear me apart.
rip me open.
i need to be jaded to survive.

i need to be broken to face the hotel rooms, even if they're presidential suites.
i need to be demolished to face the cristal and pay-per-view weekdays.
i need to be shattered to wear the thousand dollar dolce [vita?] down the frayed red carpet.
i need to be dismembered to sell platinum records.

call me "damaged goods", then add me to the a-list.

i need to be ruined to make the corroded souls sparkle. and throw in some aspirin, cuz ill need it to go out on a saturday night and blackout 'til morning.

sunday morning is no epiphany for the heartsick.
it is simply a day to sharpen the axe and get ready for another round of hollywood tabloids.

drop the guillotine.

your guts are all over the floor and there are dollar sig[h]ns in your eyes.

isn't it tragic now?

can't you feel the catastrophe?

come on, feel the travesty.

give me tears, baby. cry for me, sweetheart.

flash. flash. flash.

monday morning, and the world has seen you naked.
what a way for wall street to wake up.
"cataclysmic," they mutter, and turn to the weekly forecast.

just for the record, the weather today is glorified depression with a 75% chance of going double platinum and booking an interview.

85% if you enter rehab.

and there you are, with your bottle of cristal and that shitty pay-per-view movie with Brad Pitt that you must've seen a thousand times. you're sprawled out across the king size matress, ordering caviar from room service again.

and you shovel in the caviar, washing it down with the expensive champagne. Brad flickers across the screen. the phone rings, but you ignore it. your brand new iMac beeps every five minutes with new emails, probably from your mother.

did you drink again last night? how much? why don't you come home for a bit....?

beep.

what is this article auntie Bertha keeps talking about? call me, sweetheart.

beep.

darling, i'm begging you. please. just....just...pick up the phone, okay?

you can hear her wringing her hands. running her fingers through her hair. she can't decide whether to be worried or proud.

her daughter is a million-dollar trainwreck.

you don't call her back.

instead, you gulp down the caviar and pour out the cristal.

drink. eat. drink. eat.

the Brad movie is over now.

until next week.

same time, same place, same circumstances.

because Hollywood thrills never change, and never fail to intrigue the desperate.

so which is it? which is it?

shut my eyes, cross my fingers, and hope to wake up to some sunshine tomorrow.

solve these problems while i sleep.

or should i cross my heart and hope to die instead?

if you can't fix it, i can't stand it.

blame it on the snow. blame it on valentine's day. blame it on the blisters. blame it on you.

does it really matter?

any way this plays out, i lose.

i shut my eyes and cross my fingers.

we'll see how this goes.

i speak fast and i'm not gonna repeat myself...

"i just don't know what to say..."

i can't seem to dig myself out of this shallow grave.

i wrote until my fingers bled, and i cannot feel the pain.

dissatisfaction in myself seems to eminate from everywhere.

"it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all..."

i have never loved, i have always lost.

it seems i lose this round.

there is dischord in the garden tonight

the day you said you weren't a bitch anymore was the day i realized that you would always be one in the worst sense of the word.

everything's a scandal.
get out the flashbulbs, they'res about to be a photo op.

you're an addict for dramatics, i'm your favourite pharmacist....

and every other cliche you need.

i can't stand your pretentious, self-centred orbit.

here's the headlines, in fresh black ink:

your personality is shallow and cheap.

no one likes you because you think you matter most.

i will not forget what you said to me.

you can just go fuck yourself.

though i undercut your pathetic soul, you deserve it.

i just want to sell you out. get you back for all the terrible things you said.

you are a bitch.

you are a bitch.

you are a b.i.t.c.h.

that will never change.

you are no better than anyone else.

you are not incredibly talented at everything you do.

you are not the most beautiful girl in the world.

you are not special.

you are not different.

you are a bitch.

now and forever.

and youre the only person that doesnt seem to know it yet.

It's a trick, take the axe...

things cannot be created.

Picasso did not paint from his mind. Hemingway did not write from his heart. Einstein did not think new thoughts. Every idea ever thought, every plan ever made, every heart ever broken has been done. the idea occurs to us over and over, like a cross-generational deja-vu.

the human civilization thinks in a circle.

you can't make waves.
you can't make due.
you can't make time.

instead, you pander to an already existent, scrutinized, and well-thought out idea.

you just don't know it yet.

We fly under this false banner, this loaded pretense that we are the inventors. that no one ever thought quite like us. that we are different. that we are the ever-changing american dream.

we own the byline. forever.

creative licence is just a twisted form of plagiarism.

everything is one thousand times removed from original.

just like you.

blood cells pixelate...

Words are built to last.

just like triggers are built to pull just like music is meant to be heard just like hearts are built to be broken.

words, however, have that special durable quality to them.

a word is like a balloon. the air within the rubber casing is the power of the statement. the balloon is the situation. if you put too much power behind a situation, the balloon will pop.

pop.

and all the meaning will be lost.

"wait!"

you stand there at the end of the gravel walkway.

the brisk night air makes me pull my hoodie tighter to my body. i drop the suitcase i carry into the taxi's trunk. the moon and stars shine brightly. theyres not a cloud in the sky.

this is a bad sign.

your faulty romantic penances have continued all night. i shift awkwardly, trying to keep distant from you and avoid any and all physical contact.

it's the physical that got you in trouble in the first place. the bruises didn't clear up for months after you left.

you smile.

"i...i think i love you." you squeak.

pop.

"i hate to burst your bubble, but-"

"my balloon," you state. " you hate to burst my balloon."

"don't call me."

get in the taxi.

drive away.

you always overinflated things anyways.

words are built to last.

but 3 words will never be the same.

i

love

you

.

isn't it tragic?

Your life is a television show.

every day, people gather around, going to hair and makeup, fluffing their image and retracing their lines.

"i love you."

"pass the vegetables?"

"i love you."

"it's a quarter past three."

"i love you."

"i love you."

"i love you."

every day.

you recall the plotline and get into character in a mirrored room. you are new at this whole "life" thing; you are nameless in a sea of extras, but the audience knows you're the focus because of the ominous spotlight constantly focused on your freshly cropped hair and neatly painted face. you wash out the background characters with a flourish. you retrace the scenario.

Your husband has left you. you are desperate. the gardener walks in after mowing the lawn. you are so desperate, you walk up to him and---

cameos and famous faces are lead to rooms with starry doors and sat down. scripts are handed to them.
"this is what you do,"
says the director of your life.
"it doesn't really matter whether you put your heart into it.
you don't need to be stellar.
we just need people to put a name to her face after all of this is through.
make her sparkle.
create her.
take your household name and make her dishwater personality shimmer.
give me ratings, baby.
ratings."

You are the gardener. you have a pregnant wife and a dog named spot waiting for you at home. you are about to go and collect your paycheque from the lady of the house. you walk into the foyer and---

commercial break.

of course, you don't really know that everyone watches you.
you have no idea that millions watch you and the soap opera that is your life.
millions who all take pleasure in playing some sick game of god, watching others live on the bright screen.

and don't you dare be boring. if you are boring, people change the channel.
and you don't know it yet, but as soon as they flick open that TV guide, your glitterati life is over.
ratings plummet.
the cast is cut.
downgrade.
downsize.
economize.

it's not like anyone cares anymore anyways.
you are boring.
the people watch something else instead.

and when your show is finally cancelled, nobody mourns. sure, your costars mourn over lost paycheques and tireless hours to be spent making a new resume.

none of the viewers mourn.
they mutter "oh, what a pity" and "what else is on instead?".

and then they settle down and watch the pilot of the latest series to hit the box.

your life is a television show.
with all the drama you have, it sure as fuck better be a soap opera.

penny for your thoughts, but a dollar for your insights...

"is everything off the table now?"

i knew he meant it in more than one way.

jump to me telling you i didn't want to save people with a scalpel anymore.

jump to the crestfallen look on your face, quickly masked with a weak smile.

"oh, so you want to...write?"

fuck, sorry mom.
sorry, god.
sorry.

jump to the first and only C(+) on my report card.
"you FAILED?!?"
"a C is not a fail, mom."
jump to me sobbing.
jump to the teacher saying that really, it was nothing. really, i just need to speak up in class.
jump to me never shutting up in class again.


"i can't do math for shit, mom."
"that's bull shit. your gifted, for christ's sake."
everything i hate about math, i hate about you.
the stupid logic. the answer is right or wrong.
black or white.
and i've been getting a lot of wrong answers lately.

i write with my heart but i fight with my head.

the only failure i could go through is failing you again.

and by then, i'll probably be dead anyways.

the break's over...

"she's doing it again - that manipulative bitch."

baby, seasons change but people don't.

"his ex-girlfriend calls every night, begging to take him back."

wouldn't you rather be a widow than a divorcee?

"she pulls out every trick in the fucking book."

we don't fight fair.

"they should just lock them in a room together. they'd kill each other within a week!"

say, your head could be a prison...

"he talks about her. how much he hates her. he loves to talk about her, her and hating her."

don't pretend you ever forgot about me.

"she hangs over his heart like a vulture."

i'll always be waiting in the back room.

"everyone talks about them. the ultimate dysfunctional couple turned the impossible exes."

people will dissect this 'til it doesn't mean a thing anymore.

"they still go out every night. they attack each other with emotional gunshots, fighting like cats and dogs, until they both climb into the back seat of his car..."

we do it in the dark, with smiles on our faces,

"...and no one has any idea."

we're trapped and well-concealed, in secret places.

"and the worst part is, the only thing i've ever wanted to be in this world is a girl exactly like her. i want her face looking back in the mirror, i want her cold blue eyes, her sultry, perfect lips. the girl all the boys want. i want to be her, but i couldn't be further from it."

don't pretend, d-don't pretend.

fall asleep, phone in hand...

i watched the sunset on my past life today.

the sun burnt my skin when it was at high noon, and it's sure as hell pretty to watch as it sinks underneath the horizon. i press the rewind button and watch again.

my eyes are golden as i look towards the moon, so luminescent and mysterious.

and no one has ever gotten burnt in a moondance.

your old emails and correspondence found their way back into my hands. i read them and realize how stupid we were.

i hated middle school like i hated you after that summer. the goldfish was too big for the bowl. my big ideas were confined, and they hated it. i thought i was too good for it all. too mature, too cool, too smart, too amazing. i was a diva, but my brand name exterior was really just a little girl in a tacky dress wearing cheap perfume.

prima donna of the gutter.

but then again, i've always been better than you.

i look back on these tainted years, like a steady flow of pure memory cut with bad friendships and ego trips, and i hope that i will never be like that again.

never again.

.

"the halo is slipping downwards
from your crown down to your neck
theyres nothing i can do for you"
the line moves up
"who's next?"

i was a fool to leave you out.

there is more than just you, of course.

two other people who deserve more than they get:

to my dearest and most amazing mel:

i think i told you this once before, but the world should know...
you deserve to be happy.

i worry about you. mostly i worry that you'll just burst under everything. you take on a lot more than you have to, and i respect you immensely for that.

my heart ticks
in beat with
these kids that i grew up with.
i still say it's all worth it.
living life like it's going out of style...

i'm here when all this shit is over. and sweetie, the second we drop our pencils in that exam, we are gonna leave that world in ruins and have some fun.


the geneva convention:

whoa. things change so fast in a year.
im so glad we finally got our lazy asses together and kick-started the lovefest.

youve been there through everything. you put up with my bitching. we laugh. we cry. we throw up in other peoples houses.

i feel like it was sort of meant to be the whole time.

the one thing that really means a lot to me: when i talk, you listen. nothing i say goes ignored. youre so damn patient with me.

every time i'm around you, things feel better. i can forget about what so-and-so said to whats-her-face about me. i can forget the battlefield at school. i can forget it all and just laugh about everything.

anything i left out is in homesick at spacecamp. listen to it.

to sarah:
you got your own fucking entry, my dear. scroll down to "<3 times two" and read. that is yours.

yes, you.


OLIVIAAAAAAAAAAA!

so i had this totally great banana split...

lmao. sweetie. i love you. jesus. get it through your head.

anyways, im hoping you know how i feel. really.

because i dont think i can say it in words.

truefuckinglove<3

I have found the safest place to keep all of our mistakes...

even when i'm uninspired, i know that i can rest easy knowing that i'll always be better than you.

im casually obsessed
and i've forgiven death
i am indifferent, yet
i am a total wreck.

i'm every cliche, but i simply do it best.

your words are all i have, so i'll read them.
i need them just to get by.

at this point, i'm just not scared anymore.
do as you please. people will find out soon enough.

3 more weeks.

i sit and whisper it under my breath.

a metallic taste permeates my mouth. excitement.

iShuffle. about time.

heavy screams. scratchy voices. stabbing notes.
sandpaper like silk. amazing.

i reread. its choppy and shitty. terrible writing.
i post it anyways.

<3 times two

to you:

you're the only thing i can count on these days.

the world spins too fast. i close my eyes to enjoy the quiet and open them to a completely new place.

the only thing still standing is you. smiling weakly. telling me it's going to be okay.

you listen when i talk, even if it makes no sense. you tell me "things will get better" even if you dont think they will. they didnt. that doesnt matter now.

all that matters is what youve done for me.

i was sitting in class today just singing "two more days" over and over again to myself until i couldnt remember the words and had to hum.

i'm sorry for relying so much on you. i know my heavy heart is overbearing most of the time. thank you for helping me lift it up every once in a while.

the tables have turned. now you need me to lift your heavy heart.

and i swear to fucking god, ill be there helping you bear the weight until the end.

do you remember that summer?

sobbing at summer camp. alone. cabinmate cruelty. the second you noticed i needed you, you were there.

i do remember you were tired that day. weary, with your own problems. but you sat up with me, rubbing my back and telling me to fuck them all. that i was too good for them.

god, you mean so fucking much to me.
i only hope that i can help you half as much as you helped me.

i could walk this fine line between elation and success...

she listens.

the world turns into a fluid pool, colours and borders running together, blurring, yet sharpening. another viewpoint takes over and the girl is lost in the music. it takes her places, shows her things her eyes have never seen. she reaches out and touches the picturesque tapestry in front of her.

it's gone. the track clicks off. but the imprint is fresh in her mind.

the girl removes her earphones and thinks. her mind brings her back to the concepts. she thinks about what he said. the pictures he painted in her mind.

why hadn't she seen that before?

she listens again, and the images return. this time she studies them carefully. the fine detail, crafted by a master in his field. the poetry, the symmetry, the parallels he drew. awestruck, the girl enjoys the liquid smooth visions, allowing them to glide silently over her, to seep in through her pores.

every time she repeats the song, she sees a whole new depth. the lines get thicker, bolder, clearer, and more defined.

it consumes her, clings to her being. the amazing symbiosis of the music and the girl was revolutionary. the music fed her soul, her character, her personality.

and in turn, the girl grew around the music. in the dark nights it stayed bright. on rainy saturdays it kept her dry. the music raised her, taught her, nutured her.

the girl relied on the music. the music relied on the girl.

it was love.

thnks fr th mmrs

i don't know whats wrong.
all i know is that it isn't right.

i can't focus knowing you're this sad.


im sorry for the petty jokes.



please feel better.
i love you.

we do it in the dark
with smiles on our faces
we're trapped and well concealed
in secret places

we don't fight fair.

content. thats all i have to say.

-xo

the dot coms refreshing for a journal update...

what happens to a disengaged widow?

post-mortem, she would mourn for the required time period. whether for reflection or respect for her deceased spouses' family, she would wake up and replace her wedding band with a mourning band. she would walk, hollowly, and go about her daily life.

of course.

but what next?

this is where she brushes delicate tears from her eyes and looks at herself in the mirror. her hair looks quite stunning today, she thinks to herself. her mascara runs, melding with her crocodile tears and creating a dainty river of shallow depression down her porcelain face.

would you rather be a widow or a divorcee?

she wipes her face. nuisance, she thinks. just like at the funeral. mascara tracks a mile long. ruined the pictures, needless to say.

calls from her mother and her in-laws. flowers, blooming 'im sorry's and 'deepest sympathies'.

she smiles. carnations. her favourite.

then there was the therapy, the sessions her mother said were "necessary" after this "terrible accident."

this was no accident, it was a therapeutic chain of events.

they mutter about their post-traumatic stress disorders and depression while she relaxes on the couch. she hums to herself.

so long live the car-crash hearts
lie on the couch til the perished come to life
fix me in forty-five.

she leaves another session. she quickly forgets about it.

ever so quickly.

the last thing on her mind as she drifted off to sleep that night, amongst the carnations and sympathy cards?

"i must go to the drug store to buy some waterproof mascara."

bury me standing under your window, with a cinder block in hand...

today i woke up and looked at the picture stuck to my mirror.

its of the 5 of us, in a photobooth, smiling and laughing.
I peer through my clouded memory, thinking back to the day the picture was taken.

we put 2 loonies ("what a ripoff!") into the machine and manage to snap 4 action shots. 3 minutes of casual shifting and banter and they print.

we walk away.

the day the laughter died.

i peel the photo paper off the mirror, giving it a second glance. i try to muster a want for that feeling of unity again. i try to feel bad that i left us in the dust.

i try to rely on you like i did a long time ago.

tainted.

the picture makes a hollow sound against the bottom of the tin box.

another drop in the pail.

slide on the lid and save it for another day.

i have closure.

it could be worse, i could be taking you there with me...

We see you on the glimmering screen
The unattainable American dream
Flipping your hair and smiling in all the right places

We’re the kids behind the scenes
Putting ourselves into the music and pushing with all of our hearts
A vicarious rush with every touch
This one-sided romance with the penned clichés and the hollow notes
Working for 4 boys we’ll never know.
Yet we work. We sweat. We cry. We bleed.

We jump at the chance for just a simple handshake, a pen to paper
Misspelling our names horrendously
“Dear you
Rock on!
Love me (XO)”
Stuttered words, nervous smiles,
Losing cool,
It’s over.

Too much to ask?

i used to waste my time dreaming of being alive...

"I used to know this boy who took notes in a book
But he ripped out all the pages before I got a look
At all the words he scribbled at all the lines he filled
But the ink stains on his fingers told me he was skilled
At capturing a feeling that most of us just miss
The simple pain of living with goodbyes on our lips."
-Anonymous (?)

perpetual optimism is for the propogators. the ones that just want the best. hopefuls, i suppose. totally unwilling to submit to reality. the ones that believe that seeing the blue sky behind the clouds, no matter how thick and dense they appear to be, is the drive behind life.

sure, we pine for that kind of idealism. the unattainable, everlasting sunny day.

but what if the sun is just an illusion?

what if there is no other way to see it - what's here is here, what's gone is gone?

what if the clouds never clear?

then, my dear, we make due.

we make due, we clear time, we catch the rain in our umbrellas and enjoy it for what it is.

at least then, we know what the forecast is, and we wont be blindfolded and blindsided when the sun doesn't come out again.

she calls the mansion not a house but a tomb...

Really.

I feel like I've degraded (come on! step up! watch me decompose)

yet, I've grown out of you.

hmm...

strange.

so here's to the kids.

tip your glasses to no direction.

It's true that you find out those with good intentions under dire circumstances. wheels turn like the wheels of your car the night you said you didn't care. tongues leap at a chance to be let down. Something, anything.

collateral. something to hold against the other side.

i don't need it. really.

thanks anyways. the credits are rolling, and i doubt theyres a sequel in the works.

movies are overrated anyways.

she calls the mansion not a house, but a tomb
she's always choking from the stench and the fume
the wedding party all collapsed in the room
so send my resignation to the bride and the groom.

swooning isn't for teenies anymore

For the first time in a long time, I looked at it as the whole versus the part.

I remember why I fell in love with you again.

How you always left that pleasant taste in my mouth and that skip in my heartbeat.

So wear me like a locket around your throat…

You changed my life. You left my naïve soul gasping for air and clawing for more.

It’s not just the lyrics, or the bassline, or the riffs. It’s all together now.

And baby, I’m fucking floored.

So bury me in memory, his smile’s your rope…

Jesus Christ.

I love that beat more than I love most people.

You get me through everything. I build my fortress with your words; I carve my values with your riffs. I make my soul with your records.

Every time it hits me, I feel like myself again.

Got a sunset in my veins…

Growing into myself is growing into the lyrics.

It’s ridiculous. Ludicrous at best. Obscene? Most definetly.

But it’s me. It’s me all over. And I can’t deny it.

Where is your boy tonight?

Thank you. Thank you for everything.