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.