sick.

you're a user
and i'm a loser
it's okay, you'll just have a party on your own.

by the end, your mouth feels like wool from all the yarn you've been spinning
you stumble and mumble some stranger's name
and wake up tomorrow with a sweater that doesn't fit you

i'll try to stay sane
but it's just so damn hard without motivation

the rabbit's caught in the trap
you're a sap for his velvety ears and sticky red fur
pulse spilling everywhere

you've gotten to my head
it's funny how every man is an island and a liar
you never could believe in the sandbars, they move all the damn time
and the water's too deep and far to get there

inside out, pieces of you like broken glass
he'd call it bonkers and send you home,
like a drugstore cowboy, with all of it in a bottle
i don't even know what full throttle is anymore

everything dies.
monsoon millionaire.

PROMonition.

i'll be frank with you.

i want to wear a dress and be gorgeous and have a fantastic time. i really do. i wish i could. but my life doesn't match any of that criteria right now and it just feels so shallow that i'm ashamed to even wish for it.

the entire affair is so militial and cold. you take pictures with people you hate "for old time's sake" while you whisper fuck you into your knuckles.

pictures limo pictures food dance pictures drinking drinking drinking drunk pictures morning. this is not my life and this is not how i will remember it.

prom is an island and i'm just not wanting the mindfuck. are they in hell? are they in purgatory? who knows. don't get pregnant. you'll die.

excuse my crazy.

the satin bodice military is calling.

bEST. friEND.

established end.

"a little bit of blood is normal. a mouthful is not."

"I don't remember you telling me that at all," she drawls, and i can taste disdain. the coppery blood clouds it, but it's still disdain.

it's difficult for me to focus. i miss writing lyrics but i don't even think i have anything left to say anymore. i've given up on all of you, so what else is there to write about?

it's not your fault the pool is shallow. i'm up to my hackles in dreams and distance. the stars couldn't pull this one off, baby, but i'm sure you already know the words to that one by now.

that's a good enough place to start. i'm sure i'll get back to you on that one. so many works in progress, and they're all a little bit of a lie.

Just like when we sat on your roof and contemplated
Ourselves,
Exploding in slow motion like the worst action movie of all time.
And then you told me that 27 was a good expiration date
Because after that, it’s about how you’re going to feel when you die
And not about the radio,
Or kids in Africa,
Or getting an 82 in chemistry class,
And how selfish could you be?

where did i even come from?
focus. i miss the focus. something to write about. it's hard to write when i just don't care. angst doesn't exist. we don't exist. life is a hallucination.

i'm doomed.

i want to talk to you.

i feel funny today. i think this is the way i am supposed to feel all of the time. things don't always work out as they should, and a stone will always be a stone. this is why i'm not worried about you.

i liken myself to a hot air balloon. it's secondary transportation; most of the time it's just bullshit.

people make me feel this way. it's not their fault. it's what's expected.

other people, far away people that don't even know my name, that's where truth lies. their words cut me open and expose me and for the first time in quite a while, i feel sane and calm. stripped of all my bullshit facades and masks that i wear to protect myself from the geographical "closeness" of my life.

i feel myself and i feel happy today. this is why i'm not worried about me.

it's been a long time coming.

you are my livelihood. you are the dream. blink and you'll get it. no one else ever will.

bottle this feeling and sell it to me. i'll be happy and you'll be rich. i think it's already happened, but i don't feel scammed.

i'm so blissfully content that i can't bring myself to give a fuck about my shitty, chaotic life. about what people think of me. about what i should think about other people. i care about those that care about me, and anyone that reads this blog probably doesn't even fall into that category. i am a secondary character in your life, but not in theirs.

can you even name my favourite song? my lucky number? my birthdate?

people far away, standing on the glass pedestal, they care, regardless of what they say. you say they don't, but they do. more than you do, at least.

megan, i'm telling you. right now, you're an island. everyone's an island. you'll grow and join the mainland eventually, but for now, all you need is a laugh track.

a laugh track and a soundtrack. emphasis on the latter.

fuck the peter pan complex. get me the fuck out of here. let me grow up, let me live, let me die. life's an arithmetic sequence, then you die.

lets go go go go.

bottled blues

when i die, make sure my eulogy doesn't turn me into a hero. don't tell the world it's a tragedy. don't cry at my funeral or show my face on the 6 o'clock news. i'm no princess di and it's a scam to think i'll ever even come close. no one ever will.

when i die, i need you to make them hate me. make children dance on my grave. make the world's last dying breath whisper "thank god i wasn't her". paint me a murderer, a harbinger of doom and hatred and oppression - draw me in black and white.

isn't it funny how people change when they're at gunpoint? i'm the coward that begged my often overlooked god for forgiveness as the safety snapped off. i am the shell of a person, worth measured in dollars and sense. too bad we're in the infrared.

i scam myself into thinking the opposite, and this just makes it worse.

dinosaurs are only beautiful because they're in the past. if you met a dinosaur in your backyard at three am this morning, you'd hate it. you'd hate it for waking you up and killing your plants and taking up space and just living.

prehistoric role reversal.

you only hold me up like this 'cause you don't know who i really am.

you're supposed to know yourself in your entirety at some point in your life. what do you do when you're the best liar you know? what do you do if even you believe the snake oil you're selling? what then? what do i do now?

i am nothing. you are nothing. we are nothing. they are nothing. mass is just the opposite of space. somehow, this is still nothing.

i am a[SHAM]ed.

colours are just part of humanity's collective hallucination.

a new notch in the bedpost
i didn't expect you to wait around
but she's just so young
and
arrogant

yes, i'm intolerably blind
and isolated by my own means
mutemouthed and sullen and just unpleasant in general
and maybe a bit psychotic

it's like "dating-your-brother" kind of weird
i guess is what i'm getting at
it's not you, it's me

i think i'm broken in and moulded
when it comes to my mind
but brand new and unspoken
when it comes to outside

isn't it weird that you'll never know anyone fully and completely with one hundred percent confidence? the only brain you see is your own. weird.

don't give up yet.

i don't care

i don't give a damn what you say, pete wentz is twice the person anyone could ever be.

forever is nothing.

the patron saint of liars and fakes.
to you.
from me.

and when it all goes to hell, will you be able to tell me you're sorry with a straight face?

xx

i could say anything and you wouldn't hear a sound.

breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe.

humans are just well-oiled machines most of the time. ticking hearts counting down to your own personal apocalypse. maybe your overefficient internal recycling plant holds the key to everlast. maybe it's just out to save the baby seals like the rest of us.

her guts are clocks striking midnight - the stagecoach goes nowhere.

you're light-leaded - it's an unfortunate typo but it makes a strange sort of sense.

red pen chases us out.
i'm into crisp white unmarked, alone
sheets of linen and paper strips
and you.

puppies are cute
sometimes i like rainbows
and summer skies and buttercups
and that abyss revealing unknown mythos
and just next door your jawline
is a mountain
snowy and treacherous but home
i suppose.

i'm nostalgic for the future, i'm done with the here and now.

prose and con artists

you made the mirror home to brand new demons
and now i know that you don't really care
your problems dance outside the line of my control
je ne gagnerai jamais cette guerre

i hope you know i don't sleep at night
and i find myself losing my breath
we took a wrong turn at the lights
and now i'm picking up what's...left.

i'm writing my prose and cons.

"oh, secret agent man, what would i do without you and your semi-automatic handgun?"

I think I’m most awake at night.

Well, you know, not in the conventional sense of the word. There’s a consciousness within my REM and sleep cycles and all that shit that I think I reach at 3am when the rest of the world completely shuts off. Except Australia, I guess, who’s enjoying the afternoon right now. But that’s far away and kind of frightening. No one thinks of far away, frightening things at night except small children who don’t know any better. They don’t know that night makes you breathe a little deeper and think a little harder and wonder when the sun is gonna come up. The difference, however, between wondering about the sun and wishing for the sun is like the shattered chasm of the marianas trench. Don’t tell me it’s not, because you’d be lying. Nighttime lies are the most trivial of all.

I’m sitting here and I think it might be my favourite window in the world, you know. Fuck Nova Scotia and its beautiful beaches and charming yet frigidly distant relatives that can’t seem to remember my name. I think all I’d feel is loneliness. I don’t know how to tell my mother this. She seems to think it’ll be an adventure, like Disneyworld or outer space. But Disney’s gone corporate and Space is cold and dangerous, so where’s your adventure now? Nova Scotia, apparently. Go figure. Maybe I’ll get mono and I’ll get to stay home.

The waves must be crashing 6 feet high against the rock thingy. What’s the name of it again? Never mind, I don’t care that much. Anyways, these waves are roaring and I think maybe a man’s going to spring from the flying water, full business attire and a serious looking face, and maybe he’ll walk off as if nothing ever happened. As if he was going off to work on Wall Street. Or maybe he’s a message from God, who I’m pretty sure exists now. Existing is one thing, caring is another. My next big question: how does God have true empathy for 6.5 billion people? I don’t have any precise details, but I guess I’ll get back to you on that one.

The wind is blowing pretty hard and I’m really kind of tired. Plus I don’t want my mom to worry about me. Plus this isn’t really going anywhere anyways. Fuck all of you who went somewhere sunny, did you have a fucking epiphany?

Good, I don’t know if I did either. This is hardly an indication of my spiritual awareness. My head feels full of wool. Soggy grey wool that reminds me of England. Mysterious and depressing. I think I’m a word bulimic – my brain feels too fat and full of thoughts after a while so I purge it and feel kind of bad but also a little bit like I’m stepping in the right direction afterwards.

Anyways, have a nice sleep. I know I will.

Drown.

I’m no professional but
I think they were right when they said
“youth don’t feel loneliness”
Except maybe they weren’t.
Maybe we just taste it differently
Like infinite hydrogen clouds
With no pattern or rhyme scheme
Blissed out on thousands of unknown chemicals.

Or maybe your feelings were broken
Smashed like the tears of a giant
Freezing midair and falling to the ground,
Like flawless snowflakes,
Blanketing your shiny button eyes and glossy wooden finish
And your neighbours’ potted petunias.

Just like when we sat on your roof and contemplated
Ourselves,
Exploding in slow motion like the worst action movie of all time.
And then you told me that 27 was a good expiration date
Because after that, it’s about how you’re going to feel when you die
And not about the radio,
Or kids in Africa,
Or getting an 82 in chemistry class,
And how selfish could you be?

I still don’t know how right you were.
I suppose there’s a bit of truth in everything,
We only have to worry when it hides behind a lie
I guess.
Remember opposite day?

And then
You kissed me,
Crushed under a pile of frozen tears
Shaped like hail
And a blanket of gin and tonic
Because you’re debonair like that.

But in the end,
You didn’t tell me
How lonely I made you feel.

i can be a prick, and i do regret more than i admit...

the countdown to the love holiday leaves me with less faith in humanity than ever.

we alienate, recriminate, and decapitate.

don't try to relate, kiddo, because it's doubtful that you could even fucking come close to the hot mess i've worked myself into.

to be honest, i don't even have anything valuable to say anymore.

maybe i'm just a big fucking annoyance, built to entertain you on a rainy saturday afternoon. it's what it feels like.

frankly, i don't even give a damn. because i've already sold my soul for cheap laughs and a bad reputation.

some days i feel like the best outcome i could ever look forward to is a tragic demise a la kurt cobain or maybe ernest hemingway. is that arrogant? to hope that the world will remember me as a brillant genetic trainwreck?

they say valentine's day isn't about yourself, it's about those around you and how much you ~love them.

but to be honest, their breath couldn't hold alcohol or a bad idea.

i can only hope i'll get through this.

there is nothing stopping me from taking every single relationship i've ever had and smashing each one to pieces within the next 24 hours.

...and i'm getting heady from the power trip.

i'm already halfway there.

just a slash at the line and it's all done.

but then where would i be?

Of lamp posts and old friends.

For most, electricity counjures up sparks. Light flying at jagged angles into oblivion, edges kissing the sky with a hot, wet tongue of death.

For me, it speaks dust. Delicate flakes of fragile neon, incandescent crystals glowing with either pride or a motive. It fills your lungs, coughing and choking and sputtering with power as it shuts off the delicate chassis of heart tissue intertwined in your chest. You could drown just after you see the light cloud your vision.

(What a shocking way to go!)

The voltage in this room smells old and familiar. You ignore it, obviously on a mission. I bet you barely taste the bile as it washes over the back of your throat, scorching every inch of your mouth.

(Colour me: Acrid and vile.)

Not surprisingly, it was dark where we first met. Dark, dingy, dirty, destitute, desolate. Appropos, really, when you think about it - it was just like you. And now, as you face me in this shithole of a dance club, music scraping in your ears and light fluttering from the sky like a new year's snow, you channel every ounce of what you tried to kill within yourself.

But none of that really matters now. I think I know who I am in this spotlight (or lack thereof.)

Maybe, someday soon, I'll be able to fit it into words.

But only if I can go to sleep knowing that it's carved into your cadavered arms - deep and crimson for the world to study. To touch. To regret.

(Oh, my! What a pretty corpse you have!)

Because I think it's the only way they'll take me seriously, anyways.