A Few of My Stupidest Things

I offer up for your perusal a selection of the choicest, most ridiculous, and heart-rending musings written in poetic form over a three day period.

To start with, a little journey back into the world of rhyming poetry.  At least this time the title makes perfect sense.  And then I proceed to pound it into and through your brain like a railroad spike.

Supposed To (3/1/94)

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.  Line 2 and it’s already redundant.  Weeee!
Am I supposed to stay and talk;
or should I walk away?

(Emotions like lightning,
one flash
and I’m spinning in a whirlwind.)  Um . . . Huh?

Am I supposed to listen to you? 
My thoughts they fall like rain.
Am I supposed to be indifferent
ad live in silence with my pain?

(The wind blows me over,
like I’m made
of paper.  I’m hollow now.)

All these thoughts in my brain.
How am I supposed to help you
when I can’t put my hurt aside?
What am I supposed to do?  This stanza hurts my brain

(The candle is out.
Please light it again.
I’m afraid of the dark.)

 

Once again, the title works with this one but it can’t quite save this example of mid-90’s teenage bullshit.

My Sadness (3/1/94)

I hear my sadness
beating in my brain
like a
malformed heart.
I feel it,
throbbing in my temples
like the throbbing
of a stranger’s pulse. I am suddenly wondering if I’m describing a panic attack here
Juvenile, it calls me.
I feel unworthy,
dirty,
cleanse me please.
My sadness takes the form of tears   As sadness tends to do
sliding down my cheeks
in seemingly endless
profusion.
It is my muse    There was a time I could only write when I was depressed or in pain
and my mentor;   All incorrect punctuation and grammar is original.  I swear.
and I hold it close to
my breast
like a mother to  a child
when I would hurl it
away from me in
fear and disgust.  I think this sentence is missing some key words
It has become a part of me.
I fear it is trying to
take me over.
I fear more that someday I might
welcome it’s intrustion
with open arms
and a smile.

 

And last but not least, a simple little ditty that really showcases my momentary foray into messing with poetic form as I try to channel the ghost of e.e.cummings and envision myself as an old lady who is, as the title clearly states, alone. 

I Am Alone (3/4/94)

I am alone.
My bed is cold. 

I am alone.
I sit on the porch
            in an old rocking chair

                            watching

the couples walking
hand in hand
and I wish silently
           that

                      I were like them

I start to cry
                    The night is so
cold

and there is no one here to
make me warm

                 I am alone.

I wish you were here.

 

Sad.  Alone.  Cold.  Alone.  Confusion.  Yet more loneliness.  Yep.  I think that about covers it.  I have come to realize that I was, poetically at any rate, a one-trick pony.  And everybody loves ponies, right?  Especially ones that cry uncontrollably and cut themselves and are generally annoying and morose.

 

Wednesday’s Child

You know that old saying, “Wednesday’s child is full of woe?”  Well, when the woe is manufactured and then binged upon and regurgitated can it really even be called woe anymore?  During this time in my life I believe I suffered from the bulimia of angst.  Which basically means that, in my case at least, Wednesday’s child was full of shit. 

Wednesdays (3/2/94)  Because this was written on a Wednesday

My mind is crowded with Wednesdays.
Too much.
Why won’t they leave me alone?   Because I taste delicious

Worries.
Thoughts.
I can’t get rid of them.  It is what I do.  I dwell

I can’t give voice to them.
If I let them 
alone

they grow and begin
to fester
like old sores.   Channeling Langston Hughes here

If I disturb them
they cry and scream in my ears
and try to drive me mad.   Death and insanity, my two favorite subjects

I cannot be real
if all I’ve known is
lies.    Hooray for WOE!

The above was the third in a series of 6 poems I hurriedly scribbled (and I do mean scribbled) in green pen between 3/1/94 and 3/3/94.  I remember writing this one while sitting in the half-dead grass outside the Little Theatre (every school has a “little theatre”, don’t they?), probably while waiting after school for some rehearsal to begin.  I was alone.  I remember the breeze was cool and I kept closing my eyes and just listening to the rustling leaves overhead, concentrating on the changing shadows and lights on the backs of my eyelids.   That day I wore an oh-so-fashionable green plaid flannel shirt and a pair of ripped-up jeans that I had stolen from my brother.  
I was truly heartbroken and yet I sat there trying to manufacture tears because I felt the story behind the poems would be better if I could say that I was crying while I wrote them.  (I have never been good at manufacturing tears, ladies and gentlemen, so if I cry you can be certain that there’s good reason.) 
And here’s the reason I was sitting alone abusing metaphors – I had just gotten dumped.  By Jacques.  Again.

(3/2/94 3:30 p.m.) 
(Jacques and I had just gotten back together and had just had sex Monday.  I don’t know where exactly but if I had to guess it was somewhere on campus.  I think I’ll forever wonder if anyone ever saw our dalliances.  At any rate this entry was Wednesday.  My, how quickly things could change back then.)  God.  I hurt so much.  I wish I was numb so I wouldn’t have to feel this.  I wish I hadn’t loved him as much as I did.  I wish I could change his mind somehow.  But I know I can’t.  We broke up today at lunch.  At first he couldn’t say it, but I said, “Are you gonna dump me?”  He said he wanted to be alone, away from everyone.  He said he really didn’t know what was wrong.  He said his feelings have changed, he doesn’t know why, but he still loves me, he just feels different.  I didn’t know what to say.  I just asked stupid questions like “why?” or “how?”  
(And here’s the part where I prove that I have “issues”.  Like most girls I went through a self-abuse phase.  I cut myself and I have the scars to show for it.  I punched myself and generally abused my body because I couldn’t flat-out deck the person I really wanted to.) I went to 5th period and went into the bathroom and cried and cried and beat the shit out of myself and cried and hit my head against the marble (ahem?  Marble?  Well, sue me, it was hard, it was tile-ish and I was an idiot teenager with no experience with interior design) wall and cried and I couldn’t stop.  My tears were so salty (I am fairly certain I wrote this because someone told me once that the more upset you are the saltier your tears will be) they stung my eyes.  I’m surprised I didn’t cry while we were talking. 
After 5th period he was walking ahead of me in the hall.  He walked towards me and said, “How are you?  Are you okay?”  I said, “Well, if being alive counts as being okay then I guess I’m okay.  I’m doing great!  Just fucking great!” (Sarcasm has always been my greatest ally) We kept walking down the alley and he said, “I don’t know what to say.  I guess I want to say I’m sorry.”  I said, “I don’t know what to say, either.”  He said we could still be friends cuz he wasn’t mad at me.  He told me to call him anytime.  He said, “I guess sit just hasn’t hit me yet.  I’m so sorry.  I hate seeing you like this.” (I must have looked fantastic all puffy and red and snotty.) I said, “If you hate seeing me like this you should have seen me earlier.” (Ooooh, take that, you scoundrel!)     

(3/3/94  7:32 p.m.)
Jacques called me last night and said he was worried about me and we can still be friends and he still loves me and all that stuff.  He told m I’ll find someone else soon and this isn’t the end of the world. (Easy for him to say.  Isn’t it always easier for the dumper, not the dumpee?)  He said that old couples, when one of them dies, the other one soon finds someone cuz the need the companionship.  I said, “Companionship isn’t the same thing as love.” (Look at us, all pragmatic n’ shit.) . . .
. . . He said he hoped I wouldn’t do something stupid and that “No one means that much in a person’s life that they should end theirs.”  He said he thought he jumped the gun when he dumped me.  He told me that all of his friends will pick up on me now (Wow, what friends) and that he still wants me in his life.  He said, “Just if you wanted to, you know the way you could hurt me the worst?  Be with another guy and flaunt it in front of my face.  Just if you wanted to hurt me because I hurt you.” (He gave me ammo I would never use, probably knowing I’d never use it.  I’m just not that vindictive.)

This breakup with Jacques was diferent from all of the others.  It tasted bittersweet rather than just plain bitter.  Perhaps it was because of the way he treated me this time around, his apparent concern for my well-being.  But it was probably more so because he had given me hope by telling me that he still loved me but just couldn’t be with me.  It gave the whole thing a kind or Romeo and Juliet feel that teenage girls just go wild for.  Unrequited love was kind of sexy.  Actual requited love that can’t be acted upon for whatever reason is even better.  It’s the stuff of teen fantasies because you always have to believe that there will be more, that you will find a way to be together against all odds.  Really, as a teenager, any situation that sets “us” up against “the world” is fodder for overactive imaginations and raging hormones.  And the fact that it “shouldn’t” be happening just makes the whole thing way sexier.  

Only two more breakups to go before Jaques was finally finished with me.  But I used that time wisely.  I continued to pen amazingly bad poetry for my own future edification.

To Forgive, or Not to Forgive

If I have done my job then you know that I am prone to being completely self-absorbed.  Over the years I have found that it is a common trait that, for many people, persists into adulthood.  But that doesn’t make it any less of a letdown when one recognizes the douchebag in the mirror. 

 It’s not as if I wake up every morning and recite a mantra of, “I don’t give a shit about anyone but myself.  It’s all about me, me, me” as I’m pouring my coffee.  And yet it’s there.  And part of that selfishness has been writing this blog without regard to the effect it might have on those involved.  

For most things I make no excuses: this blog is a soapbox for my teen angst.  After all, isn’t the simple act of writing a blog the very pinnacle of self-important mental masturbation?  I have bitched about the injustices done to me a long, long time ago in an effort to understand how those injustices have shaped my current worldview. I have also tried to show that I am a deeply flawed human being who has imagined herself as much more artistic, intelligent, witty, and overall super fantastic than she really is.  (Though I secretly still consider myself super fantastic.) 

Last week I posted a blog with a couple of journal excerpts and a couple of poems.  Like most of my other excerpts these do not detail a time of sunshine and rainbows.  They are painful to read.  It’s painful to know the dark place that they came from, painful to know that the things mentioned actually happened.  They no longer affect me in a negative way so I never even considered how they might affect others.

I am writng this to analyze myself and my responses to the stimuli of the times.  I am writing this to look at that person I used to be and know without a doubt that that could never happen to me again, that I could never be that person again.  Yes, I’ve discussed some serious shit on here and even gave a guided tour of my own kick-ass mental breakdown. (For the record, it wasn’t kick-ass; it actually kinda sucked.)  But there are some things that I can look back on and though they were painful at the time they cannot touch me the way that they used to.

 And there is a reason for that.

 Forgiveness.

 I have recently realized that beneath all of the snark this blog is about forgiveness.  (I never said I was a quick study.)  I know that my experience is not unique but it was my experience.  And there are a lot of things that happened that, as I poke fun of myself and my reactions, have some people scratching their heads.

 As I highlight sections of my high school experience I can only guess at the motives and backgrounds of the other characters in my play.  And even those times where I know the motives I cannot go into specifics because those aren’t my stories to tell.  Suffice to say that the knowledge I am privy to has allowed me to look back with a measure of pragmatism on events that, at the time, were earth shattering.  I am not here to talk about other people.  I am here to talk about myself.  I am here to perform tricks and make jokes and laugh at the live-or-die mentality of my teenage mind.

 Over the years I have forgiven much.  There are some things I forgave almost instantly because I knew that there were other forces at work, that the perpetrator had reasons for his or her cruelty.  There are some things that took a couple of years to heal because the wound was so deep.  And there are some things that have yet to heal completely and every now and then I scrape off the scab just to get a peek of how far along the healing process has come.  A lot of this forgiveness has been aimed at myself for being such a brat, for being so selfish, for not seeing things I should have seen, for not being there when I should have been there, for allowing my own petty shit to overshadow the decidedly un-petty shit my friends were going through.  I was not a very good person.  I was not a good friend.  I was kind of an all-around douchebag.  Of course, teenagers are pretty much all-around douchebags so it’s not like I stood out. 

 But to those of you who cut me the deepest, those who wounded my spirit, I have come to a place of relative peace.  (Let’s all “ohm” together now, shall we?)  The scabs are shrinking; some have already become scars, and those that haven’t don’t get picked as often anymore.  I don’t want to make myself bleed.  And I don’t want to make anyone else bleed anymore, either.  The words that I wrote when I was “in the shit”, as they say, are the words of a confused teenager, and if they cause anyone pain I am sorry.  But I will not edit what I write here.  This is, and always has been, about self-absorbed little douchebag me and to change that would be a disservice to myself. 

 As I continue I hope that I can offer myself the same measure of forgiveness that I offer to those who have been referenced here.  It pretty much sucks to see yourself through honest eyes, to finally recognize the douchebag within.  To forgive myself for that self-important douchebaggery is even more difficult.  But I think I’ll get there eventually.

It’s a Learning Curve

As my relationship with Jacques moved forward things got very dark very fast.  I do not want to make excuses for the events that transpired or discuss the underlying reasons.  I only want to show some snapshots of my own stupidity during a one week period in February.  If a man were to say these things to me now there is no way I’d stay; I’d be gone with a smile and a wave and a sigh of relief to get away from that hot mess.  But as a teenager, to walk away from a first love is to die a thousand deaths, each one more poetically tragic than the next.

(2/22/94 3:58 p.m.)
(A continuation of much introspective rumination, or “Belly-aching” as it is also known.)  Something’s wrong.  I told [Jacques] after school that he’s acted weird all day. He said, “I know.”  I asked if he’s just been in deep thought and he said yes.  I asked him what about and he said, “I’ve just been thinking about my life.”  I said, “I thought you were upset with me for something.” (Because he was always upset with me for something and I usually didn’t have a clue as to what I had done.  I didn’t know it at the time but it ususally had nothing to do with me; I just always ended up in the crossfire of a completely different war.)   He didn’t say anything and so, joking, I said, “That, too!” and he said “yeah.”  I asked him if he really was upset at me and he said, “I don’t know.”  I told him I had to go and he started to leave.  I said, “Don’t I get a kiss?”  He came back and said, “a small one.”  He kissed my quickly and I said, “all I’ve gotten today are small kisses!” and I was joking and I said, “You and your deep thinking!” and we were walking away.  He said, “You’re being a whore!” and he didn’t turn around and smile at me like he usually does when he says stuff like that.  I said, “I am not!”  I thought he was joking but now I’m not so sure. (Seriously? The girl who had only been with him and knew diddly-squat about sex was being a whore?  Well, that makes the kind of sense that doesn’t. Truth was, he’d say things like this if I spoke with one of his guy friends. He’d also say it if I wanted to make out a lot, which was a very strange response for a teenage boy to have.  But I have already discussed the “Jacques dichotomy”.)

(2/23/94 7:54 a.m.)
(Please let me apologize in advance for my potty mouth but I was finally, rightfully pissed.  Of course I didn’t tell him, I only told my journal, so fat lot of good it did me.)  Well it’s fucking 1st period.  [Jacques] didn’t meet me beforehand.  I saw him walk by in the alley and look down the hall.  I ran after him and stopped him right before he went in the hall.  I grabbed his bag and said, “I want to know what’s wrong.”  He laughed and said “nothing.”  I said, “Don’t fucking lie to me.”  He said, “Really, it’s nothing.  I guess I just need some time by myself.”  I said, “Why didn’t you say that instead of just walking off?”  He said, “I just thought of it.”  I stood and stared at him and then said “okay” and he said C-ya” and we left.  (I read this and I can only think, “the balls on this guy!”)

(2/24/94 6:50 a.m.)
(I really should have been paying attention in Honors Chemistry; perhaps I would have gotten better grades.  Instead I lamented cornering Jacques again and forcing him to talk because I ended up getting answers I didn’t want.)  He said, “We don’t have anything to say to each other anymore.  I just don’t see this relationship going anywhere except for us splitting up.”  I said, “There’s no way for me to change your mind, is there?”  He said, “Not until I control your life.  But . . . I love you too much to do that to you.  It wouldn’t be fair to you, or to me, and I wouldn’t do it.”  He started saying something about becoming the kind of person he doesn’t want to be.  I said how and he said, “By punching you and hitting you, it’s just the beginning of something worse.  You don’t know what goes through my head when I do those things.  I think ‘I bet I could punch her right now.’  Not that I want to.  I’d never want to cause you physical pain in any way . . . I’d probably kill myself if I did.  But I might, and I don’t want to [. . .] “I just don’t think I should affect your life so much.  How you’d hurt yourself if we broke up.  I just don’t think I should have that much to do with your life.” [. . .] I love him so much it hurts me to hear him like this, and it hurts me even more to know that I’m part of the problem.  I never wanted to hurt him or cause him pain or anything.  All I wanted was to love him.  It feels like I’ve failed at loving him.  (I read this and I cringe.  My instinct is to explain away this behavior and to stress that I was never for a moment afraid that he would ever hurt me.  But I have to let the words stand on their own, and on their own they are terrifying.  If any young girls in my life read this and they only take away one thing let it be this: if a man ever says things like this to you, you run far, far the fuck away from him.  You do not pass GO, you do not collect $200, you just fucking run.  I was incredibly fortunate that I was dealing with a very confused boy trying to work things out in his own head.  I was lucky that he never acted on his impulses.  A lot of girls aren’t lucky and I should have had the sense to get away. Before [Jacques] I had always been the strong one, the self-assured one.  After him, the me that I was disappeared.  I now barely recognize the person writing these lines.  Things could have turned out so much worse than they did.)

Addiction (2/25/94)  Because that’s what it was

I depended upon you 
to give
me the love I so
desperately needed. Why was I so freakin’ desperate?

I expected you
to love
me as unconditionally
as I loved you  It wasn’t healthy but it was love nonetheless

I hoped for you Hope isn’t usually a bad thing
to stay
with me.  You made the promise
a thousand times Because I kept asking him to

Those were just words
to say
when you thought the truth
would burn me

I expected you
to love me, then
I should have expected nothing,
Then I wouldn’t have been disappointed.  This is when I became the eternal pessimist

The Poet’s Fancy (2/27/94) Lamest title ever

My mind laughs at me.  Because I am a moron?
I am so dull
as to be soft.
I have no rough
edges.  Actually, my elbows were rather pointy

If I am hollow
Then how
do I live?  Lame rhetorical questions should be banned in poetry
My shell should crumble.
I should have ended. 

I am a photograph.
I am candlelight,
raindrops,
roses,  And whiskers on kittens . . .
and all the words I can never say.

A part of me rubs off
on everything I
touch.
Love songs are like heart attacks,  Line lifted directly from a Baby Animals song
They kill me.

I think I’m  disintegrating. 

I have to say that it’s difficult at times to read the words in my own journal.  They are very raw and they bring to mind an image of someone I have not been in a really long time.  I will say, however, that this broken , sometimes hopeless, usually hapless girl did eventually have a happy ending.  So perhaps that’s reason enough to move forward?

The Romance of Pain

There was a time in my life where I loved being miserable.  I gathered misery and pain and darkness to myself like a magnet attracts metal.  I think there’s something of a masochist in every teenage girl because to hurt, to writhe in agony, is to stand out, to be different, to be unique.  What we don’t seem to reazlie is that everyone else is doing the exact same thing, so we’re all just a bunch of lemmings shouting “woe is me!” to no one and running off the cliffs of insanity for no good reason.

“But my pain is special!” cries my 16 year old self, her red cheeks stained with tears and snot and her heart shattered into a billion pieces.

“No, it’s not,” I tell her and smack her on the head like I wish I could have back then.

But what was I supposed to do with all of this pent-up agony?  Well, attribute it to inanimate objects and fill pages upon pages of notebooks with barf-tastic, pseudo-poetic bullshit. Enjoy

The Roses (2/24/1994)

(I)
Black Roses  Because all is darkness . . .
Cradled in my slender arms.

Their perfume surrounds
me in silence.

Their faces stare
at me with malice  They were angry that I wrote this poem

and I want to smash
them against the white walls

and whatch their
blood ooze down, over my hands. Issues . . .

I want to feel their
souls pass by me with a rush of hot air.  Ah yes, back when I believed in the soul

Thier leaves caress me like hands.
Whisper of love.  Was I the roses? Or was I just being retarded

I hear the corralled silence I totally went to the thesaurus for that one
beating on my brain.

(II)
Dry roses.
Crumbling to dust

beneath my fingers.
Do they feel pain?  No.  They’re roses.

Their petals are no longer
soft and velvety,

but crinkled and brown like
an old, sun-darkened woman. Sorry, grandma

Yet they cry to me
like children.

Naively,
they long to be pure again. Um . . . Project much?

I burn their bodies in my fire.
They scream like animals.

All I have to say about this is that I swear I never tortured small animals for fun.

>Crime and Punishment

>Today as I cleaned the garage I came across a high school gem that only could have come from my family. It’s really no wonder I’m a crazy person. I don’t know exactly what I did wrong save that I lied. What did I lie about? Who knows. I lied about a lot of things back then out of necessity. So apparently this time, since I was always sitting at the computer anyway, my mother decided that I should choose my own punishment and that I should write a treatisie about it. And so I did. It’s not a poem but I think it’s hilarious, so I thought I’d share.

Lieing [sic] is bad. If i lie again I’ll get beat like a read-headed, freckled stepchild, and that won’t feel too swift, so, i won’t lie. I do value the life and all of the appendages of my body, contrary to popular belief. I don’t feel like beig torn limb from limb or having my brain turned to jell-o underneath the weight of my jailer’s van. Other than that, I don’t have a clue as to what i’m supposed to be doing right now, so I’m typing to take up space, becuase it’s obvious that my jailer wants this to have some substance in it and not just be one sentence long. That would be a waste of paper, now, wouldn’t it. I was supposed to choose my own punishment, and I have. I am now grounded and on phone restriction until December the 17th, on which I will be free from the chains that bind me to this incredibly boring establishment. The only exceptions are to go to school and rehearsals and performances for the play. Also, I should be allowed to talk to Steve once in person if I can, or on the phone if that’s not possible, as he is leaving or New MExico on the 18th and and I have known him for six years and I will never see him again most likely. I hate being here for more than the time it takes to sleep because this house drives me absolutely crazy, so I think it to be just punicshment to confine me here. Hopefully, all of my marbles will not roll away before it it time for my release, because, then, it would be rather assinine to release me anyways because I really wouldn’t care anymore where I was. I would be Labotomy [sic] Woman and spend my days in acatatonic state. My only fun would consist of trying to see how long hte drool string can get before it breaks, and my only friend will be a rock named Ed, because he wouldn’t care whether I talked back to him and answered all his questions or not, because he’d be just as brain-dead as I was.

Jesus Christ I was a fucking smart ass. I also apparently believed (as too many do) in rampant comma use and insane run-on sentences. But the best part is that at the end of this printed (from a DOS word processing program) diatribe of bullshit I typed lines for my mother or “The Professional Jailer” as I called her, and myself “The Prisoner” to sign and date. And the most amazing thing aobut this treatisie was that my mother actually signed and dated it on 11-28-93. So I guess from 11-28-93 through 12-17-93 my sarcastic ass was grounded.

>A Teenage Dichotomy

>First, I offer you a love poem that isn’t about killing myself over love, or crying about love, or generally making an ass of myself for love. That’s not to say that it has any artistic merit whatsoever or that it is in any way original. But it was my state of mind for at least 20 minutes on the day that it was written. Of course, on the same day, I then penned a verse about pain and emptiness and endless agony. You know, the fun stuff.

It stems from several episodes detailed in my journal on and around February 18th, 1994 which at the moment I don’t feel like disclosing outright. To provide context I will say that at this time Jacques asked me out again a couple of months after a brain-destroying, soul-crushing break-up. In fact, he asked me to be his girlfriend in the middle of a very intense make out session, which is the high school version of asking a girl to marry you while having sex. He whispered the right words and sealed the deal.

The journal entries to which I referred earlier have to do with having sexual relations with Jacques in various semi-public places. True to my nature I wrote about these incidents in incredibly graphic detail and to be perfectly honest I really don’t feel like sharing those details at this moment. Suffice to say that it was unbelievably stupid to do what I did where I did. And true to Jacques nature, two days after I wrote these poems I was once more on the verge of getting dumped by his changeable ass.

The Confession (2/20/94)

He smiles at me.
I’m not alone anymore.
Does he hear my heart beat
faster when he touches me? (Oh yes, ladies and gents, it is that bad)

He holds me.
I’m not afraid anymore. (Actually, I am still afraid of the dark, so basically I was lying)
Does he know how much
I need him here with me? (Like 3 holes in the head . . .)

He looks at me.
I’m not cold anymore.
Does he know how I feel,
does he feel the same? (Um . . . Highly doubtful)

He touches me.
I don’t have to cry anymore. (Except all the time)
Does he know he makes me happier
than I’ve ever been before? (That ain’t saying much)

He kisses me.
I don’t want to think anymore.
Does he understand my confusion?
Does he know how much I love him? (Duh)

He smiles at me.
I melt.
Nothing else matters.

Awwww . . . Isn’t that so very sweet you want to vomit copiously onto your shoes? Not so much once you juxtapose it with this, which was probably written about an hour later because that’s how I used to roll.

Dungeon Master (2/20/94)

Pain.
Emptiness inside
like the clouds

who scream at me
for resisting. (Hell no, I won’t go)
I will not share their pain. (I have always lamely ascribed feelings to clouds)

They strangle me.
Their tears rain down
like drops of acid. (Reeeeaaaaaal original)

Eat my heart. (nom nom)
Break me.
Hurt me.

You smile.
How wicked your words
seem to me.

Make me
scream,
cry. (Jacques was only too happy to oblige)

Rip me open
and fill the void
inside of my soul.

Be my partner in pain;
Love me
as I would love you. (Never. Going. To happen.)

Torture me. (I am a closet masochist)
I smile
as you watch me bleed. (I am also a glutton for punishment)

Feel me.
I writhe in agony
and pleasure.

So yeah, I was pretty fucked in the head. (And also in various places on the campus of my high school. Yep. I said that.) Anyway, this time in my life was fairly terrible, and so I wrote terrible poetry to accompany it. It’s actually kind of embarrassing. Ah, fuck it.

>Teenage Autopsy

>So I cleaned out my bookcase today and, oh, how my memory was jogged. It was jogged so hard I actually lost my breath because my memory is so woefully out of shape (OK, not really). I started reading when I was supposed to be cleaning. I laughed, sometimes at myself, I’ll admit, but sometimes with myself, which was nice. I actually cried (thank God not about any of this bullshit). But it made me miss this little public walk down memory lane. And so I have returned to grace the interwebs with my crappy teenage musings and pseudo-poetic visions.

Let’s get this rebound started off on the right foot. And how is that, you ask? Well, with the perfect simplicity of guts and gore, of course, topped off with a healthy heaping of delicious teen angst.

Art (2/18/94)
Paint and razors. (Because I am an artiste)
The canvas is washed with blood. (A gory artiste)
Entrails
in a steaming heap
on the tile.

Eyeballs watch me
from jars of formaldehyde.
Blue lips on faces
speak to me with silence.
They grin at me from
their tombs
of glass. (Had I spent extra time in Biology class that day?)

This room reeks of
Decay and Death.
Nausea. (Nausea doesn’t necessarily have a smell, does it?)

Instruments of violence,
destruction,
so perfect and silver and straight,
not like the rusted tools
of my profession. (Apparently being a teenager can be quite corrosive)

Ink fades on paper
and the fluorescent lights
are too bright. (I think I broke my grammar bone)

The heart,
hooked to electrodes
that make it beat
although
it is without a body. (Fragment, consider revising)
It circulates the chemicals
in its clear coffin.

This virus kills. (Love is a virus, so very deep)
The metal table is like ice
against my flesh.
Cut open,
the sensation
is not unpleasant. (Ah yes, the cutting years . . .)

My brain in a jar
it still pulses with my thoughts,
my memories. (What are all horrible, yadda, yadda, yadda)
I am a disease. (i.e.: teenage girl)
I grin like the others. (No, I didn’t. But I had a spectacular frown.)

So, picking up right where we left off . . . I was sad. My boyfriend was mean. My mom was mean. My friends were mean. No one liked me. Boo-hoo. I want to die. What’s with the gore? No idea whatsoever. Maybe I had had a dream about a mad scientist. Maybe I had seen a movie about one. However the ideas came to me, blood and guts weren’t really my normal subject matter. And after reading this poem it doesn’t seem like the English language was my forte, either.

So, here I am. And I’m no longer frowning, even when I notice that when I wrote this poem I spelled formaldehyde “formaldihyde”, which was the correction after having first spelled it “formaldyhyde”. Yikes.
Now that I am off hiatus I will be posting here more regularly. So I will be back soon, dear readers, with another glimpse into the horror of my high school brain.
And in the meantime if you’re jonesing for some comedy of the decidedly non-teenaged, possibly offensive variety, you can check out my Fanfiction page on Fanfiction.net. Yes, The Mistress of the Darkside also moonlights as the “Smelly Pirate Hooker” when she wants to crack jokes about God and stop being so, well, dark. So stop by if you’re in town, and don’t forget to leave a review when you’re finished.

>Don’t Call it a Comeback

>Testing . . . testing . . . 1, 2, 3.

Just seeing how it feels to slip back into this skin. Familiar . . . yet somehow different. Have I changed? Or have you?

I think I’m ready to return.

I’ve missed you.

Stay tuned . . .

>A Last Entry (For Now, at Least)

>Contrary to my usual blog entries, this message will be brief, but I feel I must explain before I go.

You see, the Circle of the Black Thorn is after me because I tried to kill off their members one by one. This Circle was pure evil, don’t be mistaken, so really I was only doing my civic duty. But within hours of starting this Kamikaze mission we had been chased into an alley. There I stood beside my friends, terrified, exhausted, and heavily armed but unprepared for the legions of hell that the Wolfram & Hart senior partners had unleashed with one central mission: to eradicate us . . .

Wait . . . That’s another story . . .

This blog has been about demons and, as demons tend to do, mine have broken out of the cage I had stuffed them into a long time ago and are now running willy-nilly through my brain. (Do demons have the capacity to run willy-nilly? Don’t they skulk, or leer, or creep? As usual, I digress.) And to add insult to injury, they are also demanding reparations for the years they spent in forced captivity. I will be devoting much of my time in the near future to meeting with the lawyers of repressed, foreign demonic nations and trying to weasel out of paying a cent. (Can’t get blood from a . . . Wait, yes you can.)

Perhaps one of my heroic friends will take up the mantle of angst that I must leave behind for now. Maybe even keep it warm for me? (A cold mantle of angst is really no fun, after all.) But a word of warning: it’s really heavy and will totally fuck up your posture if you’re not careful.
So now I leave you as I set out to wage war against my personal demons, armed with a bottle of rum, a box of tissues, and scads of some as-yet-unnamed pharmeceutical, I assure you that I will return.

But before I do, I get to slay the dragon.

In the meantime, please satisfy your blog-reading needs with these lovelies (and more to come):

http://whiskeypants.wordpress.com/ : Adventures of the Terminally Unemployed

http://www.welcometoadulthood.com/ : Welcome to Adulthood