in seven years, your body cells shed and grew new, completely ;
isn't it strange, to think that four years from now, you will have never touched me?
I want to clarify things, I don't hate humanity. I am (usually) shy towards other people and sometimes I don't like talking much to others. Sometimes I am disappointed in people. But I don't think I hate anyone. My comment in my previous journal was self-oriented. Let's look at it again :
"Something about not eating is so appealing to me, because it's so non-human and alien, and my humanness is one of the things I like least of myself."
Consume me, conclude me.
your leaving ; my staying
your words ; my ashtrays
listen carefully : all betrayal speaks its own language.
so many anythings,
so much unsaid, and i feel ill
Sick because the world is too big and my heart too small, the machine too powerful and the flowers too frail, his eyes too wide and my mind too childish. "When did the world become so big?", I wondered.
The waves keep crashing. Over and over. Buried in cold water, tossing in the current. Why doesn't the camomille keep me from shaking? Where is my blanket? Who medicates me, now? I reach for you on the shelf but you are no longer there.
i'll be your rotten apple,
i'll be your bad milk.
goodbye baby flowers and tiny grass.
too unreal and far too real.
i want only the venoms.
i want only the mythology of flesh.
Oops, I am inside-out,
still dreaming to
the sound of you.
I saw all these people walking around in their bodies, playing with things, being angry, walking around, doing people things. I wonder if they see me in mine, or if I am too dragged into dream to really exist the way others do.
Nugatory boys and damnatory loves,
amatory lies and horror stories.
I mumble : "Why did you have to care?"
But I receive no reply.
I want to hold the hand inside you.
They said :
"you are exceptional, mysterious, kind,"
but I hadn't ever wanted to be a mystery or anything,
I just wanted to be okay.
350mg in a girlish heart ; ill, injured and undone, yet lovelier than ever.
"Have you been in love before?", he asks, pulling closer.
"I don't know," I hesitated, "I think I fall in love all the time, every single day, but I don't think I know how to love anything. Love is complicated, like folding a fitted sheet. Perhaps I am only perpetually infatuated."