Untitled

I am his but he’s not mine

He belongs to Father Time.

Father Time will never own me

For I belong to Mother Rhyme.

I lived a thousand lives,

Crossed oceans of time

Just to be with you again.

We are but grains of sand

But for this day only we remain.

I quench my thirst with your sweet kiss

On this day, only our two souls exist

In perfect bliss and absent of pain.

All I wanted

I wanted you to love me

Like you used to.

I wanted to be enough

For you.

I wanted to stir passion

Like I did before.

I wanted you to want

Even more.

But you look away

Don’t listen to what I say

You yawn and sigh

And all I do is cry

Because all you do is lie

Now I just want to die.

I wanted you to kiss me

Like the first time we kissed

I wanted you to miss me

All I wanted was to be missed.

I wanted you to hold me

Like you used to

I want to bring out 

The best in you.

But you just let go

There’s nothing left to show

Of all the moments we had

And that just makes me sad

Because you don’t see me

Like you used to think of me

I’m no longer who I used to be

I’m just the girl you want to set free.

How could you?

This used to be my house.

This used to be our house

The walls, the floors, the halls

The shelves so tall,

They whisper secrets

And tell the truth 

Now I walk these halls

And stomp the floors

Scratching the walls

Cursing the shelves that were so tall

Remembering our secrets

How could you?

This is not my house!

This was my living hell!

The music box still ringing in my ear

It echoes sordid secrets that you feared

Now that you’re gone everything is all too clear

I freeze every time I think back to when you called me “dear”.

Your darkness weighed on me every night

I closed my eyes so you’d be outta sight

I silently cried and prayed with all my might

You crossed my threshold, snuffed out my light

How could you?

I’m not the same girl that I used to be

I can close the door on those bad memories

How could no one ever see

The music box and what it did to me?

I’m not the same girl I used to be

I closed the lid on your music box

Now you’re gone and finally the music stopped...

I deserve better

I’ve finally deleted your number from my phone - demon exorcized!

It’s funny how it took me this long to do so. But I did it and I’m super proud of myself. Another step forward, another step in the right direction. A tiny detour towards happiness. I’ve been down the road to misery for so long I’ve forgotten who I am and how to be. I kept pushing everyone away because I thought I didn’t deserve to have friends, or love or even happiness.

I always thought of myself as someone who’d didn’t deserve to be here, who didn’t deserve to live. And I questioned myself and whatever higher being sent me here why did I exist? What was the point? I still don’t know what my purpose is. I don’t think any of us ever know that until the very end when life flashed before our eyes before we die, and sometimes, not even then. 

But I now feel deserving. I deserve a life, friends, happiness. I deserve to wake up next to someone who makes me smile. I deserve better than you. I always did...

Gasping for air

And here I am all alone at the Saint Anthony’s emergency room gasping for air. I am all alone. No one to hold my hand or to tell me everything will be alright. No one to comfort me. I desperately want to cry but the tears don’t come. Only numbness and emptiness are my company. 

This elephant on my chest keeps me gasping for air. The emergency room is filled with people and I’m here too but it feels like the halls are hollowed out and filled with ghosts and remnants of people who passed through. Their voices echo in these halls, this emergency waiting room, in my head... My chest feels like it’s on fire and ready to explode. I’ll never see him again. I am a ghost myself in his world. I keep gasping for air... I hope this won’t take long.

Someone give me the drugs!

I have lost my groove. I don't think I have it in me anymore. I try desperately to write, clinging to emotions as if I'm clinging to life itself. But everything that comes out seems, feels and sounds forced. I guess my imagination died somewhere along the way to adulthood. Or I just became such a recluse that I can't write anything good anymore. I'm scattered, my mind is scattered. I lose track of my thoughts and everything comes out an incomplete and utter mess. I used to sit at my laptop for hours listening to music and dreaming up fantastical scenarios - partly true, but also imagined. I would mix truth and myth. And, oh man!, did I enjoy that! What happened? I feel like I'm trying to birth an 8 pound baby - someone give me the drugs!

In the end, I know that what I write isn't good (not even close). It's just what I do to work through my thoughts and feelings. For many years it's been my security blanket. But I guess it's time to put away childish things and get serious - should I stop writing and focus on more banal happenings? Most people would say yes. To be honest, at this point, I'd say yes too. But I can't... Hope subsides. I always hold out for a word, that one simple word that sparks inside you and makes you bleed a mountain of text onto paper (this case, laptop/blog).

I know that not many people read what I write, I have very few readers, but I thank every last one of you for keeping me motivated. I write for myself and for you. If any of these twisted ramblings entertains or helps a single person out there, it's a battle won for me. But someone, please, give me the drugs!  :)

Cup of Tea

I am listening to the rain,
Daydreaming of you again
And tucked safely in my bed,
Regretting what hasn't been said.
Imagining what could be,
Dreading an epic loss...
I'll have to make you see,
No matter the cost!
In the end it's you and me
No matter where or when,
Over a cup of tea
We'll be together again...

No Qualms

Once in a while I walk outside of myself trying to figure out how and what I should be. It never works but I keep trying anyway. It's a self-deprecating way of trying to know myself...

Sometimes I hurt myself. Emotionally. It's the best way I know how to keep myself "safe". It's what anyone would call self-sabotage. I self-sabotage daily... and it should upset me, but it actually doesn't. It's some sort of security blanket.

Other times I pretend to be someone else and I can actually function as a normal person. I smile, I socialise, I sing, I dance... but after a while I just tire myself out. Because, as you all well know, pretending to be someone else is exhausting!

I have no qualms about being myself, don't get me wrong. I just get bored easily and being someone else is sometimes fun. Other times it helps you find out a bit more about yourself - what you like and don't like.

I haven't been "someone else" in a while. I guess that means I somehow know myself? Although I don't believe we can fully know ourselves or someone else fully... maybe I'm just finally comfortable with who I am.

I am currently watching the new show Titans and mentally preparing myself to get back to work tomorrow. I've been ill this past week - another respiratory tract infection. I'm still not 100% but it's back to the grind. I've missed work and all my co-workers. We always have fun during our day. I can't wait to see them all tomorrow!

I'm actually feeling quite tired right now. Weekend is coming to, well, an end. I've taken my meds and I've showered and put on my jammies. I'm ready to slide into bed. Yes, alone. There is no one - he disappeared.

The Swear Jar

I got off the phone with my sister around 12:05 PM. My sister is eight years older than I am and lives further south, off the coast. Most people say we look alike. Some have gone as far as to say we're twins. I don't really see much of a resemblance but I guess that's because I'm not really looking at our physical traits. I guess I don't see the resemblance because we are completely different people, even though we're sisters. We're close, as close as sisters are, but we don't really know much about each other.

We don't usually talk much, but lately we had been texting a lot. I decided to go down the coast for a visit, so I called her up to let her know I'd be driving down that afternoon after work. She seemed psyched to hang out and even made plans to go out to dinner at my favourite Chinese place. I was psyched too. Mostly for the drive. Driving relaxes me, although I do "suffer" from road rage. But there really isn't anything as perfect as driving down the coast, listening to your favourite music.

When I got down there, my sister was still at work which meant I'd have to wait until she got home. I decided to wait for her at the coffee shop across the street. I walked in and memories rushed back in from when I used to live down there. Happy memories mixed with sad memories fuelled my depression that day. I sat down and asked for some coffee. I lit a cigarette and tried not to let myself get flooded by the memories that hit me when I crossed the threshold of the coffee shop.

I looked around as if I was stuck in some kind of time warp. Every little thing looked the same as it was years ago. Except for one thing: there was a swear jar at the counter. It sparked my curiosity so I asked the owner what that was about. The owner told me that he put the swear jar there to work as a sort of tip jar. He told me that the typical tip jar always got "forgotten" but the sewer jar... well, the swear jar was magic! He told me that, at first, he thought people would tell him to fuck off if he made them put money in the swear jar. But they found it fair and quite appropriate. So, anyone who swears will have to drop twenty cents in the swear jar. It's a tip jar that keeps people civil, he told me.

Eventually, my sister got home. I waited for her about an hour. The swear jar stuck to my mind. I asked her if she ever had to drop money in the swear jar - she told me she doesn't go there often. I wondered if that meant "yes" or "no".

Since we were going out to dinner, my sister decided to dress up. She listened to Madonna while doing her makeup. It took me back to when we were teenagers. Except this time, I was still and wasn't dressing up. I'm just not a girly-girl anymore. I watched her get ready and expressed my opinion - "Yes, yes. You look great". She finally decided she was presentably hot, and we made our way to the restaurant.

We talked about how much fun we used to have, how I am no longer a "fun" person. She doesn't get depression. It latches on. It takes over. It twists you up inside but you can't feel anything. Everything loses colour, sounds get distorted, anxiety sets in. It's crippling, and you exhaust yourself just trying to keep it together day in and day out. But she doesn't get it. No one does. Depression is like a ghost scratching at the back of your head. But she doesn't know what that's like, so she doesn't understand. I just let her talk and just agree with her. I tell her I grew up and like different things now. It's not true, but she finds the answer acceptable and changes the subject. We drink wine, talk about boys, have coffee, pay the check, leave a tip (no swear jar available) and go home.

That night I slept like a baby. When I woke up I couldn't remember if I had any dreams which is unusual because I always have strange dreams which wake me up during the night. I smile... and stay in bed for a few minutes longer just savouring those few happy seconds when you wake up and depression hasn't set in yet. I get up and get ready to make my way back up north. My sister makes some breakfast but I just have a piece of toast. I thank her for the nice evening and the nice chat, grab my overnight bag and walk out the door.

As I walk out of the building, I think about how I try to connect with her but don't really know how to let anyone in. Is it because it would be pointless? Is it because I don't know who I am? Or is it because I hate myself? I'm not quite sure... maybe it's all those little things. I put those thoughts out of my mind and found myself back at the coffee shop. I decided to have coffee. As I bring that nice fresh cup of black coffee deliciousness, I burn my tongue and I yell - FUCK! I felt the quiet stares quietly trying to make out my next move. I reached into my pocket and dropped twenty cents in the swear jar. As soon as I did that, the coffee shop was alive with sounds again - background noise - and I finished my cup of coffee (after blowing it a few times to cool it down).

As I drove back home I kept thinking about that damned swear jar and how it became such a big part of a place I used to be part of too. The swear jar seemed more relevant than I ever was. I felt small, but I smiled. Sometimes, people don't matter as much. Sometimes, what brings people together and has them interacting is more important.

My heart & my mind

My heart is tame

But my mind is wild.

My heart is barren 

But my mind radiates.

My heart is broken

But my mind prevails.

My heart explodes

But my mind implodes.

My heart crumbles

But my mind remains...

Missing someone sucks

I miss him. Last time we saw each other was months ago. It was electrifying! There was definitely still something there which I can’t describe. I don’t think there are enough adjectives in any language that I can use to describe it. Everything was perfect! Even the rain... I hoped he would kiss me,  but he didn’t and even that was perfect! It was a perfect afternoon. But I got too scared and I let my anxiety take over, and retreated within myself... again! But he wasn’t even mad at me. But now... I get the feeling he doesn’t want to see me again. I hoped he would call me or text me while I was in my shell of birthday blues... I keep hoping to see him outside when I get off work... but... I don’t know. I think he’s just not that into me anymore. I just want to see him again...

Missing someone sucks. Especially when you really want to see them and they’re so close yet so far. You want the perfection of the last time you saw him. You want to hear his voice and look in his eyes. You want to touch his hand just to feel his warm skin.  You want to sit there and listen to everything he says. And even though he isn’t perfect and you (certainly!) aren’t perfect either, you just want another perfect afternoon with him. YOU’RE DRIVING ME NUTS!

If you ever need to talk

“If you ever need to talk” is something I’ve heard from different kinds of people throughout the years. Unfortunately, no one is ever interested when you do need to talk. At least, that’s how it goes with me. Every single time I gather the strength and courage to open up and talk I end up drowned by the most banal of conversations… As I just sit there, quietly listening to the fucking stupid rant du jour, I can’t explain it… it’s like I step outside of myself or am split in two… the me that’s inside is kicking and screaming… but in a way that it feels like a uncontrollable storm. So… now, when I hear the words “if you ever need to talk” I just say thank you and change the conversation. Even though all I want to do is punch that person in the face. But for a few seconds, that split second where I imagine myself punching said person in the face actually helps a little. Much more than any “talk” I could ever have with anyone.

I sit here now, at my computer on a Saturday night, in my pyjamas, watching romantic comedies, crying and mourning the life I ruined. Mourning who I could’ve been, who I should’ve been. Now I’m just a sad ghost like creature. Invisible…

I’m the girl at the bar who gets drinks spilled on her, who some idiot will blow chunks on her favourite shoes. The one who sits quietly at the bar waiting or hoping for a change. A change that never happened and will never come. I rewind certain moments in my head and it feels like I’m remembering a movie I watched long ago because none of my memories feel like they belong to me or are even about my life. I realised too late that looking for love is an impossible quest, especially if you’ve ever looked in all the wrong places. Now it’s just too late. Love has ghosted me. I am done waiting for it, and I am done looking for it. I am done with love.

No one will ever look at me from across the room. No one will ever ask me to dance, or think I’m the most incredibly fascinating person in the whole wide world. Love is dead. And I killed it.

Jasmin Tea

Close your eyes…

Tell me what you see 

Right now.

Jasmin tea on your lips

Smiles caused by your fingertips.

A maybe, a when and a how

I was wishing for a now…

Jasmin Tea

Swirling in your cup

While I talk way too much

Oh! Just you listen to me!

Not to what I say

But to the way our bodies sway

And the touch of your lips

On my cheek

Warmed by Jasmin tea

Like the colour of my misery!

Hope dies young

Anxiety and depression. They're two twin sisters holding hands in a dark hallway. Much like the twins in the movie The Shining. The more you try to fend them off the more you get enthralled by their voodoo shit. And before you know it, you're on the floor in the fetal position, screaming, crying, completely helpless. You lose control of yourself and your place in the world. It's like you're coming back to your own body after some sort of amnesia induced time travel and you forget who and where you are. Your heart beats so fast you lose count of its beats. You can't breathe or speak. You have this look of terror in your eyes and everyone around you look at you as if you were completely fucking insane! And for a few moments, you feel completely fucking insane! And absolutely no one understands what the fuck it's like. It's so frustrating! It makes me so fucking angry that every time I try to explain what it's like people just tell me it's a phase and that I just need to have fun. I mean... what the actual fuck? A phase? Really? Do you know how long this fucking "phase" has been a part of my life? Years! Ever since I can think of myself as an actual fucking adult. That's how long. Then people are like... and by people I am now talking about my older sister... she's like: "man, you used to be cool! We used to have so much fun together. What happened? Why are you a party pooper now, man?" You know what, Mad? Because I don't fucking want to be drunk and high all the time. That's why! Oh. And by the way... fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking bullshit spewed out from your high horse! You think you have fun? You just get drunk and act like a fucking idiot! That's not having fun. That's numbing out the pain. At least, it was for me. I would numb out everything with booze and pot. So much so that I was someone else. I was still a wreck. But, apparently, I was a fun acceptable wreck. The wreck that I am now, is not someone people want to hang with. And it's cool. I would rather keep my wit about me than numb out all the bad shit just so other people can feel comfortable around me.

They say talking to people about it helps. But it actually doesn't because no one understands. How could they? They haven't been trough shit like this. They're not sympathetic. They try to minimize what I describe so that they don't feel bad but they end up making me angry or making me feel like crap. And the ones that want to sympathise have no clue what to say. So they basically either say some sort of shit like they're at a funeral and then change the subject. And you just sit there going through what you described word by word because you're in disbelief... how can someone just dismiss you so incredibly fast and easy? Like they're turning a page on a fucking book... a page they don't really want to read so they basically skim through it, read something they don't like, and turn the fucking page. And you just sit there... and you hear them talk about their day and shit... you can hear the sound of their voice but you're not really processing what they're saying because you're too busy thinking of scenarios in which you punch their fucking face for being such inconsiderate assholes. You have this blank stare but they don't even notice because they're just barking up a storm about some awesome sweater or whatever they bought on sale. And you literally think "what the actual fuck?"

And that's how you become a reclusive depressive anxious cunt. You wake up, take your happy pills, wash up, get dressed, have breakfast. You go to work, keep your head down, do your job, have lunch, do your job some more, keep your head down and go home. You shower, eat dinner, listen to music or watch whatever show is on that day. Take a sleeping pill so you can quiet all the voices and thoughts running will in your head. Slip into bed. Look at your phone a thousand times hoping someone will drop a line. No one ever does. Not even your sister. Some nights a few tears might flood your eyes because you feel so incredibly lonely. You wipe those tears and swallow all your hurt. You fall asleep watching some movie you've watched a thousand times before. You wake up the next day... rinse and repeat. But some times, for a split second, you dream... You dream of better days and that one day, one glorious day, you'll stand up to those bitch hand-holding twins and you regain control of yourself and of your life. You almost smile at the notion of hope. But hope died young and her twin sisters killed her...

The sum of all heartaches

Inspiration left me long ago. The more I fight and try to write, the more I feel empty and void of thought. Nothing flows from me as it used to. Is it lack of emotions? Is it this numbness that seems to fill my broken empty heart a little bit more each time I try to do anything creative? I'm just tired of staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page. Sometimes it feels like I stare at it for hours, days, weeks... months, even!

Sometimes I cry... I forget to take my pills and I cry. I cry because I'm lonely or because I read or watched something really sad. Sometimes I cry because I read or watched something happy. I cry... but not because I'm helpless or sad or hurting. I cry because I don't have the strength to fight anymore. But... it's okay. I'm just tired.

I've been living in a new city for some months now. It's a big and exciting city. I never go anywhere. I don't meet new people. I'm stuck. I'm scared. I'm scared of crowded places. I am socially awkward. I never know what to say in social situations or when I do meet new people. So I just keep quiet. So quiet I feel like the people around me might think I'm a serial killer or a psycho killer. Or a serial psycho killer. Some sort of killer. Who's very quiet.

Years ago I was the life of the party. I would drink and tell stories. I would rarely shut up. I knew how to smile. I was as cool as a cucumber. Now I'm some sort of shut-in, a shade of Boo Radley. I feel like that carefree person that I was got lost along the way. I try hard to pinpoint exactly when that happened but... I fear I will never get to the bottom of it. Mostly because thinking of it, or validating what made me change so much, almost over night, is something that I don't really want to do. I don't know what happened, but I do. I just don't want to re-hash it. I suppose I could say it's the sum of all heartaches. But, in the end, it really isn't the sum of all heartaches, it's just me... tired of being who I was.

Being this reclusive being is easier. It's not as much work as being loved by all because there's really no way of being loved by all. There's always a ton of people that hate you. I know this, because I've been there and being hated... knowing that you're hated by people hurts so much more than you thought it would. Don't get me wrong... I'm not saying that people don't hate you because you're reclusive. You're just not aware of it. And people don't get the chance to see you as often so you kind of fly under their radar. They move on to hate other outgoing and popular people. You're safe! Or so you think... Sometimes a spark of who you were comes back and you make a huge and painful effort to catch a glimpse of who you were just for one glorious night! But... you fail miserably. The sum of all heartaches is always there, in the back of your mind, crippling you and preventing you from moving forward. And maybe there's this guy that you could hang with and have fun with. But the ghosts of heartaches past paralyse you. But still, when the moon is high and bright cutting through the night, and a soft breeze seems to blow as if it's caressing your cheek, you close your eyes and almost smile. You imagine an alternate you, happy and safe in that guy's arms. But when you close your eyes, the moon is gone and only darkness surrounds you. No wind, no breeze. The night is still and you're alone. No arms around you to keep you safe and warm. Just you, alone in your bed with flooded eyes. What do you do when even your imagination hurts you?

When you're sick with flu, like I've been these last couple of days, you think about all these things. You focus on everything and nothing all at the same time. You go back and forth in your mind trying to figure out what to do next because the person you are right now is not the person you imagined you'd be. The person you were isn't the person you wanted to be either! So who the fuck am I? And how the fuck to I get to be the person I always imagined I'd be?

I'm not successful. I'm not an artist. I barely make enough money to pay my bills and make rent. I'm not happy. I don't have an awesome boyfriend. I don't have many friends. I am socially awkward. I have a fear of heights and spiders. I have road rage. I'm detached. I live in a fantasy world. I hate myself. I have depression. No, not really. I'm okay. I'm just tired...