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one inch whine

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Jun. 26th, 2016 @ 03:10 am
lol nostalgia

this is the way it's going Apr. 28th, 2013 @ 03:09 am
(You say) I have a gullet full of hate, chock-full of disregard for you and your soft belly and contempt for your weak shell. I have weapons, have knives, have guns; I have everything I need to beat you down. I have the will.

(You say) I have a lack of care, have superiority, have everything better than you. I have you pinned under the weight of my righteousness.

(I say) I have this heart which beats with yours, skin and gut and muscle which loves you; I have you like my other lung, my twin kidney, a limb. I have a sister with me, with me, with me always, a sister.

(I say) I have my fight, my stubbornness. I have all the hardness that's got me here. I have my twisted hurt and my hard, hard shell. I have the hope that you'll love me anyway. I have the knowledge that no-one else will.

(I say) I have you in the strength of my bones, the shine in my eyes. I have you every day I get out of bed, don't slice myself open to bleed out; I have you in every part of me that fights, like I want you to fight. I have us together against them, just like we used to be.

I have the gap between; I have falling down that chasm. I have breaking bones on the cliffs of your doubt. I have you in my heart but maybe not in my voice, my words, maybe not in your heart.

I have us throwing a branch in the river, trying to pull the other out, us shouting to each other from the edges of a canyon. I have the anger between us; I have the rage we take out on each other and you do too.

I have the distance between us and I have the comfort of seeing you, even obscured, blurred by everything in the way, all these pillars we've built but still there, still mine, my sister. I have you tall and strong and fearless in my eye and I have you weak and needful and I have no favourite.

And always, always I have my love for you like the deepest current running over every grain of me, polishing me into a glistening sheen. But you just run like water, unchanged by my bed of dirt.

*

Mar. 13th, 2013 @ 01:43 am
A couple of months ago my mum tried to talk to me about the sexual abuse I'd gone through as a child, wanting to have some base for it. A starting point to talk about it, y'know? I get it, I want that for her, the ability to talk about it, not so much for me but for my sister. I want her to be able to deal with it, I don't want her to punish herself.

She never knew, my mum, she had no idea because we hid it. I don't know my sister's motivation but I just wanted to avoid hurting her, my mum. Young and stupid, I thought I could hide it forever; I thought she'd never have to know.

I hate that she knows about me. I'm glad that my sister's experiences are known because she needs that. My sister needs the support, she needs it to be out there. She needs all of us to remind her that she's worthy, she's not tainted, she's beautiful, and that she's loved

I don't. I don't need that. Not at the cost of my mother. It breaks my fucking heart that my mother knows that I was fucked as a child and that she blames herself. I needed her protection then but I don't now.

There's nothing she can give me now but regret and I've got enough of that for both of us. What can she do now to make it better?

She tells me she loves me: I know she does
She tells me she's sorry: I know she is
She tells me she'll protect me: I know she can't
She tells me I'm beautiful: I know I'm not

When I was a child I might have believed her (maybe she would've believed herself) but I'm grown now and I don't need that from her.

The truth is: the world is full of shitty things and mostly there's no avoiding them.

The truth is: no-one can really protect you from those shitty things, they're gonna smack you in the face regardless, but sometimes it's enough that they try.
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hey hey hey blank slate Mar. 13th, 2013 @ 12:14 am
This is your heart, maybe. This is you, pushed back and self-silenced.

Wouldn't it be nice if people loved it? Or even liked it a little bit? If they knew how hard and difficult you are and wanted you anyway.

If you could be selfishly proud and sure of yourself and they would still love you. If that was possible.

There's only so long you can call yourself an iconoclast before you realise that in the eyes of the world you're just a bitch. Just a difficult bitch who won't shut up.

My grandmother wouldn't shut up, yelled herself hoarse over everything she disagreed with. I love her for that, am so envious, but everyone disliked her and I'm just not that brave. I don't have the stomach for that kind of hatred. I want people to like me. She wore her opposition like a badge, spat in your placating face because it was more terrifying for her to be silent and conform.

I want to be that cute girl who makes people feel good. I want to be sweet and lovely and wanted. I want to be there, in your group, maybe not in the centre, maybe off to the side cos I'm a bit odd but there, a part of it.

People don't want girls like me, not that they don't want to fuck me or conquer me- but they don't want to be around me. People don't want to be friends with someone like me. People don't like me.

(How many times have you bit your tongue, swallowed your words? How often have you shut up because you know no-one really wants to hear you?)

I think that might just be higher amongst females. That's just a fucking hunch I have.

People don't like me.

I'm not likeable, too cocksure, too aggressive (too masculine). I don't want to hurt your feelings but I will tell you you're wrong and I am smart (educated) enough to do so. I don't think you're stupid but I don't know how to convince you of that. And it's always more important that I'm right than that you feel good about yourself. I wish you could like that about me. I wish you could shrug it off as just a quirk of mine. I wish I was better.

I'm not nice, can't pretend to it. I don't want to hurt people but I just can't shut my mouth. I can't stop arguing; I can't be easier; I'm not nice and can't pretend to be. Most of the time all I have is my pride and I'll fight over it, I'll always try and beat you.

And I think you should know, you have to know, that it always, always hurts me more than it does you.
*

May. 10th, 2012 @ 02:56 am
I'm sorry to post about death again but lately it seems I'm surrounded by it.
*

My Gramps died a couple of weeks ago. It's not a tragedy; he was old and had been fading for a while- it wasn't a surprise and honestly, it was a relief when he died. At the end, he couldn't swallow, couldn't even take liquids and silently I hoped he'd go fast, wouldn't hang on and die of thirst or hunger.

A while before he died, he ended up in hospital due to a chest infection. He wasn't eating but I was pretty sure it was just because he was too proud to let the nurses feed him. We'd always had a slightly distant relationship- he wasn't demonstrative or involved in my life and consequently I found it hard to get close to him but because my mother, his daughter, was away overseas, it fell to me to take care of him. I went in daily, several times a day, fed him, tried to get him to eat. Or, mainly I just hoped he wouldn't be so despondent after my visits.

He was born in England in the midst of the depression to a desperately poor working class family, the same as all my family. He worked the mines from fourteen (leaving his family for the metropolis of Leeds) til nineteen, conscripted by the crown and then spent eight months in prison for running off in the seventh year (the second after the end of the war.) Not that he ever talked about it, his months in a prison camp, but my grandmother used to confide in me so I knew more than most.

I wasn't close to him- he was far too old school and gruff for any true connection- but I always knew he loved me, he loved me, he was proud of me even when I struggled to be proud of myself. He was a joker, sharp witted in a way that seems cruel to anyone not used to Yorkshire sarcasm and humour. When I was a teenager, he used to poke fun at my weight in a way that made me conscious of the fat at my hips and my jiggling tits, it made me uncomfortable and maybe I would've felt ugly but he always smiled at me and told me how beautiful I was. My eyes, my nose, how beautiful and strong my face was, that he'd never seen anything like me, never seen anyone who knocked his breath out quite like I did. It was the perfect thing to say because I've always known I'm not pretty, not beautiful, but I could accept that I'm striking. Striking, that was his word for me- not pretty but striking, like an assault, as if my face, ugly or beautiful, wasn't average or easy to forget and that was easier to accept than any other compliment.

I loved that about him- he never lied, never. He loved me and more than anything I'm glad I was able to show him I loved him before he died. Show him, because as loquacious and silver-tongued as he was, he knew that actions are all that really matter.
*

I'll miss the man I knew, the humble, always positive, loving but solitary and closed man that I knew and I'll miss the father that my mum talks about, the engaged, enthusiastic parent that I never got to see except through her eyes. I wish I'd known him like that but that's neither here nor there. I'm glad I knew him at all- I'm better for it and I know it.
*

oh shit i forgot how to lj cut :( Apr. 6th, 2012 @ 07:39 am
so, i take pictures of dead animals. not every one i come across, just the interesting ones. these are some of my favourites.

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for dan (as in life, i have nothing of value to give you) Nov. 15th, 2011 @ 06:04 am
to my mind, as you get older, you get sadder. it's kinda inevitable. it's not that yr life becomes harder or you start thinking of yr inevitable demise as soon as the first greys push through yr hair- it's just that you have a greater number of regrets and days gone by and people to miss. life's not worse; there's recompense for yr years. hopefully, things are easier with perspective and nothing is as stupidly painful as it was when you were younger. but you will have regrets.
*

a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine overdosed. he was an addict, of so many things, and we hadn't been as close as we were after my mental fuckery, breakdown and subsequent decision to try to rein in my addictions. time was, he would call me when he needed to and we got fucked up together- maybe not just fucked up, maybe more accurately we validated each other's suicide attempts, gave them the legitimacy of good times and chasing peaks, swallowing too much, shooting too much only in search of the high. and if that didn't work we'd fuck our self-hatred out on each other (every, every time.)

i got out of it with only the barest of scars, ugly lines across my stomach and thighs and forearms that i tore out with fingernails when i needed something to put me outside my head. he wasn't so lucky.

he died on halloween, waiting for his ex-girlfriend to come back from the costume party she'd gone to. nothing about it makes sense; we don't even celebrate halloween here. the coroner's report called his death accidental but he knew his doses. at best, he took the purposefully irresponsible risk most of us (all of us, his friends, me, all of those left behind, me, me, fucking me over and over) have taken with too much because you need it right at that minute and can't think of the consequences. at worst, he did it on purpose, he killed himself.

i'm not sure which is worse, really.

i don't have innocent memories of him to be sad over. what i have is high-fucked images and flesh memory. i knew him best high and with that i could describe the patois of his heartbeat. i could tell you about his desperation and the sourness of his sweat, could run down exactly what would make him come (on pills, on powder, on syrup, how to push his body so far that even the drugs were swept out under my body), describe the shape of him on my tongue and give you the twitch of his thighs when i ran my tongue around the head of his cock.

his grandmother found him, slumped over his keyboard with his face smashed and broken so badly they couldn't call a cause of death for days. he went out bloody, just like he wanted, but not grand.

i just hope, choking on it, desperate for breath, fingernails dug bloody in my skin, i hope that he went painless, that it didn't hurt, that at least in the end it didn't hurt.

i realise now that i probably didn't know him well but maybe i knew him as well as anybody else did. there's a closeness that comes from that kind of shared addiction. i probably knew him better than his family but that means fuck all in the sober days. i'm not sure he ever knew that i was his friend, even sober. i regret that. i regret it. i regret it. i regret that i wasn't a better friend. he deserved more than he had and he deserved more than i gave him.

i'm not foolish enough to think i could have turned him around, not arrogant enough, but maybe i could have done something. maybe he didn't have to go out that way. not like that. not like that.

i miss him, all the time i miss him and i regret, i regret.
*

content. maybe. whatevs. Jan. 30th, 2011 @ 05:39 am
i check in here occassionally, even though i never post. i read some of you and i remember the names of even fewer. i'd like to think i've made lasting connections with people but that's as untrue as it is in the rest of my life. in rl i have trouble making friends with ppl because i'm too aggressive and hard. like, i need ppl to front to me, even if they're wrong and misguided; i just need them to be able to stand strong behind something. and then i cut their knees out from under them so they can never leave me haha love me LOVE ME.

etc etc but basically i'm wondering if there's anything here for me anymore. a long time ago this used to be a place where i could groove around and wipe my self-pitying tears on stranger's sleeves, glorying in my never before seen brand of white, middle class problems.

the thing is: do i even have anything to say?
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Jan. 30th, 2011 @ 03:07 am
fooled you, right? so i was going to post a clear linear summation of my life but then my brother was reading this journal aloud and i realised that i've never been so humble and am instead the type to sob and mosn at length over the smallest of papercuts. so here goes with the semi-abstract bullshit. except not because i'm kinda tequila-sleepy.

there is a fucking beetle on my arm wtf.

so maybe i'll be around. i'd love to hear to from you guys but i know that's a longshot because nobody's watching my shit anymore. and maybe i should make the effort to read my friends' page but fuck that, the majority of you bore the shit out of me, if i remember correctly.

oh i guess i'm not making friends here, huh?
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