glitter kiss

(no subject)

“…and in that flash of lucidity he became aware that he was unable to bear in his soul the crushing weight of so much past.”

~ Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude
burning words

(rough draft, for now)

My body is the fractured remains of a city
defined by urbicide.
Think homicide, think pesticide,
think of the skeletons of homes
destroyed in the massacre of its inhabitants.
Sharp shooters and grenades,
ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
Eventually the city sleeps,
my soul evaporates with the smoke.
But my heart,
my heart never stops racing to the
ghosts of shells raining,
infinite screams that know
no hope or help will arrive.
My shredded dress does nothing to conceal
my history, yet I refuse to take it off. Not again.
I've returned to this hellhole but forget the reason why.
Out of habit, I hide my tracks and burn the welcome mat;
this is a home to no one.
glitter kiss

Are You My Mother?

(this is a very emotional entry. read it only if you're feeling safe.)

I had this book growing up called Are You My Mother by P.D Eastman. I both loved and hated it. A little baby bird is born without his mother in sight and he wobbles around looking for whomever or whatever could be his mother. His mother was out finding him something to eat but he didn't know that. He had a good mother, but she left him alone, and he almost got killed trying to find his protector.

(Ignore the ridiculous voice reading the book.)

I'm going to be 28 in two weeks, definitely old enough to be a mother myself. My mom had me at 25. Yet I still feel unsafe to date - I always have - due to the abuse that happened to me when my mom was off elsewhere when I was a child. I was abused within an inch of my life and then my mom came home from vacation and life went back to normal. Normal being a mother so dissociated from life that she didn't notice the pain her daughter was in. In fact, whenever her daughter cried she punished her for "feeling sorry for herself" when so many kids have it much worse.

I'm fortunate to have a mother who does love me, she loves me fiercely. We live in the same city. I am fortunate, very very fortunate. Yet if I have a child one day (and I really really hope to), I'm afraid to let my mother hold him or her because she dropped me so much when I was an infant. All the time.

As a kid, I'd read that "Are You My Mother?" book and it gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. And now I am an adult and I go looking from person to person, subconsciously trying to find a new mother. That four-year-old screams in me to have someone save her and I'm the only one who can save her, but I hate her for being so needy. So I walk around like that little bird, every fucking day, trying to find my mother and almost getting myself killed. And no one wants an orphaned four-year-old who has a blind mother.
The end.

p.s. I hate all of livejournal's recent changes. it's making coming back harder. >:|    </whining>
bed on fire

(no subject)

I sought solace in hands but when anyone tries to cup water, carrying their hands to their mouth, water always seeps through fingers. There is never enough to quench. Eventually we stop trying. I am the woman dying of dehydration who lies down in the rain, too exhausted to bring a glass to her lips.

I swallow the word ‘hospital’, it too is too large to chew. You ask lungs or heart, I tell suffocation and shards unmendable. To try to fix me is to be blinded.

Don’t tell me my story is too sad. This I know. My winter is imprinted with fear.

(i can't reply to your comments now, but know that i hold you in my heart.)
bed on fire

night vision // lucille clifton

the girl fits her body in
to the space between the bed
and the wall. she is a stalk,
exhausted. she will do some
thing with this. she will
surround these bones with flesh,
she will cultivate night vision.
she will train her tongue
to lie still in her mouth and listen.
the girl slips into sleep.
her dream is red and raging.
she will remember
to build something human with it.

(Originally posted by iatrogenicmyth at night vision // lucille clifton)
bed on fire

(no subject)

(I have to start expressing myself more and more and more. Otherwise I'm going to go mad, or kill myself on purpose or accidentally. Not being suicidal doesn't mean a damn thing when you're acting out in ways that can get you killed instead.)

When your life is nothing but a quilt of horrors, is there a point in explaining one square? Or a hole in the pattern, the place where the sewing machine quit working when it realized you'd unravel the thread faster than it could keep up. There was a moment when I considered patching it by hand, stitch by shaky stitch, but again I dropped the needle. Gave myself a puncture wound instead.

bed on fire

(no subject)

Send a distress signal to the universe:
Your reflections are fucking me up.
Sever me from the autumn leaves,
there is no comfort in a warm day,
a walk, the wind.
It's all a giant trip wire,
one trigger will blow this place apart.