Tuesday, 7 April 2015
Monday, 6 April 2015
Diary entry, 2012
WHERE IS THE
FORGIVENESS
God took it away
Whatever you think
you’re going
to hear
is exactly what I
am not
going to say
Letter to Carrie, October 1, 1989
Oh, I guess I have
some good news, but I want to complain first, okay? Okay.
My dad calls me at
9:00 a.m. and says, “Hi, are you mad at me?”
Then he bitches at me for about fifteen minutes since I, the horrible
daughter straight from Hell, haven’t written him in a week. I told him I was busy studying, etc., but he
was still pissed off. Then he says, “Has
your mother said something to you to make you hate me?” or something equally
retarded, to which I reply, “No!”
Finally I convince him that I am not angry with him, Mom hasn’t
persuaded me to hate him, etc. Then he
asks me how I’m doing. Oh, just
SWELL! You just made my day! Then he says how he’s buying all sorts of
food for me, but I have to see him to get it.
(No, I thought that I’d eat it through a psychic channel.) Guess that means I shouldn’t be expecting a
box in the mail. Ah, the joys of having
divorced parents. It never ends. Luckily, I had a class to go to. Thank god for small miracles.
Diary entry, May 22, 2014
Nothing
nothing nothing. I know there is
something. I just don’t know what. Either that or I am just one huge massive
loser looking for something to blame my huge massive loser-dom on. The more I think about it, the more I realize
I have always been deadly lazy. Sort
of. Not in an obvious way. It’s hard to explain.
I
re-read Jekyll & Hyde and some of RLS’s other short stories. I also started re-reading The Turn of the
Screw. Gothic ghost stories and
Victorian weirdness. I think I might be
hysterical, just like a 19th century character. Or maybe I’m reading these books because this
house seems so Victorian, even if it’s actually Edwardian. From the outside it looks pretty
imposing. A nutty house. I’ll never be able to have many lights on or
the electric bill will be massive.
I think
I am tired. I don’t even want to listen
to myself anymore.
I’m
going off banana Weetabix. What does
this mean???
I keep
finding bits of journals I forgot I kept.
Dream
big, girl. Dream big.
Sunday, 5 April 2015
The Unknowing
I was one fear closer to here
lost in a night too dark for sleeping
was it me on the ledge or was it you
whispering
do
not give up too soon
do not give up
too soon
when I am
breaking
I am a fool
where do I stand
I am a piece of
stone mixed in
with all this sand
yet full of proof
of what died with you
why
did you bring me here to my cyclone second
when rage engulfs this bridge from earth to
heaven
cinder through and through
you ask too much you do
for one whisper like the hint of water splashed on embers
for one storybook of dreams with its message tethered
to the fading metal moon
the sun it can be cruel
now that I gave too much too soon
Is
this your plan
is this your one
your great
your smoky last demand
or
my intention
my blue-flame doom
because
burned across my heart your forgotten
message
the language lost in time with the words
rewritten
resuscitate the girl she is out of
breathing
collapsed under the hope she could not
believe in
the soot was in her eyes she could only cry
was this my one great truth
did I give up
too soon?
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