Tristan, oh Tristan. You were the one there through awful depressive years of dying slow and quiet, slicing skin of some tired old woman, my skin at 17. You knew my demons, and my lies about my past. And near-rape in Boston broke it, tired old hazel eyes unable to take any more. And who could blame you?
"And I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past," and Waits couldn't've said it better.
I pick up The Bell Jar after work, in a bad mood, Shae barely speaking, unreachable; never have I felt more like the girl he fucks than the girl he loves, never more like the shadow of a thought and a simple excuse to feel happy, content, in love - he won't ever know the misery he puts me through, days without a word.
And never have I been more scared, more certain that the scars on my left wrist covered by tattoos will suddenly become deeper, more present, tired and lonely I dream of the days my only resolve was not to die before I reached twenty. But, oh, how I went back on my word. I died at nineteen; stitches would've been appropriate, suitable, and a fitting reminder of all the things I couldn't become.
*
At the shore, down by the water today with the ocean rolling peaceful and slow, gulls circling lazy yet alert, loud yet with muffled cries, I watch the sky and think I could never make anything as beautiful. Happens constantly, my awe of sky and sun, sunset, bringing me to tears above the dunes, perched lightly, Seth strumming acoustic, me singing to Against Me! with my awful dying crow voice; he knows, knows the beauty of it. Art and music intertwined, never second-guessing or questioning how we relate media with expression. Doesn't smile, smirk, question my raspy, off-key love of childhood sound, of childhood abandon. Just plays and plays, knowing my obsession with times lost, quieted by the passage of time.
"And I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past," and Waits couldn't've said it better.
I pick up The Bell Jar after work, in a bad mood, Shae barely speaking, unreachable; never have I felt more like the girl he fucks than the girl he loves, never more like the shadow of a thought and a simple excuse to feel happy, content, in love - he won't ever know the misery he puts me through, days without a word.
And never have I been more scared, more certain that the scars on my left wrist covered by tattoos will suddenly become deeper, more present, tired and lonely I dream of the days my only resolve was not to die before I reached twenty. But, oh, how I went back on my word. I died at nineteen; stitches would've been appropriate, suitable, and a fitting reminder of all the things I couldn't become.
*
At the shore, down by the water today with the ocean rolling peaceful and slow, gulls circling lazy yet alert, loud yet with muffled cries, I watch the sky and think I could never make anything as beautiful. Happens constantly, my awe of sky and sun, sunset, bringing me to tears above the dunes, perched lightly, Seth strumming acoustic, me singing to Against Me! with my awful dying crow voice; he knows, knows the beauty of it. Art and music intertwined, never second-guessing or questioning how we relate media with expression. Doesn't smile, smirk, question my raspy, off-key love of childhood sound, of childhood abandon. Just plays and plays, knowing my obsession with times lost, quieted by the passage of time.
