Craigslist

"So I just had this thought"

"Yea? What's that?" 

"Well, it's a little crazy, but..."

"Dude, just spit it out." I waited patiently for a response as she smacked her gum in that annoying manner that I loved so much.

"Well...I think we should have an orgy!" 

I choked on the air I was breathing and sputtered, "What?! Are you serious?"

"I'm completely serious." There was a distinct confidence in her voice.

"But, why?" I couldn't hide my intrigue, disgust and bafflement at what she was saying.

"It would be awesome. Ya know? Like 10 bodies moving at once. Moving together. Moving in sync. It would be amazing." 

"Where are you gonna find 9 willing participants?"

"Craigslist is good for everything." 

To Put It Bluntly

I would try to explain to you in words what it's like to be alive. I don't think you could fathom it. All the things that encompass this life, and this feeling. It's all to much and sometimes it's not enough. I would let you in. I don't think you would understand. You would push me away. Push me down. Piss me off. It just doesn't work that way. I can't let you in if you won't let me out. Let me loose. Let me be. Just shut up and put aside your feelings. This isn't about you. This is about everything else. This is about everything that you don't understand. This is about everything that you don't want to understand. If you only knew what went on when you're not around. It would probably kill you. I would probably be happy about it. I don't think that I hate you. Not necessarily. I just don't give a fuck about what you have to say. I'll throw you a party when you're dead and gone. Not to mourn your passing, but to celebrate the fact that I won't have to deal with you anymore.
Remember that ten-thousand pound burden I dealt with for so long? Well, it's gone now. And I feel pretty fucking amazing.
Remember, it's not that I hate you. I just can't stand having you around. I can't stand the things you do. I can't stand the things you do to me. I can't stand...well...I can't stand anything about you. But, I do not hate you. I just wish you had never been born.
That time you told me your deepest secrets, you remember that? Well, I ran right out and told everyone I knew. You don't deserve secrets. You don't deserve me. You don't deserve anything. Now I know this sounds harsh and I know this sounds cruel, but cut me some slack. You broke my heart. To put it bluntly, go fuck yourself.

Down With the Sickness

I feel like one of those anemic, cancerous children stuck in St. John's wishing for a normal life. I'm always sick. I was born sick. I live sick. I embrace this sickness.
This is my cocoon. I hide behind it and protect my wet, new-born, beautiful butterfly wings. I'm getting fed up. Honestly. I want out. I want to be free.
All this doctor know-how bullshit never really got me anywhere. They all tell me the same thing. The same over-rehearsed nonsense every time. I'm tired of it.
I'm tired of them feeling responsible. I'm tired of it always being my fault. I'm tried of trying to save myself, combating everyone else simultaneously trying to save me as well. I'm tired of being afraid that this might be the one that kills me. I'm over it.
My head spins a lot. I don't mean pea-soup-vomit Exorcist-style spinning. I get dizzy. It's like the world is spinning but I'm not moving with it.
I'm sick of being sick.

Dear Charles

Death is not something I hold in high regard

When it comes to the things I fear most.

Really,

It’s being alone that scares me

It’s like a feeling of dread that just keeps crawling

‘Round in my stomach

Like some sort of parasitic creature keeping me for a

Host.

But Charles, oh, Charles

You are a wonder to me.

First the cheese graters touch that wonderfully psychotic

Cheek of yours. And then that swastika;

Artful, though rudimental, it captured and captivated the

World. We are in the palm of your hand,

Dear Charles. Dear friend.

We’re the crazy ones, you and I.

According to them we are.

I don’t know you

And

You don’t know me

But I love you all the same.

You understand the insatiable urge to shock, confuse, and generally

Discombobulate the general public.

To be noticed,

Ah, now there’s the prize.

To be loved, however,

Would be going to far.

Charles, I envy you

I wish I could do the Manson thing with the cheese graters on my skin

Slough it all off and flush it down the drain, water turning red with every drop of blood that finds its way there

Too close for comfort some might say

But I call it cozy and warm and calming, the sight of the blood and the skin.

I’ll have to keep these things secret, though, the “cheese grater” things.

You don’t want them to start talking

Once they start they’ll never stop with the

“She’s crazy”

“She’s emo”

“I think she’s psychotic”

“I think she needs help”

I’m fine. I swear. Just leave it be. Just because I’m not a mass-produced cookie-cutter version of what a woman’s supposed to be

Everyone gets all worried for my mental health, but more so for their own safety.

Maybe if I go kill someone they’ll see what crazy is.

Manson was crazy. He needed to be locked up. Not me. I just take my inspiration from the crazy ones

Like the cheese grater

It just seemed like a good idea at the time

I know I’m not a slab of cheese and I know when

NOT

To kill someone

That’s the difference between Manson and me.

He’s the crazy one

I’m just a woman.

Sometimes

Sometimes the pain just grips you and it won't let go. Like a fist tight around your abdomen. You can't breath in, nor can you breath out. That empty place inside you seems to get just that much bigger. Nothing could ever fill it. The hold gets tighter. That hold that you've had on me for far too long. When I try to get away from it, it simply holds on tighter. And I want to vomit. And I want to hold you. And I want to be near you all the time. It's like I'm empty. Every second. I want to touch you. I want to taste you. I hate the way you make me feel now. And I love the way we used to feel together. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. And everything that could go right did. But what out weighs which? I'm conflicted. And confused. And it hurts.

Snowflake

You remind me of an albino. White skin, white hair, white eyes. A form completely devoid of any trace of pigmentation. I can never really tell if you're looking at me or just lost in thought, staring blankly in my direction. Unfortunately, I'm leaning towards the latter. I'd like the chance to fall in love with you. I think I could. But you're always so far from me, and I so far from your thoughts. The way you blink, so slowly as if you're trying to process to much information at once, makes me believe that you must be much more intelligent than the rest of the world's population. You're clumsy. I like that. You regain a bit of normality each time you fumble, every time you drops things or nearly fall on your precious porcelain appendages. I want to catch you every time you fall. The warm, red liquid leaking from your veins reminds me that you are real. I'm almost certain that if it snowed you could disappear, if you could just avoid the dirty and yellowing snow drifts. You're that way in all things, avoiding the dirty and unclean places. You retain your glacial glow and gaunt glimmer in such a way that I envy you your purity and the ease with which it has been obtained. It is embarrassing attempting to compare myself to a human snowflake, such as yourself; different, ever changing, and encased in crystalline perfection. And if I attempted to catch you, all at once you would be gone, melting into the rest of the world, becoming just another part of everything that I know.