i can tell you when it started and i can tell you how i’d like it to end – autocorrect would you please stop correcting me? you tar me with the same brush and honestly i’d quite like it to end
my lips are sealed with a seal of sworn secrecy and shame, even with that smile on my face
and i can feel the tide coming in; i haven't felt her in a while but she's back again and i'm wondering if she's here to stay. it's like her presence is here just depending on what i do and what i don't do. these hands that hold that brick are so strong - they could be so strong. confidence, pride, glee: aren't you proud of what you sculpted? but no, no i'm not because i've not sculpted anything.
there's a crack on this sheet of glass from the chinese restaurant. she glitters blue, purple, green, UV; there are grubby finger marks and smudged oil.
'do you want to know how to make a baby?' was the first sign of our lost innocence and i swear it's all gone downhill. i can smell the morning air and the birds, but almost smell. but not quite. a bit like many things - except your imagination has failed you yet again and then you're relying on others and vague smiles
scratch the stubble like it's there. hand on neck like admiration. maybe i'll never have that life of american suburbia in the 90s - should i accept that? is that settling for second? aren't these fingers so nice? perfectly sculpted and somewhere in between round and strong but not quite either. I'm not quite sure what this is but the heel of the hand fits the groove quite well - maybe it's an admiration of one's strength
i haven't written in so long.
i can feel a gap in the smile. a possible escape route. a week point. this was verdun 101 years ago, wasn't it? look at you, little Sylvia Plath, bad habits and look you've just done it again, broken the seal. the sworn secrecy on one lip and shame on the other, slowly eroding it away.
you smile like the seal is still there.
fingers through hair and it's unoriginal but somehow it's secure. doesn't that say a lot? something appealing about convention. just love breaking it, but never truly happy in doing so - except when you're confident to [do so].
they're a bit like salt and vinegar crisps on your lips.
they're chips in another world. another world you're missing out on, you fucking hedonistic faggot. you promised you wouldn't backspace and you can't run away from that now. i hope you're happy. i hope you're happy.
I like the idea of writing small notes for myself when I look back at this.
This one was a stream of consciousness sort of thing. I don't really know myself. It doesn't feel much like a 'poem'. But I know there's a lot in there that I've never revealed to anyone else: stuff that makes me insecure or feel down that I don't really intend to reveal either. But I like to think that nearly everything has a meaning and that certainly captures it.
t'as dit que vous voulez m'explorer et je veux vous dire que ça c'est pas possible.
je sais que je suis comme l'ognion. chaque couche binge binge binge binge
i'm not very good at this.
you drink your problems away with burning fire, in the hope that you find her at the bottom of your bottles. [i] your face is handsome to hold - not like a woman's - but like the hands on the lord's face as his face crumbled between his fingers. et moi, je vous harcèle ; on ne vouvoie pas mais comme toi-même, je cache ... derrière la barrière de la langue et la mauvaise grammaire in the cans crumpled in your room and the bottles that stand on the shelves, with a few on the floor and one in your hand, another in the bin and 300 in the recycling... you've been trying to find her somewhere in there.
with greasy hair and reddened skin is a bag of insecurity. a bag of hopes and dreams lost somewhere in cliché and an attempt to appear cultured; political correctness isn't your forte.
what is? you ask.
mais on passe. it's easy. we're so distanced from what we know and so we do it to seem edgy and cool and cultured. because it sounds better. because we have no better reasons. because i don't really know.
casse-toi.
There's nothing left of this tonight.
My friend, to put it simply, has a drinking problem. This is an admission of my own fear that I could end up like him if things were to go wrong and every time I have a depressive episode, I too would hide behind alcohol and drugs in search of a mindless experience to drown out my own feelings. I don't drink. But I think that instead of using alcohol or other drugs I'd use writing or music or socialising or anything to drown it out. Except here, la barrière de la langue is hiding behind something to the point where it's difficult to truly understand yourself. I guess I'm not making any sense. But it does in my head.
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