cryptic with no apologies

Secrets. Whispers. Mazes. Enigmas. The truth doesn’t get handed to anybody on a silver platter. Most of the time, it’s because it doesn’t even matter.

you make me feel worse than I already feel, and I feel like someone is driving a star picket through my lower back, sooooo….

What you need to do when I ask for a painkiller: Give me a fucking painkiller.

What you don’t need to do when I ask for a painkiller: Sigh in consternation, comment about how it’s the second to last dose on the card and once we’re out that’s it there’s no more, point out that I’ve “hit this card really hard” (sorry about that, still trying to get my pain scheduled over the month, you know? I can’t quite work out how, but it MUST be possible, the way you act), generally plunge me into the highly distressed mood I am now and exacerbate the pain I’m already in tenfold.

It’s always “you need to ask for one when you need one!” or “you shouldn’t ask for one, you’ve had too many!” and I’m sorry, I’m not a fucking mindreader so I don’t know which one it is at any given time. If you could send me a schedule of what it’s going to be on what day, that would be great with the whole scheduling my pain thing, too. Thanks!

You fucking people wonder why I’m a fucking suicidal addict, honestly? Do you really?

some things are certain.

You know that place between sleep and awake, that place where you still remember dreaming? That’s where I’ll always love you. That’s where I’ll be waiting.

she, fae, mad, crazy gorgeous.

possibly an unspeakably long time between entries, but…I’ve been away with the faeries, you see, and lost in memories of my own Queen Mab. she dances no longer, but her face remains in a locket tucked away in the depths of my jewellery box…secret, safe. how I would disappoint her, if she saw me now.

still forever secretly linked, she and I. by tragedy, by love, by illness, by music, by fire, by midnight whispered promises.

she doesn’t remember, but I do. I always will.

my Mab, and my Kakeru. two I will always love, who will never think of me, and that’s fine.
we’ll always be connected, she and I, he and I.

she’s mad, that mad girl. she’s madder than a cut snake. madder than a hatter. madder than a March hare.
{how could I not be, born on the Ides thereof?}

off to dream again. to dream of winged cats, and fragile wings, and Moon-Clair(e) things.

perhaps it’s you,
     or a memory of you,
          or something I constructed out of shimmering strips of wings&woes,
               or both or all or none of these things,

but still

somewhere,
     I love you.

adieu

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
   As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
   Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
      Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
         In the next valley-glades:
   Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
      Fled is that music: —Do I wake or sleep?

my time is a piece of wax falling on a termite that’s choking on the splinters

I can’t write anything. It’s like trying to get water from the moon. I just stare and stare and stare at the empty page. I feel nothing at all.

It’s like how I sign up to make all these fanlistings, thinking that surely, surely by the time the form is processed, I’ll feel some kind of spark of inspiration to make something again, and it never happens. I just end up half-assing a layout in three hours on the day it’s due and throwing it online to keep the Internets HOA off my ass.

There’s nothing in me, nothing stirs. I’m just empty. I’m just pain and uselessness wrapped in a human shape.

It’s probably not surprising, given the last three years of my life being what they are, but it still sucks. One more shard of myself lost; there’s going to be nothing left eventually, I think. If that is indeed the case, I wish it would hurry up and take all of me.

Soy un perdedor. What can you do. What can I do. It is whatever it is. Everything is, everything was, everything is all, everything will be. Supposedly.

rise, rise, rise.

Hidden failures, no one to save us
(Fractured moments — the gaps are growing)
The dying decades; the first refusal–

Total withdrawal, silence for all
(The last generation by polarisation)
Solitary youth, this laziness finds its truth:

I will be your weakness, I will help you make sense
I will be your battle ground; can I tie your blindfold?

Survive while you hold my fingers tight — sing a soundtrack to withdrawal tonight