::Non poetry entry::

Been sick and harrassed and unable to safely get to the computer. I'm thinking a paper journal may be in order to fill in the gaps.

I can't decide if I've expunged enough bile and really don't want to post anything if I haven't. I've already whined elsewhere and now it's feeling a bit redundant and petty.

So good night.

Contrl II

the old way was killing you

but what else was there?

People only knew that little kid:
weirdly quiet
and intelligent
mature and calm
might hate math
but loves her brother


and when that man

ruins everything
your mother falls apart
always sleeps
always works
(never did before)

when that man

wants the grand adventure

without the wife and kids

when the numbness
and pretended understanding finally

FINALLY

give way

no one wants to see the real kid
no one wants to see the hurt and anger

and he won't accept it
he won't give you something to fight with
he says it's his fault
it's all his fault
He accepts responsibility
so please forgive him
don't be mad at him.

and yer the good kid.
yer the one who loves like no one else ever could.
and though you can't see it at the time
he was your Superman.

and he's left you with nothing.

and they've left you with nothing.
nowhere to vent, to cry, to scream, to rebel, to pour it out

because yer that goddamned Good Kid.

and it's killing you.
emotionally poisoning you.
the people who love you
reject you.

and it leaks out.

you don't know/you wish it hadn't/of course it's too late

you can't undo it and now that you know it
you see the acid eating the metal.
and you want it.
you visualize the metal corroding away
give me that freedom
let me be
let me lose control
and be that kid
that I should have been in high school
the rebel who had everything to rebel against
let me be in control of losing control!

If I'm going to hurt the last person I wanted to hurt,
let me knowingly hurt the ones that deserve to be hurt.

Let me scatter that pain over everyone.
Bystanders be damned.
I will waste my youth
waste my potential
waste the opportunities
they dreamed for me
I secretly dreamed for me
I will embrace the terror of growing up.
loving it
as the reason for my destruction.

I will not grow up.
What's wrong with squandering my education?
What's wrong with twisting your dreams?
What's wrong with imitating the bad example?


but don't forget about contrl.
how many years
I survived through contrl.
control.

I don't want to be the bad example.

but it's all gone. I let the acid eat it away.

fundamentally

I can't see anything stronger than steel
except my acid.

So I need something real.

and that's the new way:
the knife, the cutting way
when all the other girls have left it behind
I pick it up.
And carry it in my pocket.

And when I can't stop crying
or when I can't stop thinking of him
the pain
I make it real
ever so gently.

Sliding softly over skin. Just a tiny break. Speckles of blood.

I am alive.
I am in control.

Contrl

stomach-churning
ear-ringing
lacking
control

where is it/who has it

how do I get it?

Old way:
visualize

steel metal bands surround my chest
thick and tight, pulling closer, bringing everything in
spreading, connecting, locking away my emotion

lock away the need
the want
the desire

lock away the pain
the hurt
the anger

lock away my frustration
frustration
my frustration
my soul-devouring frustration
aching frustration

subsume that emotion
subsume that ache
subsume it all
until the only thing left

is love

a hollow love I see now
a surrender
emotional suicide
emotional ritual suicide

the good kid doesn't lust for girls
the good kid doesn't rebel
or fight back
when everyone else is so blatantly wrong
or hurtful

the good kid sucks it up.

sucks up everything.
every bit of abuse.
every bit of wrong-doing.
every bit of anger.
every bit of neglect.
of being pushed aside
being forced to grow up now
being the one in charge
being the protector
being the caretaker
being the one who keeps everybody together
being the peacemaker

who doesn't know
a single
ounce

of

fucking

peace.

spend twelve years
loving a father

who cheats on her mother

spend twelve years
learning a religion

that can't be questioned

have that man tear it all apart

and three years later

you meditate
and visualize

metal bands around your heart.

away

full/waning/waxing
waning/waxing/full
waxing/full/waning

upside/down/inside/out

my heart is
breaking/broken/mending/full/waning/waxing
loving/hating/spiting/fighting/pushing/pulling

loving/hating/loving/hating/loving/hating/loving/hating/baiting/pushing/pulling

crashing/hating/loving/fearing/dying

fading/pulling

away

Hello World!

I need a clean slate and permanent home for my writing: short stories, longer fiction, free verse, and writting exercises. Whoever reads this is going to get a very mixed bag and I want that out there at the onset. Especially since it's been a few years since I've written anything creatively. Well, more creative than some rule-, topic-, point of view-bound work reports.

I also plan on this being the only time I speak directly to my audience. I do hope, however, to hear from you. I've always appreciated constructive criticism. I think every good writer does, or editors wouldn't hold such a dear place in so many of their hearts.

Lastly, I'll try to write something every day. Another reason for the mixed bag. There's still some things I'm working out as far as time and resources, but I'm determined.

Thank you.