She's not a diamond,
In this the truth is known at last.
She's not even blown glass.
Nothing useful,
Nothing good,
She's not even worth the air and blood.
She stays up all night to howl at the moon,
Sleeps too late,
Wakes up well after noon.
Walks graveyards to keep the living at bay,
And while she hears the whispers,
She ignores what they say.
She makes feeble attempts to get better
But still ends up numb.
She's just cubic zirconium.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Honesty Does Not Become Me
I am no good at court intrigue. I don't have the stomach for it.
I try desperately to refuse to play.
Unfortunately, that's what life is, isn't it? One big court full of back-stabbing, cutthroat barons and their whores. And if you don't play? You become the butt of every joke, jibe, and jest. You become the hated, despised, uncouth little heathen that is whispered about constantly behind closed doors and around shadowy corners.
It's almost like you have to be evil to be good.
I don't like to gossip, or spread rumors (should there be a 'u' there?), or pry into people's lives. Secrets stop at me. Oddly, I seem to know everything that goes on.
They treat me like it's a bad thing that I don't play, but when they need to talk, I'm the one they turn to.
The shit I know could shake the walls down to their very foundations.
I am no good at court intrigue. I'm too naïve, I suppose. I feel like we should all just be honest.
But I'm not being honest, either, am I? No. No, I'm not.
I try desperately to refuse to play.
Unfortunately, that's what life is, isn't it? One big court full of back-stabbing, cutthroat barons and their whores. And if you don't play? You become the butt of every joke, jibe, and jest. You become the hated, despised, uncouth little heathen that is whispered about constantly behind closed doors and around shadowy corners.
It's almost like you have to be evil to be good.
I don't like to gossip, or spread rumors (should there be a 'u' there?), or pry into people's lives. Secrets stop at me. Oddly, I seem to know everything that goes on.
They treat me like it's a bad thing that I don't play, but when they need to talk, I'm the one they turn to.
The shit I know could shake the walls down to their very foundations.
I am no good at court intrigue. I'm too naïve, I suppose. I feel like we should all just be honest.
But I'm not being honest, either, am I? No. No, I'm not.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Verbal Vomit
It seems I am entirely incapable of actually posting anything these past few months. When I started here, I was averaging nine posts a month, sometimes pushing double digits. The last time I did that was in January, my spurt of New Year's Resolution. And before that? December of 2,00fucking5.
I had a blog before this that my mother murdered. It was called Tears of the Future. I don't think anyone reading me now was there for that. I only had it for...what...six months? But I had a far better track record. I was posting at the very least twice a week. Usually every day before school and then on Saturdays at the library.
Then, one day, my stepfather read something he 'didn't like' and my mother told me to delete it. Delete everything. I free write on my blog. I always have. It's easy, soothing, it helps. So, figure about how many posts I had, and then figure that probably half of them were free writes. I lost...so much of my work with one push of a button, because my FUCKING PARENTS decided they didn't like a poem I wrote. One poem. Out of...a lot. Did they care that I obviously was not well? Did they care that I obviously was trying to work out my anger and frustration and pain and fear in a constructive way? No. They cared about themselves. Just like they always have.
On the plus side, my stepfather is dead now. Which, on one hand, is amazing. Fuck him. On the other, it's unfortunate, because now I can never tell him what a fucking piece of shit he was. What a terrible "parent" he was. What a terrible everything. How he fucked my life up one side and down the other and expected me to say 'thank you, sir.'
I'm not a bad person. I have never been a bad person. Even now, I'm uncomfortable saying these things about a man who abused me since I was eight. I feel guilty, like I should have tried harder to make him love me. One time, when I was in fourth grade, I got in trouble over...something. Who knows. And I had to sit in a chair in time out in the middle of the room. I remember he yelled at me a lot; I was crying hard. After a while, I got up and hugged him. He shoved me back to the chair and told me that he hadn't said I could get up.
Once, when I was younger, second grade I believe, I hadn't cleaned my room. It was pretty messy. Yeah, I know, bad, terrible me, right? I had just given two little gifts to him and my mother and they both loved them. I was in my room, getting ready to clean it, but I got distracted by a book (I had an epic amount of kid's books, fer srs). He slammed the door open and started screaming at me to clean it, took the presents I had just given them and threw them at me. They didn't want them anymore.
I don't know why I'm telling everyone all this. I don't know where this is coming from. In fact, I sat down to make an actual post about something or other.
I can't seem to forgive my mother for sitting idly by while my stepfather abused me. And I can't seem to forgive him for mindfucking my mother into being so docile. It's a vicious circle. And there's no way for me to fix this. She started the circle all over with Carolyn and her mother. Everyone who touched my "family" got fucked.
I should be able to forgive them. That's what a good person would do, right? And I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite everything I've been through, I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite the fact that I've been through one hell after another, despite the fact that I actually SHATTERED under the pressure, despite the fact that I haven't had a home that I can remember, I'm supposed to be a good person. I'm supposed to forgive and let go.
Well I can't. And I don't want to. It's not fair. (But life isn't fair!) Well why the FUCK isn't it ever unfair in my favour?! I do good things, I do things that are a and b the c of d. I am always nice, fair, caring, unbiased. So, Karma, where the fuck are the nice things that are supposed to come my way because of that? What the hell did I ever do to you, bitch? This shit started before I could figure out what the fuck was actually going on in the world! Before I knew the capital of the state I lived in!
When I was very young, I used to draw people that looked like monsters. That wasn't my depiction of people. I actually thought people were monsters. I remember very clearly seeing a drawing of mine on a door and thinking, why doesn't anyone ask me why I drew monsters?
Sometimes I think that there are people in the world who are meant to take the bad breaks for other people. My life got fucked over so some other kid's wouldn't. I took the fall so that some other poor soul wouldn't suffer. Sometimes I get jealous and rage at the universe for making me one of the trash dumps.
Sometimes it's all that keeps me going.
I had a blog before this that my mother murdered. It was called Tears of the Future. I don't think anyone reading me now was there for that. I only had it for...what...six months? But I had a far better track record. I was posting at the very least twice a week. Usually every day before school and then on Saturdays at the library.
Then, one day, my stepfather read something he 'didn't like' and my mother told me to delete it. Delete everything. I free write on my blog. I always have. It's easy, soothing, it helps. So, figure about how many posts I had, and then figure that probably half of them were free writes. I lost...so much of my work with one push of a button, because my FUCKING PARENTS decided they didn't like a poem I wrote. One poem. Out of...a lot. Did they care that I obviously was not well? Did they care that I obviously was trying to work out my anger and frustration and pain and fear in a constructive way? No. They cared about themselves. Just like they always have.
On the plus side, my stepfather is dead now. Which, on one hand, is amazing. Fuck him. On the other, it's unfortunate, because now I can never tell him what a fucking piece of shit he was. What a terrible "parent" he was. What a terrible everything. How he fucked my life up one side and down the other and expected me to say 'thank you, sir.'
I'm not a bad person. I have never been a bad person. Even now, I'm uncomfortable saying these things about a man who abused me since I was eight. I feel guilty, like I should have tried harder to make him love me. One time, when I was in fourth grade, I got in trouble over...something. Who knows. And I had to sit in a chair in time out in the middle of the room. I remember he yelled at me a lot; I was crying hard. After a while, I got up and hugged him. He shoved me back to the chair and told me that he hadn't said I could get up.
Once, when I was younger, second grade I believe, I hadn't cleaned my room. It was pretty messy. Yeah, I know, bad, terrible me, right? I had just given two little gifts to him and my mother and they both loved them. I was in my room, getting ready to clean it, but I got distracted by a book (I had an epic amount of kid's books, fer srs). He slammed the door open and started screaming at me to clean it, took the presents I had just given them and threw them at me. They didn't want them anymore.
I don't know why I'm telling everyone all this. I don't know where this is coming from. In fact, I sat down to make an actual post about something or other.
I can't seem to forgive my mother for sitting idly by while my stepfather abused me. And I can't seem to forgive him for mindfucking my mother into being so docile. It's a vicious circle. And there's no way for me to fix this. She started the circle all over with Carolyn and her mother. Everyone who touched my "family" got fucked.
I should be able to forgive them. That's what a good person would do, right? And I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite everything I've been through, I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite the fact that I've been through one hell after another, despite the fact that I actually SHATTERED under the pressure, despite the fact that I haven't had a home that I can remember, I'm supposed to be a good person. I'm supposed to forgive and let go.
Well I can't. And I don't want to. It's not fair. (But life isn't fair!) Well why the FUCK isn't it ever unfair in my favour?! I do good things, I do things that are a and b the c of d. I am always nice, fair, caring, unbiased. So, Karma, where the fuck are the nice things that are supposed to come my way because of that? What the hell did I ever do to you, bitch? This shit started before I could figure out what the fuck was actually going on in the world! Before I knew the capital of the state I lived in!
When I was very young, I used to draw people that looked like monsters. That wasn't my depiction of people. I actually thought people were monsters. I remember very clearly seeing a drawing of mine on a door and thinking, why doesn't anyone ask me why I drew monsters?
Sometimes I think that there are people in the world who are meant to take the bad breaks for other people. My life got fucked over so some other kid's wouldn't. I took the fall so that some other poor soul wouldn't suffer. Sometimes I get jealous and rage at the universe for making me one of the trash dumps.
Sometimes it's all that keeps me going.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
