Searing the Wound.

"Well it goes like this The fourth, the fifth The minor fall and the major lift "

You sleep in my bed, the smallness of you curled into my chest. My breasts pressed against your back. You are so small and bony and your curly hair fans itself onto my pillow. A simple blanket covers us. I am cool with your hot skin against mine. Dreams filter through my consciousness into my mouth and I cry out in my sleep - hushed by your delicate lips. A giggle escapes and you beam at me. wiping sleep from my eyes I stretch. Your hand in mine. After all of the hesitance. I have taken the leap. Landing squarely in your arms. Take me, I am yours.

This - awkward, searching, finding you waking up next to me, finding her heart warming. Small steps - tiny steps. Holding my breath.

Book Bank.

I am a hoarder. It's as simple as that. I hoard. Nothing horrible like, cats or my trimmed hair or worse - dead bodies. Oprah is about to come knocking my door down saying "Lordy" in that black way of hers that without fail makes the audience laugh - every-time. It's more aristocratic things like books, letters, magazines. I have over a thousand books. Probably more but I don't really want to go into exact numbers. The fact of the matter is I own ALOT of books. I have a room that is 3/4 full of books.

When I first "moved" out of home I took my books to the lady on Duporth avenue Book Exchange, my once a weekend hangout where my friend and I would skate to and get a cold beverage after buying a cheap but awesome new Goosebumps choose your own adventure or in the later years - Plath collection + sold every last one of them [yes - even my favourite book, First Edition, Sleepwalking by Meg Wolitzer, it was cut + run time baby] I don't even remember how much I got for them all but it seemed like alot at the time. Back then I had about 40-50 books. which I thought was pretty great. I loved my books, they were all read at least twice. About 20 more than three or four times each. I just ate the words right of the pages and couldn't get enough. Only other book worms can understand this phenomenon where you feel a hunger for words, knowledge, another life in pages. The sweet escape.

So my problem now is this - all these fucking books. I have moved house twice this year. Which is better than last year - Five times in one year - ouchy. So regardless of the fact that I was homeless alot if not the majority of the time I was still buying + collecting books and magazines. Reverse garbage sell Hard Covers for one dollar and get this - Paper Backs for 50c. My girlfriend and I were going to the West End Markets every Saturday so when I would just "drop in" I never left with out any less than 10-12 books at a time. My excuse was - "they are just too cheap to leave here to rot!" it worked a charm every time though I could winsomely charm the frown of worry from her face quite quickly by distracting her by the amazingly "cheap fruit and veges we got today and what should we have for dinner - I'm well over stir fry - should we pick up some more Tofu....?" It usually worked. Then there were the times when she was at work/drum practice/other wise occupied and I would go there in her car + just not show her the sheer amount of books I had acquired from Reverse Garbage/Book Outlets that day.

I have three suitcases of books in the shed under the house. Nine boxes of books in my spare room. One Bookshelf - crammed. Three Coles shopping baskets of books and another 3 boxes with other various fashion/photography/design/crocheting/knitting magazines. Why? Why do I have all these "things" they make me feel better. Having them here, knowing they are "mine" gives me this secret little thrill. Similar to what I believe a fat kid would feel when it slides another piece of pizza off the table when it's parents aren't looking. Knowing that I own all of these books and I can do what ever I want with them. Read them - as many times as I want [which trust me I do - I demolish one book a day, it's an addiction.] They are all sorted in a certain way - each book has the month and year that I first read it written [in pen, I'm the only bloody person who can complain about it] followed by any other time I have completed reading it. there are also little side coloured post it's sticking out of 9/10 of the books. These indicate quotes, phrases, poems, songs, life [similar] reflections and other such things. So I don't just "collect" these books. I LOVE them. I truly do. I have alot of pride in the way I have obtained so many.

I tried doing the "free book swapping" for awhile but became quite anxious leaving a book randomly in the city. What if it rains? The Ibis can't be trusted, it could very well shit on the thing + then a cleaner would just ditch it in the bin + it would be gone forever. Or some juvenile delinquent could use it as Rollie/toilet/Ransom paper. The possibilities were endless and there was no way I was going to ABANDON one of my books somewhere that I couldn't properly watch it, care for it. Occasionally move it from one box/shelf to another.

Selfish? Maybe, but fuck, the way I feel about my books is the way a fat kid would feel if it just found an entire PIZZA waiting for it after school Life doesn't get better than THAT!

Shine A Light Into My Eyes.

Another year, spent waking up alone. Another year of being alone. Another year reiterating - you have no family, you have no family, you have no family. Your empty apartment. An unruly mess. Bed and sleeping tablets your only haven and relief. You're a phone call away, telling me you understand, soothing me. While your family ask you to come and join them. I cry silently into the phone, telling you "I'm ok - truly I'm fine. Everything will be better tomorrow." I hold back all that I want to say. I want to cut. I want to bleed. I want to ease this swollen pain welling up inside of me. To see. I'm falling apart, wanting to sleep.

Two years and I'm right back where I started. Waking up alone. You have no family, you have no family, you have no family.

Merry Fucking Christmas.

Wait another day.

What's worse? Knowing that you brought this on yourself? Or just standing back and watching it happen. So tired of this world and everything in it. The loneliness creeps into my bones as cold, disguised as yet another summer. 24 notches on my belt. I can't reach out. I reach inside more and more. Shutting myself off. Shutting myself out. Shutting all of the doors and windows. A prisoner of my own design.

Tears fall corrupted. Drowning in self pity, flailing in the shallow of self respect. I will wait for you to return. To pull you apart again. To pull myself down.

Drinking myself into the bottom of another glass bottle. Bleeding into my own hands. flailing, crying, screaming for respite. From myself.

I want to dance with Eleanor.

I have never known unconditional love. I don't know that I've ever given it either. My parents have never really loved me. They don't even really like me. We're worlds apart. I am, to them, an after thought. There are other things in their lives which are of greater importance. Money. Drugs. The next conquest. I see constantly take it out on myself. I continue to pursue and continue relationships that are half hearted. I walk away from the people that I know will stay by my side. The people whom are not a challenge. Those whom do not love themselves. I take the loyal and cast them aside, boring of them all to easily. + I always end up hurting. Can I settle? Can I settle for something that i know won't take my hearts to the highest highs? Without the passion and the pain is it even worth it to love? Is it worth it to be with someone who doesn't make my heart stop, beat, surge, shrink? Can I ever find the happy medium. There have been people who loved me, enough. They loved me enough for me to survive and I, ever the fool, gambled it away. Pushed it away, made them hate me. Made them believe that I could never love them for pure hatred of myself. another weekend and the same mistake is repeated. The age old question, when will I be loved? The love I am given is enough, so now, when will I take the breath and plunge headfirst into accepting it?

Mon Passion.

I can smell her menstruation in her sweat - kissing her ear I say - "soon you will have your period" - holding my face in her hands she laughs - "you are just so fucking FRENCH" kissing me - hot tongue, I, in turn murmur into her mouth. "Ve tout mon passion"

Friay - not in love.

I had my first fresh ingredients today. Thanks to Eleanor picking me up an taking me grocery shopping. I had already created a 4 bean/tomato risotto but after going to IGA I thankfully had fresh bread - heaven. I think I was French in a past life.

This weekend was amusing. I went to Juggler's looking for someone that I shouldn't have been looking for. Someone that can't provide all of the answers despite wanting them to. Tara came along. We got drunk here, talked. In the 10 years that we've known one another we still talk to one another the same. Not much has change, vocabulary and age, yes, maturity yes. All the things that happen with time. But the way we interact hasn't change. Just an observation.
Jayne left for OS today. We've still not talked since fighting about rory. Fuck.
She knows me well enough to know that I wasn't going to bid her farewell unless she cracked first. I am more stubborn than she will ever be. Yet I am only doing this to punish her. make her realise that I am in control of this friendship, this situation. I am fucked in the head. The only reason I am doing this is because I feel out of control with everything else. I am more like my father than I give myself credit for [ nausea]

Friday night - oh Friday night.
Pretty sure that Owen saw a side of me that he did not like. I went home alone [blessedly] after kissing a friend of a friend. She is a lovely girl though and we are seeing one another once she has gotten back from her family holiday. I haven't been dragged into a hallway/staircase and kissed like that for years - YEARS. It was very exciting and refreshing.

I hate being single. Well, I hate being alone so much. I have never had this much difficulty being alone. I am happiest alone. With a book - that is all I need, until now. The agoraphobia is coming back. Without Eleanor around to coax me out of the house I am leaving less an less. Unless am drunk beforehand or on my way to drink. Then the day after I am so depressed that the thought of even leaving my room terrifies me. I can't even shower for fear, surely there is someone in my house waiting to knife me. Always a knife. Never a gun. a vicious cycle yes? Who would ever have thought that this freedom I have in this apartment would be the thing that traps me? It's big enough for me to breathe + not feel claustrophobic, yet big enough for me to see a million hiding places. Shriek.

My D key is STILL not working. I couldn't be bothered correcting the mistakes. Ha - how fucking Ironic. Too many mosquitoes + not enough incense. I broke my fish bowl trying to clean it last week an now my darlings are in a salad bowl with Toby [Elle's cat whom I am looking after for a few months] eyeing them off. They are as mental as ever - practically jumping out of the [salad] bowl everytime I walk near them.

Off to find another job. This is the first blog I have posted that states names.

Forgive me.

Sprightly Sparrow

You are so dark in your appearance. Walking under occasional street lamps, unaware of the throbbing traffic. Sitting under a tree in the shadow cast by night + this building I see you spontaneously. Hey - calling out - I sense a hesitation in your body. I see the way that you just want to keep walking, pretending the world simply does not exist. You are a broken man, reeking of booze and escapism. I am excited at seeing you. Dizzy with this coincidence. I was mere moments from your house, and this - a sign? But your weary eyes tell a different story. Sparrow chest with venerable bones + frail might. You tell of words, harsh + accusatory. Thrown at you. + you laugh it off telling me it's sad that you don't care more. I feel myself reel with this knowledge. At your callousness. I feel a wall rise and my attitude toward you becomes patronizing. I care not to hear of your exploits. I care not to hear of your arrogant ways. My heart softly flutters and tells me - escape, you have been down this very road before. a different broken man. A different set of hands, eyes, teeth. Both arm themselves with humour to get inside. Both will require more care than I have to give. I am full of love, but these types, you - your type, you are draining and will suck the very fucking life from me. This old owl and you, small fragile sparrow, will not rest easy as companions. This old owl, knows the heart that beats inside your concave chest, beats with a weight which she can not carry, let alone love.

Ghosted.

She is the lover. Not the fighter. A ghost of white + silver and gold. Tearing me limb from limb with her eyes. Oh - dismissive, she glances at me, glances my way and I shrink beneath her disapproval. It's frightening, the love + need to impress. It's dreadful. This URGE to be loved by someone so neglectful. Oh how I ever survived on the crumbs you threw I shall never know. How thin I became. Starved of approval, yet there you are, the best thing that ever happened to me. Top of the fucking class. The one that made me stronger than ever, yet so alike to a brutalness not long left my weary limbs. Was this war we waged softer? More tender? I suffered less scarring + you apparently barely any at all. Oh woe, there it is. Here is a farewell. Falling back into patterns and arms of each other. We make it work, I nurse this loss like an open wound. Close to the heart. The smell of blood fresh. The pain familiar. Oh woe. She is the lover, the lover I lost.

He and His - Me and Mine.

My throat hurts, but I keep smoking. The cat lies next to me. Unperturbed that he has never been here before. My throat. So fucking raw. You thrill me with the things that you say to me spontaneously. I turn my back long enough to forget you and before I know it, you are there, with words, in my mind. Bleeding your charm into my hardened heart. I give up without a second thought. I am taken so easily to this, to you. I have nothing to lose. I would rather have one night of swoon than weeks, months of worry and guilt. The horror of "not knowing." So what will this become? - I-just-don't-care. This is enough for now. You are not my everything. You are not the reason I get out of bed, my shining sun, my glowing moon. You are he + I am she + for now. That is all I want.

Thank you for remembering.

Made of Stone.

You are so dark in your appearance. Walking under occasional street lamps, unaware of the throbbing traffic. Sitting under a tree in the shadow cast by night + this building I see you spontaneously. Hey - calling out - I sense a hesitation in your body. I see the way that you just want to keep walking, pretending the world simply does not exist. You are a broken man, reeking of booze and escapism. I am exited at seeing you. Dizzy with this coincidence. I was mere moments from your house, and this - a sign? But your weary eyes tell a different story. Sparrow chest with venerable bones + frail might. You tell of words, harsh + accusatory. Thrown at you. + you laugh it off telling me it's sad that you don't care more. I feel myself reel with this knowledge. At your callousness. I feel a wall rise and my attitude toward you becomes patronizing. I care not to hear of your exploits. I care not to hear of your arrogant ways. My heart softly flutters and tells me - escape, you have been down this very road before. a different broken man. A different set of hands, eyes, teeth. Both arm themselves with humour to get inside. Both will require more care than I have to give. I am full of love, but these types, you - your type, you are draining and will suck the very fucking life from me. This old owl and you, small fragile sparrow, will not rest easy as companions. This old owl, knows the heart that beats inside your concave chest, beats with a weight which she can not carry, let alone love.

Absynth Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse.

It's all falling apart. The person that I thought I had walked away from is back and haunting me with every step. She is there, refilling my glass, accepting rides from strangers, kissing the friend that I have been adamant about remaining a friend. I'm lonely and the Vodka and Absinthe are working at my demise. It's so much easier to blame someone else, the long lost love. The person that you would give everything up for, the love that never truly loved you back, the girl that got away. I could ball that up into hatred and use it to get me through the day. But the fire of that fizzes out and I am left, wasted and resentful. Every choice is a conscious decision to progress into this path of self destruction. It's good to be back to what I know. It's dreadful to think how easy it was to slip into it again.

To delete you.

There are so many things now that I have to change.
My computer desktop picture – my Blackberry screen picture.
My MySpace picture. I need to catch the early bus on Thursdays and Friday’s so that I don’t see you at the bus stop. Take photos off my wall so I don’t see your face looking at me every time I come home to my now permanently empty apartment. I have to stop listening to certain songs, lest I cry on the bus, at work, walking, eating, and living. I have to stop calling my fish the names that you gave them because it gives me the shits. I have to stop wearing certain perfumes so that I don’t remember you – and how they affected you – or how it was the first thing that you ever said to me. I have to delete so much of you and physically it’s impossible. I changed my relationship status. That was a no brainer. I have to pick up my passport tomorrow morning before I catch the early bus so that I can concentrate on my “holiday trip” to get the fuck out of here and try to regain some sanity or hindsight as to why “relationship number four” has failed.

I’m going to get into my job – which I’m not happy in but who cares? Who is going to listen to me talk about it. I have to move on. I have to meet new people, spend time with people that are “interested” in me so that I can feel good about myself again. Replace the self esteem that was slowly broken down over the last three months. Become myself again without feeling too brash or loud or objective. My friends loved me – seeing me out. They loved spending time with me. Now I don’t even want to see them. I just want to sit in my house and cry. I want to fucking hurt myself because I can’t/won’t hurt you. I want to drink and take sleeping tablets and sleep. I want to sleep this away. I want to stop thinking, to stop crying. To stop feeling like there is a hole in my chest the size of your hands and mine combined. I want to stop loving you.

I want to remember my life before you. Yeah it was emptier before I met you, but I was happy and whole within myself. I knew who I was and I respected myself. Now I don’t even know myself. I’m not blaming you. I hid this part of me in the hopes that you would love me. Don’t think it hasn’t happened before. The same thing happened with Trent. The “Crazy” girl that he fell in love with became the “crazy” girl that he wanted to be saved from. I can’t be what anyone wants me to be. I just am what I am. Sometimes I hate things that I do – but I’m not out to hurt anyone [anymore] least of all you. I just want to be quiet, to rest. I feel so tired and cold these days. This week. So empty. You took so much of me when you left.

Left

It has risen, your high colour
Masking your cheeks with that which is
And the fury swirls within – taking you out from this that is

All in all you are taken from me, taking out the trash + I am wasted, a waste.
That rots my very teeth.

The Start Of Something.

I don't know who I would even want to tell about this. Who I would want/let read it? I guess the anonomity of it would have been a great idea, but I fucked that up already.

There is nothing worse than having all these things inside of you that you want to get out. Words, sounds, meanings that once let loose are gone forever and anyone who stumbles upon them can jusdge you or class you as they see fit.

I ahve had a written diary all of my life. since being with ellie I've not written in one. I start a new diary when I am with a long term partner. I think it is a little sick to be smelling/touching/seeing things that remind me of them whilst I am writing about the person I am now in love with. An internet blog/diary is nothing on a written diary, yet I can't bring myself to have one with her. She wouldn't read it [only if I shut down and refused to talk for long periods of time] I know that about her. I trust her. But having said that- I don't trust what I would say - what I would write. There are things in my life that even I can't write/talk about.

So I guess it is all betetr left unsaid.