My photo
I want nothing more than to be that sexy, moody, artistic waif, lounging in a coffeeshop writing poetry, existing off of black coffee and cigarettes.


Tuesday, May 11, 2010

I'm not me anymore, i'ma fucking shell.
i'm a shell full of shit,
just one big mess.
yea, big,
i'm too fucking big to be a shell.
I'm not Aphrodite, unless you count Botticelli's version.
sure, he's an amazing painter,
sure, Aphrodite is beautiful in it a
and is praised as being a great example to the body image of women

but whenever i'm faced with a portrait of a renaissance woman,
all i can do is gag.
look at her rolls, folds of fat, chubby cheeks, double chin,
thunder thighs, muffin top, spare tire,
omfg they had everything.
I can understand, it's a base instinct,
because you see a fleshy woman back then and you think oh she has money,
she can afford to eat well.

i would've gone for the fucking peasants,
at least i wouldn't be afraid they'd be fucking hiding something in their fat.

Aughhh i hate thisss,
i've been sniffling uncontrollably for the past like 4 days.
and it's not just from allergies, it's mostly
just my fucking holding back tears
for DAYS.
my fucking sister is staying with me until tomorrow
so i can't cut, i can't cry, i can't workout except for my jogs

i want my own fucking apartment so i can fill it with
vitamin water, rice crackers, fat free activia, low-cal nola bars,
fruit and vegetables and tofu,
i can have fucking laxatives and diet pills on my kitchen table
and no one can say a fucking word because it's MY SPACE MY LIFE FUCK

i'm burning inside my skin,
i'm sitting here seething,
my slowly deflating ass is digging uncomfortably yet welcomely into the chair
my hips and ribs and collarbones no longer just areas,
but growing back into the bones i once knew and loved


why did it have to leave me, when it was what i loved about myself most.

i'm so dumb lately.
at least i feel i am.
i can never concentrate,
so i can't work on my writing, or my french.
i have a fucking week to do a semester's worth of work
and when i think about doing the work i just want to break down and cry
i'm barely existing as it is.
the tiny shred of self preservation left in my mind is slowly fading,
but it's the thing keeping me alive.
maybe i should get "live" tattooed around my finger, like my ring
i thought i'd get it on my hip before, but who knows.

i think i'm going to leave S.
i like being with him, and i don't intend to break up with him until i move.
but i dont think i can stay here.
i hate the people here, i hate being isolated,
i miss being able to walk where i want, when i want.

i'm probably moving back with mom.
i'm almost positive i am.

apparently i can go to a trade school for hairstyling.
apparently it's more like an alternative school than a real one.
you work on things at your own pace.

i like that.
i like being in control.

FUCK what happened to the spontaneous nomad that craved change ?
i'm even reluctant to change my hair colour anymore.
i'm becoming slowly more and more OCD about things,
my perfectionism is getting worse.
i'm physically bothered when things aren't right.
i fume inside when the mentally disable girl in my sewing class takes my scissors.
of course, they're not mine, but hte number 1 scissors FEEL like mine,
they're the ones i always use, they're mine, don't touch.
don't touch.

i crave control now.
i crave perfection more than i ever did before.
i like it, but it terrifies me,
i never used to be like this.
now if only i can use this to my advantage.

i need to keep journalling.
i know in a day i'll forget whatever i was feeling now,
though i'll be feeling a replica of this,
i won't remember a second of this.

i want to go for a run,
i want to put on my shoes and just take off, fly down the road in the dark
my only witnesses the stars,
my only voyeurs the few night-owls driving to and fro along the highway.

damn restrictions.
i need out.
i need out.
i need my own space.

i'm glad in a way that B is with his girlfriend now,
instead of going with our original plan of moving in together.

because now i can move out on my own.
and though he was always my support coach,
i'm sure he would disapprove with the many sweaters and wrist cuffs and bracelets
and the lack of food,
and the shrinkage of skin,
leaving only beautiful bones kissing my taught flesh.

oh, how i want.
and i shall have.
my body is a weak moldable vessel,
and i shall shape it to the form i desire,
the form that is lying within,
lying in wait of it's moment to be born.
and like a phoenix i will rise from the ashes of my old self,
born anew as a beautiful, loved, intelligent, THIN woman.

Om namah shivaya
greetings to she who i am becoming
with great respect, i honour my heart.