Mint

If chocolate is the best thing in the world, what’s the opposite of chocolate?

When I was little, I loved too much. I sulked too, all the time, threw the worst tantrums where the only thing I said was BUT WHYYY in this increasingly shrill soprano. I can sing but only when no one’s watching. I hate not being the centre of attention, I think it has something to do with being the middle child though ironically enough, the chicken is always the best part of the sandwitch. Always always. I cry when I’m angry, did you know that? I can stand in front of the mirror for hours, pouting, smiling, talking to my reflection. Sanity has never been my strong point. I need to bleed out my emotions into my writing. I’m a drama queen, always have been. I think I was 5 when I realized that the best way to get the worlds attention was to make people laugh. I run alot. Whether Away from or Into, I’m still not sure. I get distracted easily..all I have to do it breathe and that’s it, my minds already racing through yesterday or tomorrow. I only do things because I want to and even then I have a million questions. I’m very stubborn. Sometimes, I fight for what I don’t want just to prove that I can. I go through phases. I wore black n pink for 3 months when I was 16, don’t ask me why. I go through people phases sometimes too. People bore me easily. Or maybe I’m scared I’ll bore them so I like to think they bore me, and then I run. I’m an escapist. I have an answer for everything I didn’t do. I like to think I’m smart, different, special but if you ask me to prove it, I wouldn’t know how. I talk a lot. I do it to cover up what I’m really feeling, so you don’t see through me, you just look at the façade and laugh and think ‘so cute, she doesn’t make sense’. I don’t blame you. I’m a psycho babbler. But I see more than you think. I have lots of walls, protective shields..they keep me safe. I’m very selective about the people I let in. I’m not saying I hurt easily, I’m just saying I hurt myself. I almost always get way too emotionally involved even though I know I shouldn’t. It’s stupid really. You’d think experience would teach me some better sort of defense mechanism than glass walls. They shatter, you know. I have big feet. People have called me beautiful often enough but I’m still insecure about my appearance. I obsess over a lot of things. I love playing football in the rain. I read alot. It’s my addiction. I love silver hoops, bangles, studs. I used to be comfortably numb but then the world kept interrupting me and it became uncomfortable. My favourite Disney movie is Aladdin, I think it’s because all my friends say I look like Jasmine. Big hands turn me on. Bad grammar and spellings annoy the life out of me. Boys in shirts look sexy. I get stress headaches often where my temples hurt like hell and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. I used to think I didn’t feel., but I do. My pain threshold is practically negative..I don’t know how I’m ever going to have kids. I have scars, lots of them. I care about people, like genuinely. I can’t see anyone hurt or unhappy. Sometimes, I like myself, sometimes I don’t. There are days when I can almost see myself from a distance, doing and saying things I hate and I want to yell at me to shut the fuck up. I have friends, lots of them. Maybe too many. The boys in my class say that I’m the hottest girl in class. I don’t like it. People I know are scarily protective of me, do I look like I need protecting? When I’m hurt, I shut down completely. I would never cry in public. I hate pity. I’m scared of a lot of things—cockroaches, people,the dark, fire, emotion. Someone once told me that I’m like water, I take the shape of the container I’m placed in. But what if there’s no container? Does the water evaporate?
Random, I know. This is..Me. You don’t know Me, not really. I don’t know Me very well either. So we’re sorted. You asked me if I trusted you, the truth is, I don’t trust myself. I twist words and feelings in my head and turn them into something I no longer recognize. It’s a very masochistic tendency. But I don’t want that to happen with you, ever.
This may have totally freaked you out, made you contemplate even liking me, and made you think I’m completely psychotic, but I don’t care, because I wanted you to know. Why? Because I want to share. Because..umm..I like you :)

Heartbreak. The opposite of chocolate is heartbreak.

You read through this? Didn’t think so.

Ambulance Chasing

Your colour has inked itself across my skin, swirling into indifferent intricate tattoos and slashing into painful angry scars.
I try to dab at the colour but the fabric bleeds red and the sting sends shivers of life down my spine.
I’m only human.
You’re bleeding yourself dry and I’m soaking it in until all that is left of you is a shadow.
I’m glowing.
I’m growing,
Guilty.

Do you lie like I lie?

You don’t fit into my frame. Hell! I don’t fucking fit into my frame. It’s too..big, too ornate, heavy, in-your-face, unattainable.
But it’s..pretty. Pretty ugly.
Something I’d hang on my wall of glory just to prove that I can. And then there’s you-you’d probably bang your head against the frame, feeling your way through the dark.
Perfection has never been such a Utopian concept.
Your flaws settle themselves under my skin, a layer under the layer, so you don’t hurt me, but I’d hurt myself anyway. Your ‘protection’ doesn’t stand a chance.
What’s the point of being an escapist if I can’t escape myself?
Fight or flight?
Float.

Hey You

I sit there bleeding my heart out to you, gesticulating wildly with my hands, crying with my mouth, swirling the voices in my head with a spoon and letting you taste them.
“Enough”, you say firmly, grabbing me by the shoulders and looking straight into my lying hazel eyes, “You need to stop thinking so much.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask, squirming under your gaze.
“Why can’t you just..be? You’re killing yourself slowly. No one cares anyway. Get over yourself.”
I pull your hair and hold you to it.
You breathe in under the weight of my hand on your head, clenching your fists.
You wouldn’t dare.
“What do you want?” you say quietly.
For once I think about it and as always I stare blankly at the colours in your hair mutely screaming at the Voice in my Head that calls out to you.
I can feel the answer throbbing through my veins, curling in my blood stream, shimmering through my hair.
I leave yours and run.
Fast.
Away.
They say that whatever you’re running away from will always catch up with you.
Where are you?
I’m falling.
Come find me before Gravity steals you for herself.
Slut.

Narcissist inc.

My Idea of Hell is a roomful of mirrors, look directly into one and it cracks. The mirrors metamorphosize you, each one holding someone you love trapped, torn, in pain. Touch it, and they die, smile and they bleed deeper, cry louder, hurt more.
You stare at their faces and are forced to think of situations where they’ve been contorted in the same positions, hearts bleeding, eyes red and swollen, body contracting, moments where their faces are contorted in grief, instances where their bodies look like they can shatter at the least touch, a hug, anything, nothing.
And then you remember. They blind you, your memories. Once you start, you can’t stop.
That’s your mother, the day you told her you hated her, threw that ugly glass vase, an antique, slammed the door in her face and stalked off to smoke up.
That’s your sister, the day you screamed at her and called her a promiscuous bulimic bitch. You begged for her to die and laughed as she held the cold silver kitchen knife to her thin veined hands, so like yours.
That’s your brother, the day you broke his nose with your tennis racket and how you refused to apologize because he ‘told that boy you had a thing for that you had a thing for him’.
That’s you father, the day you failed math and told him you wanted to drop out of school and be a bartender, the day you screeched at him for loving you less and ran away for the night.
That’s your best friend.
That’s your ex boyfriend.
That’s your favourite cousin.
That’s your soulmate….
Round and round and round
They’re all there, their pain tearing scars across your body and your mind.
Only you can make them stop, take it back, kiss their hurt away and bandage their wounds.
But you can’t.
You’ve lost the choice.
Welcome to Hell.

You can't hide the cracks

I feel broken lately, hollow.
I’ve lost even the miniscule part of me that wants to pretend to be happy because somehow, it’s just not worth it.
I see you, in your boxers and your Maiden tee shirt and your hair and your eyes and your converse and your madness and I expect to feel something, anything.
But I don’t.
And you don’t want me.
Who would? I’m young and depressing, I smile with my mouth and sit in corner almost begging for peace. I don’t twirl my hair around my fingers, I don’t touch you when I talk to you, I let you tickle me without bothering to squirm and when I tell you I don’t feel, I mean it.
Any hot blooded male would lose interest so I don’t blame you.
The problem here is..I lied.
I do feel. But I feel when I least expect it and when it hits me it’s like I can’t breathe.
I’m drowning underwater and my senses have been numbed. I’m not flailing about, I’m watching the sharks, eager almost, to catch the blue turn red.
Sometimes I think I want you but then I see the side of you that is human with its imperfectness-the way you burp and think it’s funny, how you scratch your head when you’re thinking, the way you drum anything right in front of you, the feeling in your eyes which makes you human, the catch in your voice and the way you say ‘what else’ when you don’t want me to hang up but mostly, I hate that you don’t WANT me, not really.
I’m just there, in between, someone who’ll call you back cause you don’t have balance, someone who’ll come for a walk or a movie cause all your friends are out of town..you don’t care.
But like I said, I don’t blame you.
I’m not worth it.
You deserve someone who wants to live.
Baby boy, I'm a blur.
Run.

Life line, Life lies

You don't know what it's like. This..cage. Beautiful smooth grills, pretty painted nothingness, sullied oxygen that lets you live only so it can watch you die.

You want to know what the greatest hoax in the history of mankind is? God? Close enough. Fucking Hope hanging herself from the streetlamps, skinning us alive, curling her claws around our dreams and giving us something to look forward to,

And then, Hope dances for us, doesn't she? Pretty Hope. All silk stockings and tutu skirts, ball gowns and football jerseys, tuxedos and leather, whatever turns you on,

Only to distract you from the cruelty of Life while he steals you of everything you have ever loved.

Partners in Crime.

They've leeched us of our life blood, only to do it again, and again. Till we look Hope in the eye and take Life into our own hands, Till she cries a lovers sorrow and he reeks of murder, Till we are left with blood staining our hands,

And we will never know whether it is ours or theirs.
Sometimes, we are dead with Hope and in Life long before Death strangles us with his cape.

They call it suicide. I blame those two, Partners in Crime.