Tuesday, April 27, 2004


April 24th, 2004

Sometimes there are defined lines
Of where the pain stops and starts
And sometimes there aren’t.
All I know is, when there isn’t a line,
I draw it,
Carving upon the scars
Of yesterday’s sorrows
Drawing a bold red line
To remember tomorrow.
And hating myself
For what I’ve done to myself
And hating the world
For what it’s done to me.
And wishing that somewhere out there
Somebody could really see
All the things that chase
My vision into a whirl
And just understand I’m sixteen
But still just a little girl.
And I want to run around
In my multicoloured shoes.
Knee hits pavement,
Tears are shed:
The only tears I’d lose.
Cover it up with a Barbie band-aid,
Kiss it, make it better.
Now it’s not so concrete,
Never really better.
My head hurts from the noise
My stomach from the turbulence.
Supposed to fall in love with boys
But I don’t, and nothing makes sense.
And I wish people knew
That I want something real
Or else I might drown.
Nothing’s there, nothing’s under me;
I shut my eyes and just fall down,
Spiral through dark tunnels
Roller coasters through my mind.
Take the wonder out of Wonderland;
It’s not so grand
When you’re left screaming
In the haunted houses in your sleep.
And a veil shimmers over me,
Black as death.
Falling, falling
Half in, half out
Of a dreamlike haze;
Two contrasting worlds
Confusing my gaze.
No stories to tell,
No heaven, no hell.
Waking up with vampire bites,
Eating myself these torturous nights
In half a dreamland
Where my memories dwell.
Trapped beneath the ice
Memories die hard.
I shine my light
But nothing’s there
Under the shell of my mind.

Friday, April 16, 2004

Happy birthday, blog!

It's not such a happy birthday.

Here's a poem for today. I've called it "Jungle"

I dig trenches
With a small, silver plow
To plant a jungle.
In red, brown and orange thorns
Watered with blood
It grows wilder and wilder.
I only wish this were a jungle
That I could hide in.

I'm back from Italy, and everything is falling apart. It is April 16th, I am 16, and I don't want anything to be happening.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004


Another thing for writer's club. I didn't share this one with the group. It would freak out the teachers. I don't want it to be tomorrow, or the next day, or the next. I just don't.

The pain is always here, no matter what I do, no matter how I try to hide from it. The memories whirl by me in an instant splash of colour and noise, and then they’re gone, leaving behind just a dull ache that tugs at my heart, and the inevitable red cuts, slices in a loose cross-hatch, that cover my body.
I hurt. My confused brain can figure out almost nothing more than that it is hurting. Someone hurt me, and now I feel pain. A simple cause-and-effect model, but I just can’t understand it too well. And I can’t model it. It just doesn’t fit into those neat little charts from history class. Simple my ass.
I can feel the pain before it hits me, like the energy brewing before a storm. It starts as a prickly tingling, moving through my neck and ears, chilling me before moving into the core of my head. It chokes me, crushing out every sense of happiness I’ve ever felt, and replacing it with my most painful memories. And then it has me.
It’s like being possessed. Possessed by only my fear, hatred, and helplessness, by my memories of sheer agony. A train rushes through my head, turning off every light of hope that was ever ignited there. I am nowhere, falling through a perpetual hole of my nightmares.
The smells hit me first; sweet and sour odours that I twist my head to avoid by cannot escape from. I writhe, often falling, trying to banish the smells that define my memories before my other senses are captured. My efforts are purely futile; there is no way out. My other senses succumb to the memories until it has me fully in its grasp. The memory surrounds me, until it is more real than reality.
I come out slowly, like a baby being born out of hell, only to find itself in a cold, lonely world. I can feel the pain sinking from my head down into my gut, where it stays. My head grows hot, until I feel like it might combust. And still the pain stays.
I can’t keep the pain as part of me for too long. This kind of pain is too hard. I cut. It starts off as a single mark, then grows into a wild jungle that poisons my skin. But this is a different poison. It’s pain that I can feel. It is real. I can’t hide from it, but it can’t sneak up on me.

Saturday, April 3, 2004

These are my Battle Wounds

April 2nd 2004

These are my battle wounds
Bright crimson, like the juice
Of a crushed rose that has been
Pierced with its own thorns.
Faint lines – story lines
Blending in with my freckles.
Scars of sorrow that fade into
Joyous summer memories.
Contrasting stars on the surface
With the echoes of sadness
Emerging beneath them.
They try to fade back into the woodwork
But like tiny rips in the starry sky
They never go away.
These are my battle wounds.