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Apart from the odd, lame attempt at creativity [narcissism], this journal is not open to the public.

thanks for your time.
swimming in the azure of your eyes.... WHOOOOPS, i drowned!

sauvignon [unfinished]

she is full

and pregnant with pauses paused for effect. she pauses to spook, provoke. i rattle with anger, holding down the choking blinding rage at her haughtiness.

how dare she laugh

i am full, of soft effect. big words to muffle the sound of my discontent as it splatters across the table. full of defense.

she licks the edge of her wine glass, bruise coloured lips scented with chenin. or is it sauvignon? she always preferred a heavy taste.

its an effect i despise. blonde hair like spiderwebs down her perfectly formed spine.

...

academia melange [unfinished]

footsteps soothe these shadowed halls
bleak, unbalanced academia.

i was fearless.
now, i creep quietly,
laughter smothered in forgotton theory

Fail or pass

sand [unfinished]

...
i drink pepsi by the seaside, counting the shells crushed by inconsiderate hooves. the horses gallop by, spraying sand into my face and i care not for their freedom, nor for the wind in the face of their small laughing riders.

my mood is ecstatically black. bleak, for my love. i lie back in the hot sand, feel it run like rivers over my toes. i close my eyes.

i can hear the waves, so close, so blue. antartica, due south. ice and leopard seals in the distance. i can't see that eternal blue. instead, it aches inside me as i lie on the sand. the sun is warm on my legs but i can't stop crying. the sand sticks to the sides of my face with the tiny movements of my head. i am a sand-woman, perverse in a logic tuned only to nature. wanton. desperate. stunned by death and cataclysm.

my beach. my ocean. my starfish on the sand. grief as clear and sharp as glass cuts through the sunlight, and i bleed out into the dying noon.

children with fishing rods shout as they lose their catch to the teasing waves. angry, the smallest one throws her rod down to build sandcastles. dream castles in the air.

i know these children. ive watched them before. i know the sounds of their voices, the lilting song of youth and cotton candy wrap bliss around their air.

i don't even open my eyes anymore. i could lie here all day to be soothed by my ocean.

my tears cool and dry in the afternoon light. i forget why i grieve. someone i loved once gave me periwinkle blue flowers, everlastings or roses. nothing lifts.
my heart still lies heavy. my breasts like small stones on my decaying soul.

or is that too much?

my tears were pretend and my fears unfounded. i muse, to create, to inspire. my beach echoes fantasies, lovers i once had. i talk to myself, my invisible friends.
roll in the sand to disguise a lust for permanence, rather than this fleeting dream of inconsistency, incompatibility, a tumultuous life.

i wear loafers, and straw hats. khaki shorts with white legs that never go brown. to imagine, to believe, and then to create.

sisters [unfinished/unnamed]

i will not falter

she sleeps while i misunderstand her deeds. she sleeps and dreams of lemons and suitcases - inanimate things.

outside, my world crumbles.

our evening was wonderful. she kissed roses around my eyes, smelling of sunshine and daisies and precious things. we ate marinara on the dockside, salt air stinging my eyes. the wind confused me. i had to lean in close to hear her.

and she laughed, and talked of horses and her sisters.
i hate them. but of course, they are gorgeous and exotic, so i can hardly tell her. she is the youngest, the prettiest, the bubbliest and cheerful. always relaxed. she has black hair like her mother. She reminds me of someone i knew a long time ago.

so i missed her conversation, this evening. the wind dashing strands of hair across her face made up for any lack.

silver for my silence [needs editing]

...
i have not always been silent. raped by time and the inconsistencies in my enthusiasm, my heart falls open like caffeine stained mouths in winter.

i am addicted to silver jewellery. i buy something new at memorable times. i have run out of memorable times, so instead, i buy whenever i am silenced.
i have too much silver jewellery. it is almost gaudy.
my fingers are long and slim, my favourite part. there is silver on every one. my hands feel heavy and exotic. another person entirely.

i keep forgetting myself. things. people, places. days go buy and i realise with a croak, that i have not seen anybody, watched anything. my time is a blurred line of non-events and non-feelings.

my children ask for cuddles and stories, and i do this. my arms are warm for them, but i feel my bones are ready to break. words come automatically, the "I love you's" and "You are special's" spill out of my mouth like sand, and its wonderful, beautiful, to the untrained eye. they are plump with love. that matters, doesn't it?

My daughter is beautiful. Her father's favourite. her black curls spill out across her pillow in sleep and i know he knows her. i am silenced by ebony dreams, chrome knives falling into my sleep, crucified, a worthless mother-martyr lying on the queensize bed.

i feel no agony for her. i tattooed myself the day i realised. a black cross - the fallen angel- on the inside of my wrist. My husband has not noticed it.

it has been two years.

i hold my children close to me, and know that he touches her, my angel, my child. and i am silent and afraid. fear is the glue that binds me. us. This wonderful house, this giving generous monster in our midst feeds us with baubles and holidays. i am silent.

i am the wife of upper class hypocrisy.
except for my jewellery and hidden tattoos, people think that i belong. This big house, the luxury white family car, pierre cardin shoes and chanel suits. i sit back on his chaise lounge, tongue cut out, as his guests stifle me with flattery. He is placed on a pedestal with their sycophantic behaviour.

My children run in, school books spilling out. My son is selfless, magical. a pixie waiting for his big idea. He chatters and laughs and is full of everything a child should be. My daughter is silent, wary. Haughty. she peers down her nose at us. sadness spilling out through her hands, her posture, her eyes.
her father struggles to hold her. His angel, his beauty, his mermaid sigh. Our guests proclaim at such a beautiful child. "what beautiful black curls, what beautiful black eyes."

i spark. Those curls are mine. those eyes are mine. i see her, and there's a reflection of me.

my husband is fair. there is no trace of him in his children.

later, lying beside the monster, he touches my breast - an affectation of affection. i turn my head to hide the tears i am not crying. he grips me in his hard strong hand, grips my motherhood, squeezes it like fruit.

he is angry that i don't celebrate sex the way i did when we met. He rages against me, and even though i am dry and very very cold, he pushes my legs apart and rapes me. i feel the bruises form on the inside of my thighs. around my neck.
He is an auto-eroticist. not for himself of course. i blink out as his hands press tighter around my neck. near death experiences don't bring better orgasms, for me at least.

he climaxes in an angry shouting frenzy, and as he rolls off me, i get up and wash his seed away.

how could he have fathered such beautiful children?

he falls asleep quickly.

i don't mind the rape. i don't mind that he holds my neck in a vice, and spits in my face as he comes, calls me 'whore'. this simply means that he won't do it with her. that his touch won't be violent, won't be painful.

i know that he hasn't fucked her. not yet.

the next day, i buy a silver bracelet. there is a huge onyx stone in its centre. black for my daughter's eyes.

silver for my silence.

perseus [unfinished]

people write often of Perseus

bloodied and drunken in sexuality,

driven and impure?

our Perseus, my Perseus. My Persephone, harmony of angels in an ever arching wiccan smile, bending over backwards to accomodate

man's lust for himself. or herself.

we each follow footsteps carved by broken giants

demons of our own creation

and innocent Perseus wages war -

forever cleansed by someone elses tears.

i did not know this man. this beast.

but through their words, their countless thousand words

in homage to his sacrifice

i know his name. his forsaken purpose.

know of.

lovely Perseus. Beautiful Perseus.

demented by Persephone's haunting.

Were they even ever lovers?

?jfs

sour [unfinished]

a sour ending -

imagine that...

what we had

is gone.

and i hate

the very smell

of you on my pillow - my cunt.

it stinks of you. and i can't wash it out.

im raw with rubbing you out of my life.

flesh turned sour

mind black

with you.

im glad i am alone now.

?jfs (i wanted to say: call me a douchebag!)

two faces [unfinished/unnamed]

.
i am lucid with half love for him. his bruises still mark me. i was once blonde, but that now runs pink.
i fell in love with him when we were children. he has spoilt that. yet still i hold him, still my breasts are pillows for his sleeping eyes.

i don't say no. i don't stop him. his fingers bite savagery into me, and ... i say what he wants me to say. my thighs hurt with stretching for him, jaw sore from swallowing him.
yet still, he holds me, and tells me im beautiful.

i watch him with half hooded eyes. my hair hurts to brush, so i leave it knotted. my nails are broken and dirtied with blood. things i can't identify.

where was i last night? who was i with?

i choke on obsequious words, but they come out clear, clean. voice dusky by default. he mistakes it for sexiness.

...