The Thousand Words The Pictures Worth



I had a star that burned brighter than the sun in the sky. When I threw it away it’s light stayed. Still hanging there, over everything. The light so bright it hurt to look at directly, but you notice it even when you look away. It colours and illuminates everything around it. Sometimes to deal with the pain of looking at all that light encompasses you’ll put on shades. Something that colours things in a different hue, something that if you squint hard enough at you can see a different form in the shadows and convince yourself that it was always that shape. That’s a false perspective though, it’s not real, it’s just lies in a plastic frame. Because everything is still influenced by that light, that burning bright sun, it’s the outcome of that. Despite what you want it to be… It’s still there.

I know I’m sad and regretful. I know I know nothing and we’re constantly running out of time. All of the ghosts of that haunt my soiled walls will tell you. Two steps in the water and you’ll feel like you’re drowning. That’s all it takes, the feeling at your ankles, cold, but inviting. I know I said my last entry and all the ones before it a lot of conflicting things, but i have that sick emo anti-authoritarian streak that prevents me from even following my own advice. The truth is a hard pill to swallow, just like the pills I swallow every day to lift my head away from my pillow. I don’t know how long I can keep doing it. I’m failing at university, I’m failing socially, I push everyone and everything away. I’m a sad excuse for a person that convinces themselves more and more that the world would be a better place without me. I’m not anyone’s sun, I’m a storm that blocks all the light, and sweeps away the memories of warmth with a gust of shit and spit.

It’s easy to marginalize the repercussions of your own actions, not fully comprehend the ripples in the pond made. Whatever it could be small or big, I’ve always been too much of a coward to stick around to watch them play out. I tried to change that recently. An illness, a change, a breakdown forced me to start changing my life. I didn’t want to wear the burnt out slacker suit I had been comfortable in anymore. It just wasn’t going to work. So you know, many attempts at veganism and meditation later I emerged newly formed with a less shitty self-imposed nickname and a want to reform myself and make amends. You know like save my soul or someshit despite the depressing realisation that souls are just human manifestations to deal with the existentially destructive knowledge that we are nothing more than primates that accidently, in the experiment that is evolution became too self-aware for our own good. A happy little accident that spins on a rock in a dead, empty, dark and inescapable void. That’s all a lie though, I haven’t changed, I am still my nature, a coward and a thief. Robbing the best from people to satisfy my own gaping hole of self-worth.

I spend most of my time in lukewarm baths. My limbs, long and coiled in strange contortions, stiff and cold, hanging over the edge. Slightly damp fingertips and confused bleeding wounds. I cut myself a lot these days. I scar my body for reasons I’m sure I couldn’t even articulate. I haven’t worn a shirt in months, afraid of people seeing my scars and questioning me. I don’t want them to see my pantomime of suicide. You could wonder like I do sometimes, why not just get on with it. End it for good…. I’m a coward that’s why, to timid to see it through, or worse fail at seeing it through and deal with the taint of shame exuding off my body and into every interaction I’ll ever have after.

Cutting is different. It’s a theater. It’s the dress rehearsal for that action. It’s immediate and satisfies that compulsion inside you to do it. I haven’t gone a day in weeks without doing it. I don’t know where to start. The last time I saw my Doctor they said they were concerned to let me go home, they wanted to institutionalise me. I said please don’t I’ve got an essay to submit. Well I did it, it’s gone, maybe I’ll get a forty and pass, maybe I’ll fail, who cares though really. I’ve spent three years pursuing something I can’t love anymore. I haven’t picked up a camera in years. I used to explore my curiosity about the world through those lenses, but my curiosity as rottened away. I’m just bleached bones pretending to be empowered by that fucking camera. Now it’s an effort to even look at it in the bottom of my bag.

I didn’t get help in the end. I’m in the same place just so I could fucking graduate. I’m not even going to graduate anymore, not at the same time as everyone else. I’ve failed there. The summer where the wasters and losers who didn’t care will be the people I stand next to. Well done me. Well fucking done me. Did we ever have puzzle pieces that fit into each other? Or were we just two puzzles with the same missing pieces. I don’t know what I’m talking about sometimes. It feels like my head’s been split in two by a panel of glass. I can see the ideas on each side, but I can never bring them together. How I feel and how I act, it’s like they’re magnetized so they’ll never touch. I’m so tired of pretending to be a person. I want to hide under my covers until the world is destroyed in a nuclear fire with me along for the ride.

I read stories about people’s attempts, gaps in fences next to metal rail tracks that open up to the opportunity of what comes after. In the right moment maybe you’ll regret it, survivor’s instinct kicking in and you’ll realise there’s more to live for. But I don’t want the opportunity to back out, I don’t want the chance to escape. Cause I can’t go back to this life. I can’t fucking take staring at this fucking sun anymore. Fuck me.

Maybe for now I’ll just keep seeking answers in the ribbons I’ve turned my arms into. I wonder sometimes if I’ll get looks, or judgement when people notice them. Maybe I’ll sit in a room, being interviewed for something I care for, and they’ll catch a glimpse. Thinking, we can’t have him, he’s wrong. I am wrong, head to toe. Days I wish I was left alone in that back room so I could still be my little, sad ignorant self,not knowing what the sun really looks like.

Sorry world, sorry people, sorry everyone and everything. No need to worry now, I’m done trying to pretend I’m something. I can’t lie about that anymore. I can’t be a snake that looks like a friend only to bite you in the back. I’ll wear my scales openly, wounded along my vertebra, so you’ll know from one glance what kind of a freak I am.






My Mother had three boys between two different men, all of whom have nothing to do with her or their offspring. Elaborate tales of why spun across dining tables, as if the why’s matter and they bring comfort. Because really there’s no reason why things happen, they just do, but it’s a reality we hide from children. Like they should be privileged to live in this frame where rhymes make a rhythm. All this fancying, this bone breaking theater  leaves us with, is not some optimistic vision of the world, our future, our place in the universe spiritually or materialistically, but an aching hole and hunger, a wound dying to go back to that time, that lie that seemed so real.

I’ve been alone most of my life, unable to connect to the many colors of my family. The first a neurotic mess crippled by a perceived wrong, addled with aggression and a an abrasive sense of justness. The second an unperturbed liar, a narcissistic capable of hurting so easily; and the worst, the last one thrown out, a flavorless fuck incapable and lame. Vile and hurtful. Not even aware enough to describe themselves as anything more than a pitiful excuse for a person.

I grew up confused and I sometimes day-dream about my death. Who would mourn for me, pour water on my grave, breath heat into the soil? It’s a small list and gets smaller still. I try to imagine when my bones will be bleached and if anyone will write for me. Will anyone love me then.

That day, the heat was terrible, but I perched under that tree, scared of what I might find. A terrible fear that I didn’t know what to do with. I was bad to that dog. I hardly ever took her out, forgot about her, didn’t stroke her enough share with her… Now she was sentenced to death, and all I was faced with was the miserable things I had failed at. Not a good memory in sight, and I wonder if she knew that…

I didn’t want to look at death, at suicide, because I imagined that I, through action or inaction had helped those seeds grow and those wounds fester…

Or maybe it was the powerless feeling that unsettled me so much, a lack of confidence to change the world. A time where those lies I had as a child would be so handy. Where I could spin yarns like my mother and brothers did, lies about how things are, and why they happen. Feed that wound, not only in someone, but in myself. Was it easy to do? I don’t even remember it, maybe no one does, maybe it’s natural, inert in us to sooth like that, with fiction, but it never does sooth, it only furthers that extension.IMG_0798

The strain she has. I can’t reach around it, not with words, only with my arms. I want to feel the re-verb of her chest open and close. I want her to feel me dying with her… I just… Want her not to hurt anymore.

An overdose of anesthetic, it seemed so easy. A cardiac arrest and complete failure of the respiratory system seizes the body. . Her paw, listlessly hangs off the table. it’s movement, not governed by the force of her body, her might and muscle, but by the force of gravity. The line break between life and death. The snap of the fingers, that warns you she’s dead; and it awakens a primal, cave like fear. A want to leave it, images of carcass I’ve seen on the shore. rotten and eaten sheep. Bloated ribcages exploded and open. the gases once inside having grown and burst, popping the body like a balloon.

I picture my hands, as I lifted myself off her plunging into her rotted rib-cage, getting stuck on the bones and congealing blood…

yet the worst part, was that I left her there, on that gaudy stainless steel frame with a rubberized black top that’s convenient to clean.  It’s such a fucking indignity, it offends me to see that, her paw so, dead. Her eyes sit open but they are still, she’s dead. I tried, before I left, to…

Put her paw back, to leave her in a more, peaceful position, as if it matter, but every time, it flopped back, and with each attempt, I grew just a more numb until it didn’t even matter any more.

She was dead. When A second ago she was driven by this urge to exist. The cells inside her dividing and copying themselves, growing and living and mutating. The urge to live, the divinity of self-interest. Matters to us all, matters to me, but when this dog, this unloved dog died on that table, me clutching her shaking form was I respecting that?

Yet I still ask the woman I love, who wants to die, to live. I lie and say I showed that dog a mercy, when It wanted to live and to live with, a cruel joke.

I held that body.

That dog of matted hair, stinking the way she always stank, hair coming away with me, playing in my fingers on the drive home. The wound in my stomach growing till the point of vomit.

When I held that dog on that table, that awful terrible table, I imagined you in your coffin. Me, being unable to love you. A stranger to your family, a stranger to your husband, a gritted eulogy, where I would introduce myself as a colleague, unable to say the things I could never say again. The threads of me that bleed into you severed, broken nerves that would never heal or leave. A brain too dumb to recognize their deadness, always sending signals to those frayed corners going nowhere. To big, to colorful and hungry to let anything else grow. And to you, that you would leave without me, perhaps I am not intended to see. To know of… Yet my whole being just wants it, to hold you all the time, and when I picture your body that urge is so painful, so sharp.


I held a dead body that day, I didn’t want to hold yours, not because I wouldn’t, because I would, I’d’ never let go, but I wouldn’t want to live in a world without you.

I wish I had, some profound point to leave, some moment of clarity when it clicks and makes sense, but that would be another lie for another child. Because there isn’t one.

It’s you and me, our lives, our memories, our moments. Each second passing irretrievable. I say that I love you, because I know that each second that does pass with you, I don’t want to retrieve, I want to preserve.