| "i wish that i could say that eveyone was wrong" |
|
|
| 12:15pm 22/12/2006 |
| |
5. ten. fifteen pounds. how long does it take until they want to look at me and say "i'd realy love to get to know her". self esteem at 34 out of four hundred and six. i am funny. smart. truthful. i am happy. hollow. indiscriminate. i long for those hips. those arms. those thighs. the ones you see on the street and you know, for a fact, that she doesn't even care about what anyone says. i want someone to look at me and say those thighs are perfectly touched. that stomach is wonderful. those teeth don't touch, but her smile is the epitome of beauty. her mindset is perfect for my lovelife. and i'll say yessir, please hold my hand (even if it's bigger than yours). but how many pounds away is that?
trish |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 11:19pm 10/07/2005 |
| |
i always start the same way and hum the same tune. i always lead the same chorus and i never learn any new dance steps. i've been doing this tango for so long i've lost el ritmo in between my latin hips and my secret hidden scent of los flores. i'm not really sure where i am going in this world because in truth, everything is kind of losing purpose. i could ramble on for lifetimes and eons discussing the one i let go and i could scream through cramps about how babies have died in women in oklahoma. if i could just manage to breathe, everything would melt away in an instant. but unfortunately, this blood in my lungs is hereditary and all the blood tests point to "totally wrong for you" but nothing is ever 100% accurate, so let's walk on the wild side.
-trish- |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 10:38pm 01/07/2005 |
| |
there are times when the music just sinks in - past the surface and deep into the pores of your very being. it washes into you in waves. its perpetually growing tides exposes the dirty crevices that you have so long tried to keep hidden. and you've never felt so unclean. you just sit there, allowing the enormous mess and fury tear at you - waiting to be cleansed. innocence seems unattainable and miles away. you suddenly find the same sweet melodies evoking cries within you. you've never felt so unclean.
esther. |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| streamlining |
|
|
| 04:47pm 06/02/2005 |
| |
dear babyface,
your limegreen jello laugh was exactly what i needed this morning. i know you don't try to seek me out to cause the quaking in my hips, but it happens anyway.
until next year,
louisiana purchase
ant trap,
someday there will be a baby in my stomach the size of a bumble bee, and i'll need sometime to think about it. "buzz, buzz, buzz," the little baby goes. i guess i can deal for now.
tile floor
2 shots
bang bang.
bloody eyes, bloodshot smile.
i never met a person that could appreciate a good laugh.
i never met a person that could look at the sky and see heaven.
and i guess i never will.
if i think about it, i feel sick to my stomach. if i even attempt a glance at disaster, my heart falls short of a whole beat. did the blood in your veins ever touch the carpet in such a manner before? did the look in your eye ever scream murder in such a pitch that caused the neighbors to wonder and call 911? i was just wondering because on this side of town, we don't roll that way. or ast least that's the lie i say to myself. never before have i ever felt so lost and hopeless for all of humankind.
it's not like it can be helped, either. murder happens everyday, around every corner, in every hospital room, in every bedroom. you can be shot. you can be murdered in your own jewelry store, with diamonds for eyes, just for kicks. you can lose your love and your life within seconds of eachother. do you think they cried? murder every god foresaken day. in the middle of the street. between stopsigns, between beers. between broken down ilovesyous on the phone. death. after a transplant. after life. before a newborn. lungs full of fluid in a broken down room with a nail in a piece of wood for an IV. murder in a bedroom between love making sessions when one man loves another, and the woman can't speak. murder in the bedroom when someone is held down and made cautivo when it wasn't supposed to be this way. dying at the hand of God the Father when your life has been lived. crying at the hand of God the Son when you haven't opened your eyes yet. after birth. after lights out. in the middle of the street. where do you go when you want to sleep? you can't go home, it's there too.
dear paper,
you're really helping me through this tough time. i just needed someone to lean on, someone to spill my guts to. i just needed someone who understood the language no one speaks. the language of fear, where the lights are too bright and the heat is unbareable. thanks.
i'll never forget your kindness,
ballpoint pen
dear esther,
i'm sorry they're so bad.
love,
trish |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 06:54pm 21/01/2005 |
| |
work to fall.
speak to confuse.
sleep to escape.
i'm sorry: you open your mouth, but your words are too tangled to be deciphered. stop looking at me like that. scrutinizing me like a mirror reflection. i apologize, are my stories and hand movements in your hair too routine? robotic love, robotic sex appeal. i never meant it to be this way. i never envisioned laughter dwindling to blank stares and uneasy chuckles. it hurts, i know, to be stuck in such a rut. but why is to so hard to pull away? - to rip dates off aged calendars? - to smooth the bedsheets down? and the craving to change is so strong. robotic love, robotic sex appeal. wait. what the hell were you saying?
esther. |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 09:27pm 17/01/2005 |
| |
dearest someone i never embraced,
always thinking about others before yourself, right? you make me sick. you're just someone who can't admit to the world that they aren't what you expected. you're just falling away until you can actually understand the empty beating in your chest. stop trying. you're not making anyone happy, not even yourself.
always yours until i get real friends,
something close to innocent
trishishshshishishisih |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 07:15am 13/01/2005 |
| |
sometimes i miss him more than anyone ever knows. there's a man in my mother's bed, but he's not supposed to be there. half of his blood does not flow through these veins. half of his heart does not beat this chest. what does he know about the echo of loneliness sparked from falling apart at the age of ten? exactly.
trish |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 01:15am 25/12/2004 |
| |
Laughter sounds hollow here.
The heart-room is shaped with imperfect symmetry. In this place of immense space and potential desolation, a being of resource and common sense can very easily fill the nooks and crannies with cluttered care - of memory souvenirs - heavy sunshine - of the worn, tattered feel of friendly diction. The seemingly effortlessness of the heart's furnishings can be equivalent to its rate of degradation - hollowing - graying. The emission of false sounds of amusement covers only but a corner. Outside, the traffic continues, wrapping itself gradually around the heart. The room remains, but its insides slowly empty. The hectic ping-pong way of laughter and its misleading pretense beat in time with the growing pulses of the surroundings' robotic, mechanic congestion.
esther. |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| i promised i'd have you home before daylight |
|
|
| 10:52pm 21/12/2004 |
| |
mood:  curious
|
looking forward to new words written on pages was perfection at one point in my life. through layers and layers of hell, and homework, and death, i found a safety net in the internet. i sat here, in the same way, just reading and wondering if someday i was going to be able to... ever... understand what it meant to breathe through pronouns and adverbs. to rely on oxygen as a secondary source of air because i was really breathing in beauty and hope and perfection. a reason for living. if someone asked me right now why i lived i'd be lost in my response. kissing? laughter? esther? writing? living is craved not by one thing but by a multitude of other things that create this heaven on earth. the world shows that through experiences we find perfection. meeting different people, reading different things... different tunes for different scenarios.
yours,
trish
ps> sorry it's horrid ;x |
|
| |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| 10:22am 19/12/2004 |
| |
These changeless Californian seasons, despite its heavy sunshine, evoke a peculiar kind of emptiness. As of late, I have been attempting to play catch-up with my emotions – to revitalize my senses, to again breathe, pump living blood. Inspiration often, still fails me. Sentiments march on – a single line – repetitive G-notes dissolving into abrasive background noise.
I miss the snow. I long for spontaneity.
esther.
Edit: Where the fuck are you Trish? <3 |
|
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8){kind=small}
estherplustrish's journal