4 posts tagged “red light”

i can only sleep if the door is locked.

i fell asleep in the living room earlier this year. i should have known better. bad things happen when i fall asleep in living rooms alone.

so i was asleep in one sofa but when i woke up, there he was looking at me with his hands in his pants.

i hate him.
i hate him.

why does he do this?

knowing everything, why does he continue to do this?

and it's always when i'm starting to feel better about myself.
      it's always when i'm able to look in the mirror and say "you look good today."

do men just hate me?

am i that useless?
only good for simple urges; please do not respect.

i feel like i've already died.

i'm always alone.
i'm always alone.

i'm apparently useless to society.
i've been reduced to a freeloader.

i'm not even that pretty.

just that weak.

I don't want to get a 9-5 job. I don't want to go back to class. Just thinking about it makes me tense. Clocking in and out, staying in the same building for more than four hours.

no thnxs... DO NOT WANT.

Ah, but I need money, money. I have to buy a new AC adapter for my laptop, my clothes are getting ragged, I have holes in my shoes and I really, really need to move out. You need money for those things. You need money for everything, from love, to sports, to midnight binges on dark chocolate and higher ed.

If it's the right job, then working shouldn't feel like working. Ugh, but everything I do in the name of green feels like work.

I used to think that I should just publish my own writings, and sell them for a little cash. But then I thought about how pathetic the idea was. "Since I can't get published by someone else, I'll just do it myself."

LAME.

Advertising myself is another thing that makes me tense. I feel dirty, like a whore that's doing the "spread eagle" by the highway. Ewwwwwie. Nobody wants to see that. (a.k.a no thnxs... DO NOT WANT). I'm not for sale. I don't want to have a price tag dangling from my earlobe.

But I need money.

I need to sell a little of myself to get by. And little by little more of me is lost everyday. Words, hours, and labor for what?

It doesn't feel like it's worth it.

This thing called "civilization" makes everything come easier. It makes life comfortable.

It makes us stagnant.

(imported from xanga. original site shut down.)

How old are you now?
24? 25? No...
You must be at least 26 by now.
Maybe 27? Ah! Old!

You used the word "intoxicate"
Used it to describe the feeling that my writing gave you.
It seemed so insignificant then,
But now, on nights like this
I can't help but think of it.

I don't write as much anymore.
No one cares about it.
No one wants to read about my thoughts,
There's no time for it.
Not even a quick glance.

I don't mind it.
I'm guilty of the same apathy.

Nothing they write for me is quite the same.
None of the words that they conjure...
It's just not the same,
It's just not as good
As the words you left me,
As the word "intoxicate".

I hope to run into you one day.

You'll remember my face,
and say,
"Hey! You got your teeth fixed!"
You wouldn't know my name right away,
I'd still be recovering from the shock that you recognized me.

Someone like you,
With your dreams and your heart and words,
Remembering a schlep like me.

Some girl who gave up her dreams of a book,
Out of fear of instability.
Out of fear of being... uncomfortable.

I remember my first suicide attempt.

The school year had just ended, I was as lonely as ever. Seemed as if no one wanted anything to do with poor little me.

Except him. Him. Him. Him.

Ross.

Ah, but it was a terrible attention. Kneeling, laying still and motionless. Fearful.

There'd be dragging down the stairway, pressure on my neck, wrists and conscience.

Age 14 was a confusing age. It was when people started to tell me that certain things were wrong. That certain activities weren't supposed to happen with a girl like me and other older characters. It was when I was told, that if I was forced into a certain type of situation, I had to tell the police.

It was also when he made his first threat.

Threats against my own well-being were useless. I'd already given up on myself. At 14 years old, I was convinced that I'd be dead by the age of 16. So, no plans to look forward to. Nothing to hold onto.

Ah, ah, that rapacious man. He knew that already.

So what does he do?

He gives me things to hold onto. He pushes me closer to my twin and older brother Emmanuel so that when he beats them, it will hurt me. When I disobey, he beats them.

Because he can't leave any marks on me, eh?

Bruises could be a motive to go to the police. No one would believe my word alone. I was just a kid. An attention-starved brat. Kids lie all the time, so they can't be trusted. Bruises provided evidence. Evidence that I needed.

But never got.

It was summertime. I had made the conclusion that I couldn't bear the pain of his touch anymore.

I felt, that my sisters hated me.

I felt also, that my brothers hated me also. Including Ross. Why else would he do this? He made me look spoiled to them, but tore me open when I was out of sight.

No matter how much I showered, the smell was there. Even when the water was as hot as it could be, even when my skin burned under that heat. I was stained.

So... why waste water?

It was evening. An evening during summer, when I hid that knife in my peacoat.