Tomorrow

I'm dreaming of faster things, wilder and free-er than here. I'm waiting with tight breath for the last few hours to be the last few minutes, four days worth of hugging and nose pressing into shoulder to catch up on. Tomorrow I can breathe. I will dig my whole face into a pile of shirts and find my comfort - just the thought of it leads me to thinking about a warm ghost heartbeat in the phantom chest, pressed against me in memories. It's making me drool a little. The kitchen will be all mine again, and I can provide for my man, and he can cradle me.

The reality will be different. He will be lazy and high, and I will be fed up and demanding and bored. Nothing will be like fairy-tale dream Khloe wishes. Right now I'd settle for a cuddle and a movie.

Why does four days even seem so long? I can do overnight, but after a few days I turn into mopey pathetic nothing-is-good person who needs her bed and her space and her lack of space all back at once.

When I get home, I'm putting on my jammies and a clean shirt, picking some movies to watch when Mike comes back from work, taking curry out to defrost, and then... rolling up in the duvet and waiting, maybe on Xbox.

Empathy With The Axe Murderers.

I get it.

I hate the way you smack and smear mayonaisse on everything. EVERYTHING.
I hate that you season ALL my cooking before you even taste it, but never your own. Which is less salty.
I hate the sound of you eating. You slurp and munch with lips and teeth and tongue and mixed with air.
I hate your voice. I hate that crackled rasping, that crone moaning. You're so fucking irritating. I could punch your fucking bitch mouth in 'til it bleeds. I'd laugh.
I hate your lack of understanding. This is different. You're not even TRYING.
I hate the rest of them too, so don't patrol me about like I give a shit about any of those fucking cunts. They're not MY family.
Pretty sure petrol is better than blood.
I swear to gods I could rip you all the fuck apart.
No one would even suspect a thing.

Fucking Tits

Sometimes, I realise how much I talk about myself. It gets distracting, but hey, this is MY blog and I can talk about ME all I want.

Anyway.

I feel sick to my stomach today with some kind of writhing shame or guilt, disgust maybe.

Who needs almost 100 fucking porn links anyway...?


Am I that bad?











Yeah.









I am.

Alybat, Come Home Now (it'sgettingdark)

Cut cut cut yourself up, tear it into little wet pieces and spill it to the sky. The world is your oyster, so don't you forget to swallow. There's no time for teeth or punctuated silence. Just get out there and show them they're boss. Sometimes my head lets me think I'm living alone, before everyone rushes back in my head and makes frothy music and starts putting out cigarette butts in my skull. I feel more out of control then, on the cusp of independance. I eat maybe half a loaf of bread. Pasta sandwiches. A stick of butter.
Then it becomes safe again, as Alyson presses her cold red lips around my neck and whispers little petal-kissed dreams to me. She remembers and forgets, caressing my sadness with her power, reflecting control onto me. Then I don't have to think about reality, just hair dye and boys, what jewellery to wear and what perfume to change me. She coasts me through on a leathery feather boa wave. She prickles me with glitter.
Then the world bends to me.