Non-conforming as can be

There were ghosts that appeared through fractals,

There was silence that could not compare.

Darkness deep-ruptured and odious,

You were never even there.

Cold chasms blew zephyrs through tunnels

And through the stained strands of my hair,

Until they grew cold and rebounded,

And the silence stagnated the air.

You left me to write a soliloquy

As long as the days are fair,

When the words at last came, condensing your pain,

How I wished you were not there.

February

is no eating month. I might even sneak in some exercise. I can't look at myself any more, it just makes me feel sick. I think if I just stay naked and in front of the mirror I'll lose weight.

If it's not soup, black coffee, gum, fruit or diet soda then SLAP THAT SHIT out of my hands.

Whut

I just woke up from a dream, a little unusual and perhaps a little telling. I was staying in a mansion with two other beautiful women. We would sit by the pool, drink cocktails and go through an extensive wardrobe. I woke up feeling quite content, and promptly fell back to sleep. Then one day some guys came over and started filming and I realised we were all porn stars. When I refused to do double anal, they made me give a rimjob to the guy that was fucking the blonde pornstar doggy-style. Why do my dreams always take a turn for the worst?

Everything seems so hopeless at night, lying in bed in the dark with nothing but myself. I cry like a bitch. The last threads of colour merge with the grey and are lost to the drain. So, I was thinking maybe we could start fresh from the beginning, only less of a mess?

Hi, I'm Khloe.

I don't like chocolate. No one has ever taken me to dinner. I don't dance in the rain but I love being in it. When I find a song I like, I repeat it for days. And days. At the moment it's a toss up between Girlscout and A Praise Chorus. It's been ages since I put any effort into how I looked. I can't stand most extroverts. All my friends are more like drinking buddies. I'm vulgar, I spit swear and puke, wake up naked in unknown places, I drink whiskey, I'm narcissistic, I like riding those dodgy moving cow games, with whiskey in one hand. I bite, I hiss, I fight. I prefer showers to baths. I like sharing them. AND I can't sing but I do it anyway. If I was a man, I would run a mile.

I'm preparing for a Star Wars marathon. :D

Fuck you, NHS. Fuck you.

I just walked down to the hospital, waited for an hour just to book an appointment, and was told by the woman that saw me that they essentially wanted to stop seeing me anyway. I feel as if this is the world repeating endlessly, staggering. It's like reaching the breakthrough of actually trying to fix myself, and then being told I'm fine as I pop pills like candy and trace little red flowers over myself, all of this to go back to square one. Here's some placebos, call us if you need us. But you won't, you'll be fine. You're a big girl now, you know.

Fucking cunts. I feel like killing myself just to prove a point.

Or I could be over-reacting. She could have meant that they would transfer me over to some psychologist and such. Who even knows. God, I fucking hate their little mind games.

I need some serious fucking stress relief. And a glass of wine.

Aching

Seriously, I'm sweating sex. I can feel the pure fuck coursing through my veins, a delicious and intoxicating mix of chemicals that plunge straight down to make me violent and wet. I've been pulled and pinched and bitten and clawed. Everything is twitching. You are cruel.