Made up Truth

And now that it’s over, completely over, I don’t know what to feel anymore. At first, it was relief. Second, regret. Then followed by anger and pain, it left an emptiness in me behind. What do you do when the longing and wishing and hoping is gone? What do you hold onto? What truths do you believe in?
All these emotions that I felt for you, because of you, towards you, and spite you, are now lingering on a surface I cannot see. Because you don’t evoke them anymore. So what happens to them - those emotions? Do they fade? Or just simply get transferred to a different subject?
My head hurts. I can breathe in and feel the emptiness in my heart beating against my chest case.
I used to love you, love you, and now that’s over. So was that love a lie, an imagined, made up truth? Do we love, fall in love? Or is it all an object of our imagination and are we just a little confused?

LASTGLASS

“Last glass goes to you,” I say as I look at you from across the table. Letters on your cover scream an origin, a past history, I do not know, nor care about. A cup of vodka begs, pleads, for me to drink it. I do not.
I pick you up, open you up, light you up. And I inhale. Burning intoxication hits my lungs. I inhale deeper.
The fingers in between which I hold you near me for another drag tremble, too steadily for anyone to notice, too heavily for me to ignore. I exhale, and as my mind tells my body to sigh down and do so, the nicotine rush goes up, up, up, to my head.
I close my eyes and let it hit me, and try to focus on my hand again, by taking that second drag, inhaling, and ashing in the cup in front of me, all in the slowest motion you can possibly imagine.
My first cigarette in ten hours and thirty-seven minutes. I haven’t been counting.
My last glass of vodka. Not that I’m counting.

VAMPiRES.

A High Class Werewolf

To Daniel. Because the verb ‘hopen’ in Dutch means ‘to hope’.

A High Class Werewolf -
Withstanding, loyal, and always right there
To let lost souls into his Fortress of Caring,
Or maybe just me, into his throne that we would share.

Maybe I just wanted to talk,
But I don’t remember.
Maybe I just wanted hot, steamy sex,
After a long and cold December.

As you said, the table laughed at your scraped knees,
Just the way we laughed at the ridicule of that fleeting procrastinated night.
But even though most would,
You never let me out of sight.

You don’t think I’m beautiful enough,
But that’s fine -
Because for the slightest glimpse of a moment,
You were mine -
And I am yours.

Falling asleep in your arms, or right next to you,
Made the nightmares, the screaming pain, go away.
But now I’m home, and maybe this is where I belong;
Maybe this is the price I have to pay.

The price of feeling too much.
The price of wanting too much.
The price of needing too much.
Being left alone, naked, stumbling in the dark, as such

Price I cannot pay.
And so I pray

That one day we’ll meet again,
And I can’t remember what I saw.
That one day I’ll look at you,
And the feelings won’t be as raw.

Because, boy, it’s beautiful when you smile
And it’s beautiful when you say, “Oh, I don’t know.”
Because, God, don’t we all have those times when we don’t?
But you’re the only one for whom I don’t have to put up a show.

So grab a sharpie,
And take another shot.
Take another little pill,
Especially if it’s all your imagination’s got.

Intoxicated words are sober thoughts,
As many people may believe.
But after all is said and done,
That’s no longer how I perceive.

IM.

Because you’re the rock my waves crash upon

Branded by Past,
Crafted by Personality;
Worlds apart,
Put in the same room.

Heels versus snake bites,
Impulse versus logic;
Worlds apart;
Yet hearts intertwined.

I’ve heard it said,
‘Best friends 24/7 brings the Devil to Heaven;’
But we, we are not friends, we are roommates,
We, we are not just roommates, we are Friends.

Not the one, nor the other,
We, we are both - at the same time;
Bringing a non-existent god to life,
Bringing our God into our Hell.

Laughing Jinxing,
Consoling Crying;
Both praying to our God in our Hell,
For tomorrow to come soon and bring clean toilet paper.

Branded by Past,
Crafted by what-yet-to-Come;
Worlds apart,
Put in the same room again.

Flip-flops during winter,
Versus unused bed sheets;
Worlds apart,
Yet our Hearts intertwined.

POSTSECRET.BLOGSPOT.COM

PostSecret: Confessions on Life, Death and God from Frank Warren on Vimeo.

APOEM

orange

I
cinemas. clubs. parks.
beaches. cafeterias. college libraries.

pain, sadness. depression.
why all of This -

why Now?
why hear the voices you hear?

why Here?


there. there you go.
love, death. love, death, love death love, Love
stop. -

I want you inside of me
I want you -

I want your misery, your depression, your

pain,
come Here.

there. there you go.
in a room once Orange

you love me? sure

I Love you too.

will you still want to hold me Tomorrow?
will you still want to kiss me, caress me, fuck
me?

Fuck
there I go -

in a room once Orange


II
you love me?
in a room once Orange?
how about Real life -

will you still Love me tomorrow?


I have never made love in a bed before.
in fact, I have never made Love

before

cinemas. clubs. parks.
beaches. cafeterias. college libraries.

pain, sadness. depression.
loneliness -

why Now?
why hear the voices that you hear?

why Here -


in a room once Orange

WAKEUP

My fingers bleed from scratching the walls in the middle of the night. I have woken up, screaming, in pain. I look at my fingertips and suck the blood off of them.

It is 5:24 in the morning. I watch the cigarette smoke of my last cigarette dissolve in the air of my apartment that once must have been untainted and innocent.
I take a deep breath and inhale the toxic smoke, mixed with the hot, humid damp of the cup of green tea that is in front of me.

It is 5:25 in the morning. Maybe I should sleep.
Is this what it has come to be? Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, alcohol, drugs, sex, shit, fuck, stop.

People will always come and people will always leave. I have never left anyone; I guess I was too scared to. I've always stuck around, waiting for people to leave me, waiting to be left. Alone. I realise now that, all this time, I've carefully been creating my own private hell. So this time, I left. But you know what? It doesn't feel any better.

Screaming nightmares, bleeding fingertips, depression, rape, violence, alcohol, depression, fingertips, medication, drugs, parks, shit, fuck, FUCK, stop.

I fell from one hell, one nightmare, right into another.
Maybe I should sleep. The ashed head of my cigarette has given up on me and is now lying on the table. I stare at it.
I do not notice how much time passes. It might be 2 minutes, it might be 3. It might be a century, or maybe one and a half. Who knows?
The thing is, I can't sleep. Not until I've figured out which is the real hell, the real nightmare. You know, living and dreaming are pretty much the same thing, for one the stakes are just a little higher. The fun part is,- or well, 'fun'- The interesting part is figuring out which one is real.
Why did I leave you? You never asked me to. Maybe I should sleep.

Yes, I should sleep. I will, in fact, get some sleep tonight.
And as I lay my pen down, because my fucking fingertips have started bleeding again, I decide that tomorrow...

Tomorrow I will ask you to leave me.


For the last time.

TYPEWRiTERS

I don't know, man.
I just know that I want you. I want to hold you, feel your sweet breath in my neck, while you read what I am typing out on your suitemate's typewriter.
I want you to hold me, to feel my breath in the morning, when I wake you up with one of my sweetest kisses ever given out to anyone lucky enough to even get one.
They are rare.
Just like you. Don't you see?
You are rare, man.
Oh, I don't know.
I just know that I want this, whatever this is, this thing that we have, you and me - when we hold each other in the dark and whisper things that no one should ever say in the first place,
I want this chemical, toxic love to continue.

Love?

Oh man, I don't know.. You said it.
You said it first - those softly spoken words, coming from those moist lips, carried on a sweet breath at 4 in the morning.

In a room that was once orange.


I want you.
Now. Forever. - you and me.

Oh man, I don't know.

FiTFORADViCE.

I decide it is time. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of my college dorm and decide that it is time.
I am a novelty, even to myself. And as I try to avoid the stars that are flickering in front of my eyes, I realise that there is no way around the dizziness and pain anymore. Yes, this is what it has come to be; this is what my reflection is now - no reflection at all. It has become a more and more frequent thing, not seeing myself and having to rely on other people's perception of how I look and how I'm doing. People say I'm anorexic, but that's not true - in fact, I eat too much.
I plant my long, bony fingers on my cheekbones, and stretch back the fleshy skin that is covering them. I move my hands to my collarbones, and dig my fingernails into my skin, as if holding a steering wheel. I close my eyes; it feels so good. My mind and hands travel further down, till they reach my hips. I make two fists and pound on the pointiness of my hipbones. I swallow. I feel so proud, yet so disgusted. I feel my bones sticking out, poking through my skin, but have gotten used to that feeling and so I dismiss it; I can always be thinner; I can never be too thin. But as with everything else, I dismiss it before I get too much into it.
I take a seat on the rug on the floor and think about Angelina Jolie and Keira Knightley; did/do they ever go through what I'm going through? I'm not nearly as skinny as they are, not nearly as beautiful. Maybe my body is still getting used to this feeling of emptiness.
My head starts spinning again. Or is it the room?
I still sit on the bathroom floor, with my head between my knees now. Is this what it is like to grow up? I wonder. I think I know the answer already.
I lift my head, call out for my roommate. She's not there again. I sigh and call out for my suitemate. I hear her rush to the bathroom. She opens the door and stares at me and my repulsive, naked body, and says: Oh dear, I never thought it was this bad... She sits next to me and holds my massive tininess. What happened? she asks carefully. And for the first time in months, I cry. I tell her - I tell her everything. I tell her about the hiding, the sneaking, the lying. She makes it seem alright; she doesn't seem to blame me at all. It's okay, she assures me. But I can't stop crying. All the way to Health Services, I cry. All the way to the hospital, I cry. All the way to the Eating Disorder Clinic, I cry. But it is time. It is time to radically change.
In Middle School, I started to split my cookies in half. I said no -NO!- to seconds; hardly ever finished my firsts.
In High School, I had an appetite to act, dance, sing, make love, and taste, always saying no -NO!- to the latter.
The food in front of me turned into an altar of resistance, of discipline. I was so lonely, so anxious. It was easy not to eat. A lot easier than feeling all these difficult and complicated emotions, at least.
After weeks, months, years, I allow myself to eat. After all this time of calculated portions and predetermined meal planning, I do finally allow myself to eat.
I feel sick to my stomach. I go outside to get some fresh air. I then realise that it wasn't the taste of the food, nor the action of eating, that made me go where I went; I realise it was the action of not eating, and the combined feeling of emptiness and numbness that pushed me over the line. I am heartbroken.
I go back inside and feel everyone's gaze on my growing stomach, arms and legs. I feel like I'm about to...
I purge. Not voluntarily, but I purge. I am confused, heartbroken.
What, what am I doing? What have I done to myself? And as I think these things, my body spasms forward, I collapse to the ground, and I purge again. In all my sins, I purge.
Is this what it means, to grow up? Losing passions, friends, energy, life? Ourselves? Can we grow down? If so, then what defines us? The empty pit in our stomachs? Our attitudes, our lifestyles, our destinies? Our hurt? Our disease? My disease?! I don't know.
I only know that I don't feel a lot more than before, but what I do feel more, is happiness. I look in the mirror in the bathroom of the eating disorder clinic, and I see myself. I actually see myself, and with that, I see a happier person than ever before.
Mirrors may not be fit for advice, but feelings; true, pure and unpolished feelings.. Those definitely are.