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
16.2.11
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.
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.
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.
11.2.11
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.
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.
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