[Sunday 11:12am December 4th] the great undoing. "I have not been okay for some time," I tell no one in particular, "but that's alright. I don't expect it anymore. Sad as it is, this is easier." read [ 13 ] write

[Saturday 1:38pm December 3rd] it's, well, it’s easier this way. softer. crawling home at sometime-past-three in the morning with easy words and soaking wet jeans (my shoes are ruined from the effort of not saying goodbye hard enough) and then up! to bed until he shouts up and I roll over and he bellows ‘sleep well’ like it isn’t a fucking joke. they're mad because I wanted to go home, made them go home. or something like that? it’s all nonsense, frankly, so I’m up and I’m breathing coffee-breath into cupped hands and wearing bottom-of-the-closet clothes and nothing like a smile. when they were up! dancing a man pulled on the bend of my arm and said “cheer up, will ya?!” like I owed him something, like I wasn’t okay with my glass and my corner and my coldcold ankles. like it had anything to do with him and all I was was shocked. don’t touch me, okay? you son of a bitch I’ll kill you if you ever grab me like that again! but he was gone when I’d crunched the last of my ice. Cheer up. I am awake and that’s it, all, enough, more than I thought I was capable of. not hungover (not drunk) but heartsad and heartsick and lonely like it was something I misplaced. pulled myself out of the taxi and now Natalie is probably mad at me and I possibly don’t care. all smoke, more fire. a personal collection of petty jealousies and I keep them on a high shelf even I can’t reach. Softer. write

[Friday 3:52pm December 2nd] my triumphant return to not giving a shit. I hope you're happy, love, I hope it's better this way. write

[Wednesday 8:11pm November 30th] persistent noises and I keep you in my bones. Don't be angry. read [ 3 ] write

[Sunday 9:31pm November 27th] stranger things have happened than sleeping in unmade beds read [ 1 ] write

[Sunday 9:23pm November 27th] fight and be fought with "when all I want to do - all I really, honestly want to do - is force my hand against a heart and feel it fucking beat, remember it as more than just cyclical, clinical systole and disatole, more than just impulses and receptors." write

[Saturday 7:24pm November 26th] it is enough to miss you. it goes, and keeps going. write

[Saturday 3:38pm November 26th] The 'not at all complete but close enough for now' mix for Lindsay: 1. Imperfect 2. Your Dirty Answer 3. Crosses 4. Studying Stones 5. Good Times are Gonna Come 6. Wonderwall (cover) 7. After Hours 8. Visions of Johanna 9. Breathe Me 10. All the Morning Birds 11. King of Carrot Flowers pt. one This is a handful from one computer - I haven't looked on my mp3 player or my laptop yet and I know there were some songs I thought LINDSAY! when I heard them that I haven't posted yet. read [ 3 ] write

[Thursday 8:53pm November 24th] And the history books forgot about us and the bible didn't mention us, not even once. You are my sweetest downfall - I loved you first. read [ 3 ] write

[Thursday 7:08pm November 24th] I start wars with soft voices, and all of a sudden I have no idea how it happened and why I’m cleaning broken glass out of the bathroom mat with a ridiculous smile on my face. "Expand," you say, so I stretch my arms up and find the tips of my toes and you say "Try again, little bird" so I reach my arms out until I'm sure I'll hear the mechanics of my hidden chest groan, complain, and almost give up. Almost, but not quite. I have a brand new hum to dance my days to. It is big and I find myself frightened awake by it sometimes at night. I stood in the rain today and played it for my friends. They think it's the perfect direction for me, so I undo each of the buttons of my coat and admire the sound made louder. There is a drumroll I hear when I cover my ears. And it is me. read [ 3 ] write

[Wednesday 10:37pm November 23rd] sometimes we have been beautiful despite the fact that we have been rash, inspite of the way our beauty may, or may not, have moved when the camera tried to focus its one great eye on us, inspite of the lines we smudged, or maybe because of them. read [ 4 ] write

[Wednesday 10:36pm November 23rd] it's drastic, like turning on the light and seeing your hand on the wall where you left it. write

[Wednesday 9:54pm November 23rd] “I do not know what the weather did (or how my mother felt, or what my father whispered, standing over my brand new self) but what I do know is that my blood was wrong so they took it away, pulled me apart and refilled me to pink, pulsing perfection. I pretend that I remember it, the needles and the confusion and the mess, but really I have just pieced it together from the things I haven’t been told. Here is what I know: my blood was wrong from the beginning, and that has made all the difference.” write

[Saturday 5:57pm November 19th] a complex history of Getting It Wrong. read [ 1 ] write

[Saturday 11:02am November 19th] - morning after the night before makeup - "the sky was cracking its fingers" - the lines that came together. Or. watching him on stage and all I could think of was Things That Should Be Written. read [ 1 ] write

[Friday 3:40pm November 18th] "most people, they walk. you and me, we sprint. when you sprint for long enough you don't go to jail, you don't get shot, you don't find god and get reformed, but eventualy, you'll run out of breath." write

notes [Wednesday 9:24pm November 16th] something about rooftops and a shifting weight. Until you my poetry was concerned with metre and meaning - you throw words at me like rocks at a window - literary vandalism. Before you (said like you're my very own private Holy boy) the only thing to slide down my back was cold sweat and palm-flat-affection. Now sibilance pools in the small of my back, now metaphors run from my shoulders, now my shirt sticks to syllables. write

Regarding confrontations: [Wednesday 7:32am November 16th] What came first: the brick wall or the collision in my blood? I live vicariously through conversations I have planned so well they could never leave me anything but a bloody wreck on the hard shoulder should the words actually leave my mouth (all tongue and teeth and malcontent). read [ 2 ] write

[Tuesday 10:25pm November 15th] my general RE class on bioethics makes me want to bang my head against the wall. what makes my friends want to bang my head against the wall is the fact that I just sit there spluttering (and, yes, banging my head against the wall - quite literally) and do not say a damn thing. I forgot what going back to a catholic school would mean, I forgot that they would say "people are far too flipant with abortion. God does not create life for us to end it" and pull faces and dismiss all other arguments and assume that the entire world gives a fuck what old men in far off buildings have to say about the choices I make and...I'm banging my head against the wall. I have to say something. For crying out loud, Rachael, get your act together. (remind me of that?) read [ 2 ] write

[Monday 11:35pm November 14th] last night [true story] I didn't sleep past two aye em because I opened my eyes and someone was all arms around me, lying against my wall and choking me or adoring me and when I kicked my legs they let go [true story]. These ghosts are out to turn me into a romantic wretch with sad oceans in her lungs and a burning desire to just be fucking kissed. I laugh, throw my hair and say too god damn late. [true story] read [ 4 ] write

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