My Heart.

Your heart is a home
that I could never call my own.
And the abuse-
comes from myself, alone.

How come I’m so quick to curl up into strangers’ arms?
My own father’s arms-
remain empty,
and open to give me so much…

My heart is a foreign home
an ache that seems strange to call my own.
The havoc wreaked-
comes from myself, alone.

I feed the broken, the dysfunctional, the bored
with fragments of myself…
I’m not the meal, just the table scraps.
Allow your carnal instincts to devour me whole…

Strangers call me Baby and beautiful
Don’t they know I’m anything but?
I placed a cheap price on my heart,
my home (my body)

Here I am in the dark,
or on the cold tile floor,
or under the sheets

And it feels like Hell,
running round and round again,
racing around and around and back again.

My heart is a broken home.
…but I could always call it my own.
And the tumult-
comes from myself, alone.

Pieces of Me.

So, I’ve been in some weird moods lately. And these are the results:

Sorry it got cut off by the scanner a little bit.

What do you think/feel? They’re unlike anything else I’ve ever done… It was honestly liberating to just be random, abstract, creative, and crazy. I used watercolor pencils and ink pen on Bristol Board.

It’s not my best work, but I certainly had fun…

Summer’s Death Throes.

Oh, hey there.

My least favorite season is here! I’m currently sitting in the basement because my mom has taken over my bedroom… This morning she literally took every single object out of the room and made me go through it all. Needless to say, the entire upstairs of my house looks like it has been ravaged by a tornado.

So, anyway, what have I been doing everyday in this wonderful season of summer?
The answer: desperately seeking employment. I’ve been parading all over town(s) in heels and a dress, handing in applications and resumes. Not even kidding, but the only thing my mother allows me to do nowadays is to go job hunting! News flash: it’s not the seventies anymore. Sorry I can’t just become a paperboy, or deliver milk to peoples’ doorsteps. Yeesh…
It’s so freaking hard to land a job. It doesn’t help that everyone thinks I’m too darn shy/quiet to talk to their customers, either. Sigh.

What else is going on? I can’t stop thinking of J. That evening in April when I crawled into his friend’s truck and we just drove off. The tiny air freshener with an angel printed on it, that read, “Wherever you go, whatever you do, there’s an angel watching you.”
Creepy, but mostly ironic. (I suppose I could sum up my life in those four words! Haha.)
But the point is, J. is giving me the silent treatment. Boo. I’d almost rather him flat out reject me than ignore me. Almost.

What else is happening with me? I’m in what I call, an “Art Funk.” As you may already know, I love the visual arts, especially drawing. But I keep failing at it! Attempted art piece after attempted art piece, I screw up.
Answer me this: why is art just so freaking difficult?

So, yeah. What else is up? I can’t think of anything off the top of my head, at this moment…

I hate to wish time away, but, college really can’t come soon enough…

For Demi

You believe that recovery is impossible,
unachievable,
unreachable.

You cannot fathom
a life apart from scars.

You’re painting a travesty on the canvas before you-

The world through your eyes
is the very world which feeds you lies.

You purge yourself of truth;
starve the skeletal remains of a life.

You cannot fathom,
imagine,
dream
of a life apart from scars.

Your life is an everyday battlefield.
Could anyone remain unscathed?
You were a child soldier,
artillery weighing you down,
doe-eyed down the barrel of a gun.

Your demons made you a fighter,
your heart made you a survivor.

You’re truth-starved, tricks fed.

But there’s more to your face than pretty,
more to your eyes than pain.

There’s more to your body than sexy,
more to your skin than scars.

I wish you could look in the mirror
and see a girl that’s irreplaceable,
not irreparable.

Your demons made you a fighter,

but your heart made you a survivor.