Happy Holidays to you tooooooooooo! @#$%^&*

Happy Holidays you Freaking FREAK blond lady who almost killed me and my kids this morning. Yeah YOU who drove the FREAKING PINK PT Cruiser. Custom? F you.

Happy Holidays to YOU you F head who yelled at ME after you almost ran me over in the parking lot. Get it? YOU almost ran ME over. Shut up your face.

Happy Holidays to all the people on cable news. Get off my tv. Really. And don't tell me I can change the channel.. I can't because your banal chatter seeps into all other forms of media and I can't get away from you.

Happy Holidays to YOU my lovely extended family. I say this in response to what will surely come. Can't we all just get along? Must there be tantrums? Can I offer you a Valium or must I crush them up this year and add them to the Prosecco?

And Finally a great bit ol' shout out to my work place. Happy Freaking Holidays. Thanks for the no raise, the making me work on my birthday, and the ever present pink slip threat. I triple dog dare you.

Phew. I feel better.

Raw

Cutting is a secret thing.
It is done in the bathroom
with the door locked.
It is done with a key,
a piece of metal,
a razor blade.
It is done with anything you can find
when you can't stop crying
or when pieces of your heart
are ripped out and chewed on
by sharp teeth.
It is done when someone you trust
disappoints you.
It is done
when you aren't good enough.

Inside a box

I'm inside a box. I knew it when I walked in and they taped it up. I agreed to boxed up life. I planted flowers and drew a yellow sun with a crayon on the top. I made myself small so that I couldn't see the corners.

I've grown big like Alice. My back arches against the sun. My head touches my toes. My elbows find the taped up places.

I can't stay inside. I can't stay inside.

!

OHMYGOD!

I just realized I've been going at project life all wrong.

I've always thought it was like an Arthur Miller play.

Yesterday I realized it isn't at ALL!

It's a Rogers and Hammerstein!

CRAPcrapcrapcrapcrap. (I hate musicals)

Try not to kill anyone....

Go forth. Be with your families. Paste on the smile. Take a caffeine pill to dull the hunger and a Valium to take the edge off the effects of the caffeine pill. Remember they are just people.

And above all else, try not to kill anyone.

Happy Thanksgiving.

See that pretty girl in the mirror there....

I'll never be tall. I'm five foot nothing.
I'll never be nice. I'm a snarky, judgmental, beastie most of the time.
I'll never be barbie. Is there a mean, nasty, dark barbie? There should be.
I'll always be strong. I'm not one of those willowy short people. I'm round even when thin. I'd be a round anorexic.
I'll always have those tattoos... because .... they are TATTOOS. And I plan more. Oh yes. More.

But there is a desperate part of me that wants to be tall with a boyish figure without scars and markings. Able to wear yoga pants and walk through the Mall tall and proud into any store. I wish sometimes I was softer. softer. softer.

AND THEN..... not so much.

Beauty in the Breakdown?

Does a breakdown
really lead to a breakthrough?

Somehow, I think it only leads to a bottle of pills
and the mental institution.

I'm on my way.

A Dark Haiku for Mr. Tremp

The gray snakes inside
I vomit loss on white tile
It all turns to worms

New Construction

Unborn.
Ghostless.
Limbless.
Yearning.

For You

Not my words. Nick Drake's words. His words help me write words.

This song always makes me cry. I hope you like it.

Suzy

epitaph

I've thought and I've thought. I've finally figured out what I want on my gravestone when I die.

"She went barefoot and wrote when she could."

Forget Paris

I'll never see Paris in 1920.
I'll never visit with my great grandmother at her kitchen table, or run with her through the hillside villages on the Amalfi coast.
I'll never get to say goodbye to that little boy who said... "I wish you were my mother."
Because he was killed a year later.
I'll never get my virginity back.
I'll never be sixteen again.
I'll never kiss him for the first time.


But I can write myself there. All those things can be done and undone. I can write myself anywhere.

A Wednesday Sonnet

Wednesday is a day of woe
when flowers bow their heads to cry
and birds cease their singing so
you can hear your own heart sigh

The clouds sink deep into the mind
and the rain keeps crashing on the soul
Wednesday is the day you find
that life is not worth the heavy toll

Wednesday is a day for crying
even if the sun shines bright
because there's really no use trying
when nothing's really worth the fight

So if you're always sad and blue
then Wednesday is the day for you

I would

I would rather hear your voice than hear her say yes
A sorry would do
Yes means nothing to me
Without you


I hate love

On my way to where?

In the air. Set free. Unchained.

On my way to... Where?

*photo credit*

Waiting

I have almost (almost) perfected the art of waiting. It's become my hair shirt. My razor blade for hidden places, my drink that no longer gets me drunk.

It scratches at me...but I don't move. I sit. I wait. I hold.

S.A.D.

skeleton trees
lose grip on leaves
and the sun shines
pale light
darker and darker
the night creeps in
at six o'clock
bringing the manic heart

*Although south Texas is slow at receiving autumn, I can feel it creeping around the corner. I hate to anticipate the moodiness it brings, but dimming light and cooler wind make me a sad girl.

Dead Tired

My gut feels like it sits square in my throat. My eyes burn and water, and I'm not crying, I'm not. I'm just tired. Bones aching, fingers linger, feet drag. Slice on the smile. Chores get done. Nothing changes. The world won't stop for me.

Patience is harder here in my dead brain. Snapping is the easiest to do. How can I be tired and still scream so loud? It does not seem possible.

Blink

I want to be typing my novels on this. While smoking, and drinking enormous amounts of alcohol. To lift the filter. Maybe some of those bent keys don't work and I have to type around an "m" or a "," oh well. I wonder what it was like, before this cursed blinking cursor.

The blinking cursor is making me blind.

My Vacation

And I sat in my beach chair and wondered. What about that ending of the Awakening? What if I were to simply walk into the sea? Just breathe in the salt and cease to be?

And then one of the sticky things that calls me mommy said "Mommy?"

And it was with a heavy heart that I realized I would never be free... to walk into the sea.

Nether Regions

I can't commune with lesser things than you
the crickets thrum in August's big surprise
and it was all along there in your eyes
the stars that shine too brightly near the moon
the damp and heavy odor gone to soon
The creaking of the floorboards underneath
If overtaking swallows caught by breath
that weren't ever only mine to breathe

Too soon you come collect me from my dreams
it never was so absolutely true
but slipping over mighty slopes of you
my hateful head drawn back and downward pitch
my toes and knees and legs and torso itch
the window open flooding in night sky
it isn't anything but teasing free
your fingers play a song screaming of why

3 ways

Three ways to know you are close to insanity:

1. You pray that someone close to you will get just a little hurt so you can spend the day in the waiting room of an ER reading grimy month old People magazines.
2. You wake up in the middle of the night gasping for air, afraid you are having a heart attack, and then go back to sleep with a smile thinking "It's finally over."
3. On the highway you change lanes thinking "Go ahead, hit me, I double dog dare you!"
   

doubt thou the stars are fire

Pretty pictures for tragic souls~


Alice Meichi


Maude Fealy postcard gallery


alaska912


ecky ducky loves threadle


opheliac (that's me!)


rowandevoe


Irene Adler


Xraxo

Sophie Lauren

Writer's Block

Hero Love

Emilie Autumn talks about her music, Victorianism, and her personal experience in the asylum (book coming soon!).

Shatter Me

Just take a hammer. Late at night, take a hammer and shatter me. I am cracked already.

Take a chisel. Just take a chisel and work away what is left. Let me be shavings on the floor.

Take bleach. Take bleach and clean the mess you think I am. Clean it until all evidence is gone.

Take this life. Take it. I don't want it anymore.

New Place to Shop

Dear Wretched Wednesdays,

Have any of you heard of The Pyramid Collection? I hadn't until they sent me a catalog. I'm not one to advertise, but I'm hooked! They have everything from the whimsical to the wicked. Clothes, jewelry, home items, books, music...I'm in love with almost everything. Especially this dress!



I have nowhere to wear it, but isn't it lovely?

Anywho, just thought some of you might be interested.

:)

The net inside

Not so long ago
I was cold inside
Freaky ride
but free

And then there you were
The crime of perfect
enacted
gave space

Emboldened I sought
A deeper thought and
joyfully
began

Under glass I wait
suffocated by
the fear of
the net

I don't remember
What I did before
Now I'm still
and stiff

My wings have been touched
the sky hides away
I fall down
Cement

I wish I'd not known
The simple dreaming
because now
I'm gone

Love and Laudanum

Love does not ensure respect
Love does not imply stability
Love is not patient
or kind, or wise, or calm

Love is a panic itch of self doubt
It is the undoing of hard work
It is a constant source of isolation~
Only able to capture fleeting bliss
In jars, on velvet nights....

Loving does not secure staying
Loving does not contain courage
Love is not a brave emotion,
Breathless, yes... but not brave

Love needs an alchemist
The creation of a tincture,
The Laudanum of Love
Begin with Love, add trust, a pinch of awe, one held breath, honesty and a healthy dose of respect

This amalgam yields an as of yet un-invented term
The secret opiate of happiness

Lost to all who buy the lie of Love alone....

Dear Sylvia

Such a tragic masterpiece-
you crouching by the oven,
drinking in the poisonous air.
I found you there,
but much too late.
Thirty-two years too late.

But the distance doesn't stop me
from crying,
from wishing we had been best friends.
And I could've pulled you up.

But no.
You felt like a star pinned to the sky-
burning-
couldn't pull away from the heat.

God had not given me life
when you died there,
but I found you, nonetheless
and I cried as if
you were my own mother.

Your grave sits cold now
and if I ever decide to visit,
I'll lay out some milk,
just in case
you decide to wake up.

What should we break today?

I really feel like breaking something. It always makes me feel better. I don't even have to be mad. I just like to break things. I don't like breaking other people's things... unless they were taken from me. In that case my favorite thing to do is quietly break them... and then put them back, unusable, to disappoint the thief.

What would you like to break today? I would like to take a bat to my car.

Under the sea

I was not a life boat
I was a little girl
And now you mourn my loss
And wonder where I've gone
Where else would I be?
I am a mermaid now
Deep under the sea

~Suzanne

I Don't Write Happy Endings

Hello fellow Wednesdays,

I've always imagined myself getting interviewed about the nature of my writing and responding with, “I don't write happy endings.” Believe me, I've tried, but I can't bring myself to write the warm and fuzzies into my stories or poetry. Instead of everything being tucked into a nice, little box with hearts and kisses and an everything-worked-out-in-the-end attitude, my writing likes to remain in a dark corner, possibly in a psych ward.

Sometimes I tell myself I need to extend my craft into realms unknown – happy realms. But in the end, I find beauty in tragedy. Francesca Lia Block was my first mentor in beautiful tragedy. Her stories and characters almost always have an underlying sadness to them, but it's all so beautiful that you hardly mind that you're slightly depressed. Besides, who hasn't felt a tinge of happiness when listening to sad songs or crying or wallowing in misery?

I'm thankful for this blog in that I have a safe place to unload all the gloom and doom one can possibly handle. So what if my poems are depressing? So what if my characters commit suicide? There's much beauty to be seen in the dark.

The End

This is the first entry. The first entry on the first day that I feel like my adventure into the dark places has truly begun. For real.

The dark places in my mind. Where the stories come from. This blog is for those out there who understand that there is a lot of lovely in the dark. Come, bring us your poems, your sad tales.

We will post them. And we will post photographs, and ideas... stories and poems of our own. We will link you to all the things we can find on the web that are worthy of the Wednesdays.

Join the fun!