dearlycorrupted

"december, i am in montana. there are trees, grass, and bodies of water, men in flannel and women in SUVs, all of it surrounded by a bitter loneliness. i write to still the madness- but why still the madness? it's what drives me after all. in the lamplight my scars are shiny and obscene. none of this is coming out right. i suspect my circuits aren't as badly wired as i thought, and that i'm just bored, immersed too long in the tedium that is Everyday life. hiding behind poetry and bullshit. smoking a cigarette craftily behind my mother's trailer house. and even then not really- just writing almost as a wish. life sounds better on paper than it does played out.

i forget it's friday.
do you get hot under your makeup?

i want to be a snake and shed my skin and tattoo what is new, and fresh. i don't want to disintegrate the way life dictates we must.

love,
deborah"

i MUST approach life immersed in surrealism. otherwise i'll never survive it.