My mother used to force me to scrub the kitchen floors
Scraping off the heel marks
The ones I tread with my muddy flats
And patent leather party shoes.
The ones my father dragged in from his workshop
Laden with sawdust and paint fumes
Sealed with tiny bits of cotton candy insulation
That never did get put back into the molding.
And she would whisper
dont touch the walls
exhaling the last consonant as if to tell me
that the white-washed plaster seem finish
was far too regal for my filthy hands;
How poor this tiled floor was in comparison.
My mother used to stand and watch
As I delicately scoured the grayed-white linoleum,
Scratching and scratching and scratching.
I thought that surely I would wear a hole in the floor
if I kept scrubbing hard enough
Maybe I would fall through the floor panels,
Like Alice,
Into a dark and ominous world of white rabbits
Bread-and-butter flies
Tumbling downwards infinitely until

No.
I never was that lucky.


Ok, so I got bored and made a new picture for my ID photo thing.
I have a dentist appointment to get fillings... bad me has 2 cavaties I hate going to the dentist, but I guess that's what i get, eh?
The first day back at school wasn't so bad... it just went by reeeeeeeeeealy REEEEEEEAAAAAAALLLLYYYYYYYY slowly. *le sigh* I can't wait for it to be over.


My forged lines of sympathy I let you read as I fought back tears and forced a smile. If I'm going down, I'd rather it be with you. This laugh this shrug the mistakes I made, all summed up in 28 lines in tiny scrawled handwriting that I let you read and consider and gave you the option of ripping it up, but you just smiled--didn't appologize--wrapped it up in your sweet sweet lies to make it all better, all right. You say I'm so selfish, what a pity, yet the fact remains (despite your lies, if not because of them) that you only want to fuck her, use her up, break her heart, then send her crawling back to sanity. For pity's sake, have you no decency? Do you not realize that everytime I look at you the scars burn, my heart breaks, and my soul goes numb again? I hate his memory, and the taste of him and the touch of him and the smell of him and the heart of him; Jesus fucking christ I'm bleeding him but I don't want to fucking die. I used to fear the thought of dating druggies, there was the threat of becoming addicted to their kiss; but, after I realized that it was my own desire for loss of control that drove me to addiction, I no longer cowered from their ravenous eyes and craved their heavy breath upon my fragile porcelain skin.
I used to wonder if you could see through my charcoal lines, those which outlined my scars in dark, thick, powdery streaks. You loved the way it lingered on me, smearing when you touched... strategically placed upon my canvas of flesh, I waited for sleep like you waited for my paint to dry. The damp crimson smudges on these limbs, your burnt sienna medium eyes would smile in all of their triumphant glory, admiring your lifelike masterpiece. With palatte and brush in hand I would watch as you poured the years of wasted varnish across my not-so-vast expanse and sat to dry, cast in plaster as a reminder of the mess you made, a trophy of your selfish indulgence, and a display of the ruin that makes me.


I wish this brain had a power switch.
xoxo
♥