i always used to wonder things like can i be the girl with the grey sweater or t he girl with the

cute short skirt or the girl who looks good with wet hair or th e girl who sits with her legs up and still looks ok or the girl with the sweat o n her forehead or the perfect girl for you but now i realize i am all of those t hings without trying. i am the girl with the heart and the hair and the things. i am the girl with things. you are too. stop looking at pictures and live. pictu res dont mean shit. dance too drunk and hold the wall if you need to. lick peopl e . talk to the dogs and talk to yourself. leave without telling anyone. keep bl owing a lot of kisses. blow the most kisses to yourself. blow a lot of kisses an d eat a double scoopie ice cream if your phone screen shatters. wear sunscreen o r don t. it s cool. I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselve s and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore tee th. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn t it clear t hat individual consciousness is just sickness? Yevgeny Zamyatin, We Maslow defina el yo como un conjunto cambiante de percepciones. Before you fuck up and call her anything less than her name, before you grab her by the arm you need to know the trigger that you are pulling at. You need to kno w that the safety is never on. You need to know her history before you tell me t hat this isn t my business. You need to know that her history is my history. See, she and I, we come from the tribe of raw knuckled little girls who call our fath er by their first names and wear their mothers like bruise coloured war paint un der eye. We grew thick skin before we grew permanent teeth. We learned to piece together our own families in the backyards of rented duplexes where we promised plastic faced babies better things in soothing tones that we mimicked from TV. W e do not have daddy issues even though our daddy s have issues. We have piercing e yes and promises to keep. We grew up to be nomads surveying domestic war zones w ith black eyeliner binoculars, always refusing to camouflage. We threw our heads back and laughed at oncoming explosions, never flinched, absorbing shrapnel, ne ver let them see us cry. We do not dream of boys who will save us from towers. We dream of boys with cour age caked under their fingernails. Boys with hands rough enough to wipe metal te ars from our faces but warm enough to mold them into stars. Boys with vertebrae strong enough to lock with ours so they can sleep sitting back to back with us a nd keep watch. And these are the boys, these are the boys who will find love und er our armor. These are the boys who will find that we love selectively but we l ove fiercely. These are the boys who will learn that we love in ways that leave claw marks down the baseboard before we ever let go. Rachel Wiley "Get scared. It will do you good. Smoke a bit, stare blankly at some ceilings, b eat your head against some walls, refuse to see some people, paint and write. Ge t scared some more. Allow your little mind to do nothing but function. Stay insi de, go out - I don t care what you ll do; but stay scared as hell. You will never be able to experience everything. So, please, do poetical justice to your soul and simply experience yourself." Albert Camus, from Notebooks, 1951-1959

Sugar Me - Lynsey De Paul Johnny Get Angry - Joanie Sommers

Esta chica (qu incmodo para hablar de ella que no tenga nombre propio) es tan dulc e como contestataria, tan madura como inconsciente, tan alocada como tmida Es, par a qu nos vamos a pelear con los adjetivos, una chica de doce aos la novela resulta un viaje inicitico de alguien que aspira a vivir al margen de lo que le ha tocado en suerte y descubrir que el destino no es otra cosa que el azar mal disimulado. Aunque haya pinceladas de humor ("las que resistieron las trece reescrituras", d ir ella) y tambin un trabajo con la imagen, deudor de su instinto de artista visua l autodidacta. La historia se ubica a puro vrtigo en Buenos Aires y los tremebund os aos setenta, entre la muerte de Pern y el Mundial de ftbol de 1978, usado por la dictadura como fenomenal usina propagandstica, con una protagonista sin nombre, cuya biografa se parece demasiado a la de la autora: adolescente de familia numer osa, catlica, de derecha y clase media alta, con padres ausentes (l por un trabajo que lo llevar a ser ministro de Educacin de los militares; ella por una crisis de nervios a perpetuidad que se abismar en depresiones y conocer algn psiquitrico). Para esta joven de doce aos, perdida en un maln de hermanos (entre alguno, carne d e seminario, capaz de darse con cilicio y algn otro juntando coraje para asumirse gay), que cambia de colegio como de medias e idolatra a Patricia Hearst ("es un a genia; una chica rica y malcriada que se pas al bando de sus secuestradores", e scribe), crecer -en ese clan y en aquel tiempo- suena a estampida, a sacudn. A "r umble", la palabra que las historietas reservan para el temblor que acompaa ciert as catstrofes: piedras despendose por la ladera de una montaa o el estallido de un v olcn. Yo pens que era una novela de aventuras, que poda ser divertida pero fue cambiando . El gran tema, creo, es el desamparo y, tambin, el embarazo adolescente, toda la cadena de cosas, acciones, omisiones y desprotecciones que llevan a l. Y s, tiene una base autobiogrfica muy grande, pero es un trabajo de ficcin, una construccin. Como la foto de portada: en el original soy yo, 'hacindome la rata en plaza Franc ia a los 14 aos, pero todo est tuneado, pichicateado: el encuadre, los colores, la cara no se ve... Lo que pasa con la portada pasa hacia adentro con la historia. Soy y no soy. Tiene que ver con la poca que se narra. Sobre todo en la case social de Rumble er a muy comn que las mujeres estuvieran en la casa, deprimidas. Ahora trabajan y lo pasan mejor. Pero entonces, no era raro ir a la casa de un amigo y que la madre estuviera enterrada en el sarcfago, a puertas cerradas, y te dijeran "la vieja e st durmiendo". El personaje de la madre es muy importante porque a la edad de la protagonista, esa figura es esencial. Como contrapartida, la novela fue armndose como el relato de la calle. La protagonista trata de escaparse todo el tiempo, v iviendo la calle como hogar y all la experiencia del margen, del desamparo, de lo distinto, del amor de Hernn, que no es un gran amor sino el que se enamora de el la, de la droga, de la separacin. Eso es tambin Holden Caulfield, el personaje de Salinger, no?: unos das en la calle. Y la sensacin de que, al menos en esta histori a, todo lo que puede salir mal, sale mal; esa es la idea fuerte de Rumble y una clave de lectura del final, que es la parte que ms me gusta. Esa frase me la dijo mi padre cuando qued embarazada siendo adolescente y para m f ue terrible; no la entend, me enoj muchsimo. "Qu dice? Con el quilombo que es mi vida , qu me dice?". l como cristiano pensaba que aquello tambin lo haba mandado Dios para algo. Treinta aos despus te digo que tena razn. Por eso creo que la frase vale en l os dos sentidos. Es una historia triste. Pero sirve contarla. Creo en el poder s anador de las palabras. Tiene que ver con el psicoanlisis, tambin. Me he analizado muchsimo, pero no termino de entregarme. En cambio con la escritura tengo un vncu lo mucho ms ligero. Toda mi vida, ante hechos importantes, escrib. Guardo cuaderno s con ideas, chistes, guiones, frases, cosas que escuchaba y siempre los us para trabajar. Noches de emborracharme y escribir para poder seguir adelante, para sa crtelo, para sanarte. Cada uno se cura como puede. It s okay to lock yourself in the medicine cabinet, to drink all the wine, to do wh at it takes to stay, without staying. It s okay to hate God today, to change his n ame to yours, to want to ruin all that ruined you. It s okay to feel like only a p

hotograph of yourself, to need a stranger to pull your hair and pin you down. It s okay to want your mother as you lie alone in bed. It s okay to break, to fuck, to flame, to church, to crush, to knife, to rock, and rock, and rock, and rock, an d rock, and rock. It s okay to wave goodbye to yourself in the mirror. To write, I don t want anything. It s okay to despise what you have inherited, to feel dead in a city of pulses. -Rachel McKibbens Salir, beber, el rollo de siempre, meterme mil rayas.. Somos jvenes. Se supone que bebemos mucho, nos portarnos mal y follamos hasta per der la cabeza. Estamos diseados para la fiesta. Es as. S, algunos tendremos sobredo sis o nos volveremos locos, pero Charles Darwin dijo: No puedes hacer una tortill a sin romper algunos huevos . Y de eso se trata: de romper huevos. Y por huevos, m e refiero a emborracharnos con tragos de primera. Si pudierais veros, se me part e el corazn. Lo tenamos todo. La cagamos ms y mejor que cualquier otra generacin. So mos preciosos. Somos un desastre, soy un desastre.

Valerie Valere. Diario de una anorxica. You can t go on like you re going to start really living one day, like all this is s ome preamble to some great life that s going to magically appear. I m a firm believe r that you have to create your own miracles. Don t hold out that there s something b etter waiting on the other side. It doesn t work that way. by Perry Moore She was sixteen. She had glossy leaves and bursting buds and she wanted to strug gle with life but it seemed to elude her. Where were the singing bees for her? - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God "May you eat an unfamiliar dessert in a strange land at least once every three y ears. May you wake up and start dancing while you re still half-asleep. May you spray-paint Rilke poems as graffiti on highway overpasses. May you learn to identify by name 20 flowers, 15 trees, 10 clouds, and one extra solar planet. May you dream of taking a trip to the moon in a gondola powered by firecrackers and wild swans. May you actually kiss the earth now and then." Rob Brezsny

I want everyone to leave me alone and I also want someone to come snuggle me and rub my back. Or I don t want that. I want you to go away and stop talking and I w ant a hug and I want ice cream sundaes and I never want to eat again." Siri Moon, I Hate Everything Right Now I m scared to be an uncertainty, I regret that I am not fire." Alexander Vvedensky

Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to w rite it down, and either you over dramatize it or underplay it, exaggerate the w rong parts or ignore the important ones. At any rate, you never write it quite t he way you want to. The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (1950-1962) Being born a woman is an awful tragedy Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with roa d crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars - to be a part of a scene, anon ymous, listening, recording - all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a fem ale always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and th eir lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I w ant to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at nigh t Sylvia Plath I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between. Sylvia Plath

I have always been tormented by the image of multiplicity of selves. Some days I call it richness; and some other days I see it as a disease, a proliferation as dangerous as cancer. My first concept about the people around me was that all o f them were coordinated into a whole, whereas I was made up of multitudes of sel ves, of fragments. I know I was upset as a child to discover that we had only on e life. It seems to me that I wanted to compensate for this by multiplying exper ience. Or perhaps it always seems like this when you follow all your impulses an d they take you in different directions. In any case, when I was happy, always a t the beginning of a love, euphoric, I felt I was gifted for living many lives f ully. It was only when I was in trouble, lost in a maze, stifled by complication s and paradoxes that I was haunted or that I spoke of my madness , but I meant the madness of the poets. - Anas Nin, The Diary Of Anas Nin Volume I 1931-1934 I wonder if you know yet that you ll leave me. That you are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body. You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I ll go back to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name. I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me You think it s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you. You think I ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own. But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless. and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home. "My father was a deeply sentimental man. And like all sentimental men, he was also very cruel." Ernest Hemingway 154615688

"Alone is walking along a street, just you and your city, taking things in that you often don t take the time to appreciate when you re busy with other people. It i s allowing your senses to be your company, talking to you with a million differe nt voices of how good this smells or how wonderful that feels. It is taking the time to soak in your surroundings, instead of just existing blindly within them. Lonely is seeing something so beautiful that you feel your heart cannot contain it all by itself, that it is going to burst from the radiance that it is longing to express. It is wanting to turn to someone, anyone, and say Look at that. Isn t that wonderful? and realizing that, as with so many other memories of late, there is just no one there to share it with." -Chelsea Fagan, The Difference Between Alone and Lonely

"I want to moan and writhe with you and I want to go up to you and kiss your mou th and pull you to me and say I love you I love you I love you while stripping. I want you so bad it stings." -Bret Easton Ellis I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself. Make love to me like yo u know I am better than the worst thing I ever did. Go slow. I m new to this but I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping. I have realized tha t the moon did not have to be full for us to love it. We are not tragedies stran ded here beneath it. -Buddy Wakefield, We Were Emergencies The dizzy rapture of starving. The power of needing nothing. By force of will I m ake myself the impossible sprite who lives on air, on water, on purity -Harrison 1997, p.41

I only stare at stars and trip on sidewalks. I taste letters and I walk with fin gers crossed up stairs. Wishing to melt at your feet so this time you can slip o n my words. Last night I tried to make my lips bleed as you walked over to the f ence and sat down and told me how the sky likes to change its color. I sit and wait for things to happen. your name burns hot when I write it, feels heavy when I say it out loud "We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them." -Anais Nin

"You tried to change didn t you? closed your mouth more

tried to be softer prettier less volatile, less awake but even when sleeping you could feel him travelling away from you in his dreams so what did you want to do love split his head open? you can t make homes out of human beings someone should have already told you that and if he wants to leave then let him leave you are terrifying and strange and beautiful something not everyone knows how to love." For Women Who Are Difficult to Love, Warsan Shire

Everything drifts. Everything is slowly swirling, philosophies tangled with the grocery lists, unreal-real anxieties like rose thorns waiting to tear the uncert ain flesh, nonentities of thoughts floating like plankton, green and orange part icles, seaweed lots of that, dark purple and waving, sharks with fins like cutla sses, herself held underwater by her hair, snared around auburn-rusted anchor ch ains. -Margaret Laurence Every night I come to the same place and wait until the sky catches up with my mo od. -Oliver Tate, Submarine "Lo nico que saba era que, al irse, se haba llevado algo que me mantena entero, una imagen necesaria de m mismo, algo sin lo cual corra peligro de desplomarme; y fuer a lo que fuera, vanidad indispensable, idea irremplazable de mi propia vulnerabi lidad, se haba ido y solo ella poda devolvrmelo, o eso crea." -Fragmento de Los enamorados, Alfred Hayes "Todo esto perteneca ya al pasado (alguna vez me aterraba pensar en cmo los elemen tos de mi vida aparecan y se disolvan para siempre apenas empezaba a considerarlos como inmutables)" "Sabe usted lo que es tener diecisesis, diecisiete, dieciocho aos y estar obsesion ada por slo la sucesin de gestos, de estados de nimo, de movimientos, que en conjun to forman ese algo que a veces llega a parecer irreal y que es una persona?" "Pareca ahogarme tanta luz, tanta sed abrasadora de asfalto y piedras. Estaba cam inando como si recorriera el propio camino de mi vida, desierto. Mirando las som bras de las gentes que ha mi lado se escapaban sin poder asirlas. Abocando en ca da instante, irremediablemente, en la soledad. (...) Me pareca que de nada vale c orrr si siempre ha de irse por el mismo camino, cerrado, de nuestra personalidad . Unos seres nacen para vivir, otros para trabajar, otros para mirar la vida. Yo tena un pequeo y ruin papel de espectadora. Imposible salirme de el. Imposible li bertarme. Una tremenda congoja fue para mi lo unico real en aquellos momentos." -Nada, Carme aforet, 1944 The people who move through the streets are all strangers. At each encounter, the

y imagine a thousand things about one another; meetings which could take place b etween them, conversations, surprises, caresses, bites. But no one greets anyone ; eyes lock for a second, then dart away, seeking other eyes, never stopping somet hing runs among them, an exchange of glances like lines that connect one figure with another and draw arrows, stars, triangles, until all combinations are used up in a moment, and other characters come on to the scene -Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities so therefore i dedicate myself to myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labo rs, my sufferance, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and h unger - because i cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being. jack kerouac http://www.cazavideos.com/ver.php?codigo=1435 Beautiful, sobbing high-geared fucking and then to lie silently like deer tracks in the freshly-fallen snow beside the one you love. That's all. - Richard Brautigan, Deer Tracks "I have thrown my body around like an old excuse I have thrown my heart out like a kite like rice confetti like milk teeth behind me like salt behind me I have thrown away all of my pride I have thrown all of my prayers into the deep well of your mouth." Warsan Shire

We re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone who se weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutuall y satisfying weirdness and call it love true love. sun; Elke River i. again, the child is sick ii. mother says the faucet spews death in sickness and in health iii. under the bridge the stones are rough hewn, scented yellow, colored in piss iv. you re too old to hide beneath her skirts v. you re too young to sleep beneath the bridge vi. again, mother is crying vii. on the seventh day, forget : crevice sewn : stalks escape the jagged edge(iii) : abandon ill-conceived soli tudes : meaning this : if you plant a slivered nail in muck and : wish : wish : wish : harness heart and lung : drag truth with an eye-gouged horse : then perha

ps : but you : festooned in vestal blood : could only wish for skin(v) : reckles sly : wander ramshackle corridors(ii) : comb nodes of spectral spine : read betw een the bullet wounds : lies : lies : lies are an adolescent wish(i) : cities fe rried upon the skiff : gaping holes where teeth : tongue : throat : silence : sh ould abide(vi) : would if not for this : window cut by knife : we : the unforgiv ing I : the blind foal : Lamarck s damn proof : strung between the moon s tectonic r ibs : shifting in the ash strewn bone(vii) : eyelashes trembling : wet : pendulu m slung : spent : we are a lie in the throes of birth(iv) :

i did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. i did not like to be touched because i craved it too much. i wanted to be held very tight so i would not break. even now, when people lean down to touch me, or hug me, or put a hand on my shoulder, i hold my breath. i turn my face. i want to cry. marya hornbacher, wasted the doom generation things i am sorry for i am sorry that i don t care for social interaction, i am sorry that i seem rude, i am sorry that i am unsure of what i should accomplish in life, i am sorry that sometimes i d rather accomplish nothing, i am sorry that i care for you so deeply , i am sorry that i overanalyze your movements, i am sorry that i seek comfort i n men, i am sorry that i blew cigarette smoke in your path, i am sorry that i mi ssed class again, i am sorry i am so so sorry When you feel perpetually unmotivated, you start questioning your existence in a n unhealthy way; everything becomes a pseudo intellectual question you have no i nterest in responding whatsoever. This whole process becomes your very skin and it does not merely affect you; it actually defines you. So, you see yourself as a shadowy figure unworthy of developing interest, unworthy of wondering about th e world - profoundly unworthy in every sense and deeply absent in your very pres ence. by Ingmar Bergman Before I met you, I knew only a few of the stars. No one s favourite constellation is the Plough. you said. Well, mine is now. Because Cassiopeia is the day after I knew I would leave you; Orion the vodka that never could save me. The Pole Star I thought you would carry me home yet I only find doubt in your showers of light. And an overcast sky is the first night we kissed and the first time I knew I would always be lonely. But the Plough stays perfect, the dusk on the lake I found someone who understood how emptying the world can be. Now the stars hold memories that often hurt, but I try to remember there are seven billion soul mates with whom I share this sky. .

Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water. And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home, and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but nothing is infinite, not even loss. You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day you are going to find yourself again. . I might have had stronger blood coursing through my veins but I would not have believed so desperately that the world is a beautiful place wherever I wake up.

I m lonely so I do lonely things Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride home. You re a ghost town I m too patriotic to leave. I stay because you re the beginning of the dream I want to remember. I didn t call him back because he likes his girls voiceless. It s not that he wants to be a liar; it s just that he doesn t know the truth. I couldn t love you, you were a small war. We covered the smell of loss with jokes. I didn t want to fail at love like our parents. You made the nomad in me build a house and stay. I m not a dog. We were trying to prove our blood wrong. I was still lonely so I did even lonelier things. Yes, I m insecure, but so was my mother and her mother. No, he loves me he just makes me cry a lot. He knows all of my secrets and still wants to kiss me. You were too cruel to love for a long time. It just didn t work out. My dad walked out one afternoon and never came back. I can t sleep because I can still taste him in my mouth. I cut him out at the root, he was my favorite tree, rotting, threatening the fou ndations of my home. The women in my family die waiting. Because I didn t want to die waiting for you. I had to leave, I felt lonely when he held me. You re the song I rewind until I know all the words and I feel sick. He sent me a text that said I love you so bad. His heart wasn t as beautiful as his smile We emotionally manipulated one another until we thought it was love. Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you. I m a lover without a lover. I m lovely and lonely. I belong deeply to myself . -

Excuses For Why We Failed At Love,

Warsan Shire

Faints like pink glazed eyes legs weightless paradise throat vomit dystopia - doesn t hurt easy. Those flashing spots everywhere I look, blinding. Standing, waves crash inside my head, throw me to the floor again. Swallowed by the currant. Wake up forgetful and shaking. Don t you remember crying about death? We had whiskey and water and were naked, Don t you remember? To distract you away from scars and signs of upset I used to put your fingers in my mouth, make you look in my eyes, see that I m playful and not crying. We watched a documentary about famous killings, then you pressed me to your chest, dug nails hard into my back, and told me not to ever get murdered. I could feel your tears on my head. Trust me trust me / Just follow me, he carried / the skin of a friend who smelle d / Like trust in the blue air / Isn't all sky blue if any is / Like fog that va nishes when you get too close / As if bodies hang too heavy to taste it / When w e die do we finally get to / Swim our souls through a blue that doesn't shy from our presence? "When you start to like pain things get interesting. Pain is the common result o f a subordinate position. Traditionally, suffering is uncomfortable and undesira ble. Perhaps it is more intelligent to cultivate pain as a means of liberation? Is it possible that enjoyment of pain can be subversive? When one does not fear pain, one cannot be manipulated. When aroused by suffering, one can control any relationship. When agony ceases to be a barrier, death is not forbidding. The im plications are marvellous. Pain is not oppressive, but strengthening and most su blime. It is necessary only to deny the pleasure/pain dichotomy." Jenny Holzer "I m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and tha t oblivion is inevitable, and that we re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow t he only earth we ll ever have, and I am in love with you." The Fault in Our Stars, John Green .

This is imitate begging I can t

a sky devoid of stars and your hands constellations on the back of my neck to be enough but look you in the eye.

There is a song I don t want to write here but I will. From the first time we were drunk and looking at the stars I knew these were not the arms I would die in. And when you tell me that you love me I am praying it s a lie.

Grozny, Chechnya: Better a terrible end, than terror without end I want to hate you. I want to hurt you. I want to introject my Pain into you. I want to experience physical and spiritual violence with you. I want to be annihi lated or I want to be cleansed through you. I want the kindling in my brain to s top. I want to collapse and to hold and to adore you. In your suffering you have been so brave for me. I want to be un-enchanted and aching in pain for you. I w ant to risk feeling the totality of love for you. I ve been dreaming about you since I was seven. You are like the glamorous older sister I never had, smoking lit cigarettes out of an open bedroom window, the shape of your body a slight outline in the sheets on the bed. I envy how the boys whistle you out of the front door of the house, how mom and dad make it a point to leave the keys to the car setting out on the counter. You leave a faint trace of perfume and something heavier behind you as you slide the key into the ignition, slip out of the driveway. When I think you ve forgotten about me completely you glance up to the second floor window third from the right and give me one of those daring smiles as a nameless boy gets into the passenger seat and places his hand at the nape of your neck. Always our little secret, the boys with their musky skin and shaved jaws coaxing a mewl from your throat as you drape yourself over the driver s seat like the dress I secretly try on when you re gone. How I ll never tell. How the dress still pools at my feet. - Kristina H., New York, New York

People move on orbits that are so distant for each other I ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floor boards of the skull well swept, and the little monsters closed up in a steamer t runk at the foot of the bed. David Benioff

the most beautiful, the most grotesque girl in the world kissing mirrors, lipsti ck marks on all book pages, her name written in blood on bathroom walls. under t he silver coat a crying underwater animal that wants out, a birdlike horror with out feathers and skin, stabbing and gnawing. dolly darling disorder, her vagina is aching and weeping, a seam of wound. the coat is wet by fear but she loves it and if she is going to die anyway, she wants to die in silver. girl monster darling disease, may i swim in a little sea of vodka and lollies an d may i drown, feel loved not only when i get fucked, girl monster graveyard her oine Me gusta la gente con ese tomo de locura que hace que la existencia no sea montona aunque esas sean personas desgraciadas y estn siempre en las nubes, como t... Si supieran, como yo se, que te quedas sin comer y que no te compras la ropa que necesitas por el placer de tener con tus amigos delicadezas de millonaria duran te tres das... Si supieran que te gusta vagabundear sola por la noche. Que nunca has sabido lo que quieres y que siempre estas queriendo algo... Bah! Andrea, cre o que se santiguaran al verte, como si fueras el diablo. In the absence of other lips, gnaw your own to pulp

[the sad part of living is eating and dying] the sad part of living is eating and dying our dialogue breaks off mid sentence the bill arrives as a eulogy: itemized everyone swallows a breath mint. repression

nevermind the cost: I ll pick up your tab you got the cab. these days green and folding - D.A. Powell People often ask me questions that I cannot very well answer in words, and it ma kes me sad to think they are unable to hear the voice of my silence. -Hazrat Inayat Khan CODEINA, EL METILFENIDATO y las BENZODIAZEPINAS uso de un broncodilatador, el salbutamol, como euforizante y desinhibitorio, bus cando un efecto parecido al del tetrahidrocannabinol rivotriles "I was like sawdust, the unhappiness: it infiltrated everything, everything was a problem, everything made her cry - school, homework, boyfriends, the future, t he lack of future, the uncertainty of future, fear of future, fear in general but it was so hard to say exactly what the problem was in the first place."

There's nothing I hate more than nothing. Nothing keeps me up at night I toss and turn over nothing Nothing could cause a great big fight. - Edie Brickell

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passio nate, turbulent truth. - Georges Bataille It seems to me that the totality of what is (the universe) swallows me (physical ly), and if it swallows me, or since it swallows me, I can t distinguish myself fr om it; nothing remains, except this or that, which are less meaningful than this nothing. In a sense it is unbearable and I seem to be dying. It is at this cost , no doubt, that I am no longer myself, but an infinity in which I am lost The Object of Desire and the Totality of the Real; George Bataille said no I. please said don t but. she did. don tdon t but she did. walk out naked then . walk naked got. out went she and r a n. said don t. said don t I. don t. she did. na ked got. went up she. up the limb she. don tdon t but she did. said no I. up limb. n aked up she. up she got. no no I. she did. naked went. please I. the limb. up sh e did. naked she. up went. chased I. don tdon t but she did. teeth slit. the cypress tree. suck sap she. from the cypress tree. white egg slimes. the cypress tree. hair tangle in. the cypress tree. scream she. loud screams me. from the cypress tree. screaming don tdon t. me screaming please yes don tdon t. no. screaming down i got . crawling did. chased me then she. said chased me then she. down. down I went. down she got. said please yes she. no no i. don tdon t she. i did. Danielle Lea Buchanan

1. efflorescent body suspended in the air held in a net of blood the white of the eye moon blinks into sight genesis of liquid bone flow & counte rflow flood of emptiness clouds web ghost of rainfall 2. a hole right through me where the wind passes its hand welcomes the tide the nam es of the dead on her lips drowned voices corpses of foam thrown up by the sea the gasp for breath in an oc ean of silence

El amor nace del deseo repentino de hacer eterno lo pasajero.

life is, or a very short dream or a very long nightmare

I CAN T WAIT TO VOMIT WHAT I JUST ATE AND SCALD THE PLACE WITH THE CUM ON IT. I CA N T WAIT FOR THE SINGING IN THE BLOOD, MY SIX WIVES AND SEVEN HUSBANDS, MY BROWN P IANO MY BLACK GUITAR MY ASHEN SKIRT AND HEAVY KNEES. I CAN T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BRO KEN HOME. I CAN T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BROKEN HOME. I CAN T WAIT TO QUIT THIS BROKEN HO ME. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE HANGING GARDENS. I CAN T WAIT FOR SILKEN FICTIONS. I CAN T WA IT TO GROW THE DECAPITATED FLOWER. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE BLOOD OF UPENDED PIGEONS. REVERSED RAINBOWS AND SNAKE-EATING LIQUID GOLD. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE DEW TO FALL, TOMORROW, TODAY. I CAN T WAIT FOR MY TITS AND ABS. I CAN T WAIT FOR THEY WON T GO WHEN I GO. I CAN T WAIT FOR MY HIGH ASS AND MAC MOUTH. I CAN T WAIT FOR A THICKER COCK. I CAN T WAIT FOR A MODEST APARTMENT UNDER THE HOLE IN THE ROOF OF THE PANTHEON. A GOLD CHAIN A WISHBONE I CAN T WAIT FOR MY BIGGEST SCAR TO OPEN ITS BLEEDING MOUTH. I CAN T WAIT FOR A LOAN. I CAN T WAIT TO KNOW WHAT IT FEELS LIKE. I CAN T WAIT TO LIE ABOUT MY AGE, TO LIE ABOUT MY PAST, I CAN T WAIT TO LIE ABOUT WHAT I WANT. I CAN T WAIT TO PRETEND TO LIKE THIS. I CAN T WAIT TO GET REALLY FUCKING GOOD. I CAN T WAIT TO REALLY UNDERSTAND. I CAN T WAIT TO STEAL THE SMOKING CENSERS, THE MITRE, THE ST AFF, THE ALTAR, THE CHRYSANTHEMUM NECKLACE, THE WHITE STRING, THE VEIL, THE SEVE N VEILS, THE HOLY WATER, THE BLACK ROCK, THE WHITE WALL, THE METAL FENCE, THE CO ILING RAZOR WIRE ATOP THE METAL FENCE, I CAN T WAIT TO STEAL THE BAD UNDERSHORTS, THE SHIRTSLEEVES, THE CASSOCKS, THE MAGIC APRONS, THE CAKES BAKED WITH URINE, TH E PINK ROSEWATERS, THE FLORIDA WATERS, THE SMOKE AND MIRRORS, THE ALABASTER JARS , THE TUSKS, THE KILTS, THE FINE MASONIC SWORDS, I CAN T WAIT TO STEAL THE ARC AND THE WOOD THAT WAS BENT TO MAKE IT WITH, THE ILLEGIBLE SCROLL, THE WAINSCOT BY T HE FOOT OF THE ANGELIC YOUNG RABBI, THE STOCKINGED FOOT IN ITS OPEN-TOED SANDAL, THE HEAVY STONE TABLET, THE SILENCE IN THE PLACES, THE SMALL CLAY URN WITH A BO OK STUFFED IN IT. I CAN T WAIT TO HURT YOU. I CAN T WAIT TO HURT YOU. I CAN T WAIT TO HAVE BEEN WRONG, TO HAVE BEEN RIGHT RIGHT ALL ALONG. I CAN T WAIT TO HAVE KNOWN HO W TO WALK UGLY IN THIS PURPLE LIGHT. I CAN T WAIT TO BE RICH IN TUMBLED STONE, LEO PARD AND COBALT AND WEAR A SILKEN SHIRT MADE OF SHAKEN MARE S HAIR. I CAN T WAIT TO BURN ALL MY BRIDGES. I CAN T WAIT TO BURN THEM ALL DOWN. I CAN T WAIT FOR A PAIR OF RED FOXES AND A PAIR OF RED DEER TO STARE ME DOWN IN THE CEMETERY SQUARE. I CAN T WAIT TO SEE YOUR FACE AGAIN. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE FIRST TEAR TO FALL. I CAN T WAIT T O GO FROM BAD TO WORSE. FOR THE HOLE IN MY HEAD TO ADMIT ITS OWN MOST PELICAN. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE RAPES TO CONFINE THEMSELVES TO AN EGG GREY AND BUDGING ON A CH ALK SCREEN IN A DARK VAULT WHERE NOBODY EVER GOES. I CAN T WAIT TO BE SILENT. TO B E A DIRTY OLD MAN FOR THE SAKE OF THE PROMISE OF MY YOUTH. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE CO NDENSATE TO FREAK MY EDGES. I CAN T WAIT TO KILL OR BE KILLED. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE FRUIT TO HANG LOW ON THE VINE. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE DOE TO RATE A SECOND LOOK. I C AN T WAIT FOR THE DOE TO STAND THERE STARING AT ME THESE ELEVEN THOUSAND MINUTES. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE PEOPLE WHO DESCRIBE THEMSELVES AS FUN . FOR THE PEOPLE WHO LOVE T O LAUGH . FOR THE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE DEAD HAIRS AND THE SCARS OF THE FACES OF THE LIVING DEAD. I CAN T WAIT FOR CHILDREN MOON AND STARS. I CAN T WAI T FOR THE HEAD OF THE PEONY TO DROOP IN ACCLAIM OF THE SUN. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE E LASTIC METAPHORS TO DISTINGUISH THE BEAUTIFUL UGLINESS FROM EVIL DEATH. I CAN T WA IT FOR THE RIGHTEOUS TO THROB AGAINST THE KNIFE. I CAN T WAIT FOR ALL OF THE GASES AND GRIDS OF THE ETHER. SWEET STULTIFYING MUSIC LIKE A HEADACHE PRESERVED IN PE RFUME. I CAN T WAIT TO BE THROWN OVER. I CAN T WAIT NEVER TO COME HERE AGAIN. I CAN T WAIT TO NEVER SEE YOU AGAIN. I CAN T WAIT FOR IT TO BE OVER. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE WH ITE LIGHT BARRELING BARRELING BARRELING. I CAN T WAIT TO GIVE UP THE GHOST. I CAN T WAIT TO LOVE THE DEAD BETTER. I CAN T WAIT TO HAVE BEEN HERE ALL ALONG. TO LEAVE J UST IN TIME. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE GHOST DANCE. I CAN T WAIT TO LIVE OFF LICHEN, SEA MOSS, AND THIRD LEG. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE

HARD THUNDERCLAP. I CAN T WAIT FOR YOUR SECRET PAIN. I CAN T WAIT FOR SIGNATURE EYE WEAR. I CAN T WAIT FOR A SHELL HUIPIL AND TEN FLAMES. OF WHICH ONE CINDER FLEW INT O MY ONE GOOD EYE SATURDAY THE ELEVENTH OF NOVEMBER TWO THOUSAND AND TEN. I CAN T WAIT TO DRINK THE PINK MEAD AMID THE FLOWERY BREADS OF DAWN. I CAN T WAIT FOR THE HARD RED PEACE, FOR THE HARD BLUE PEACE, FOR THE HARD BLACK PEACE, FOR THE WHITE LIGHT, I CAN T WAIT FOR THE BLACK DEATH, FOR THE WHITE DEATH, FOR THE RED DEATH, FOR THE BALLOONING RED BELLY OF DEATH, FOR DEATH IN LIQUID YELLOW PARCHMENT CRAC KING OPEN UNDER THIN BLOOD. Ariana Reines Sometimes I think cities are just bowls or catch basins that exist to always be t ipping their contents into a trough and that s how come when I walk around in them I feel my body being emptied of all meaning. Ariana Reines, A Cleaner, Safer Wo rld So I had become what I hated, but thanks to the beauty of alcohol, I couldnt care less I am not an addict. I am the addict. The addict I invented to keep this show on the junk road. I am all the addicts and all the junk in the world. I am junk and I am hooked forever. Now, I am using junk as a basic illustration. Extend it. I am reality and I am hooked, on, reality. Give me an old wall and a garbage can and I can, by God, sit there forever. Because I am the wall and I am the garbage can. But I need someone to sit there and look at the wall and the garbage can. That is, I need a human host. I can t look at anything. I am blind. I can t sit anyw here. I have nothing to sit on. And let me take this opportunity of replying to my creeping opponents. It is not true that I hate the human species. I just don t like human beings. I don t like animals. What I feel is not hate. In your verbal g arbage the closest word is distaste. Still I must live in and on human bodies. A n intolerable situation, you will agree. To make that situation clearer, suppose you were stranded on a planet populated by insects. You are blind. You are a dr ug addict. But you find a way to make the insects bring you junk. Even after tho usands of years living there you still feel that basic structural distaste for y our insect servants. You feel it every time they touch you. Well, that is exactl y the way I feel about my human servants. Consequently since my arrival some 500 ,000 years ago, I have had one thought in mind. What you call the history of man kind is the history of my escape plan. I don t want love. I don t want forgiveness. Al l I want is out of here. -William S. Burroughs, The Beginning Is Also the End, 1963 "Thus I spoke, more and more softly; for I was afraid of my own thoughts and the thoughts behind my thoughts." - Friedrich Nietzsche, from Thus Spoke Zarathustra I hadn t known that a light could be a feeling and a sound could be a color and a kiss could be both a question and an answer. And that heaven could be the ocean or a person or this moment or something else entirely. -Megan Miranda, Fracture There are ways of dying that don t end in funerals. Types of death you can t smell. -Haruki Murakami

I m not fascinated by people who smile all the time. What I find interesting is th e way people look when they are lost in thought, when their face becomes angry o r serious, when they bite their lip, the way they glance, the way they look down when they walk, when they are alone and smoking a cigarette, when they smirk, t he way they half smile, the way they try and hold back tears, the way when their face says they want to say something but can t, the way they look at someone they want or love I love the way people look when they do these things. It s beautiful. I don t remember lighting this cigarette and I don t remember if I m here alone, or waiting for someone -Leonard Cohen For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them whe n they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I rever e them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beeth oven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the f orce of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier , nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut do wn and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its sca rs, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the a ttacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the har dest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow. Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, t hey preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life. A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eterna l life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the ete rnal in my smallest special detail. A tree says: ng about the secret of my is in me. I My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothi thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has somet hing to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thou ghts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home i s neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all. A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at eve ning. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mothe r, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every s

tep is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother. So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they ha ve longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not list en to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity an d the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incompara ble joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree . He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness. -Hermann Hesse, Bume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

"Now I know what loneliness is, I think. It comes from a vague core of the self like a disease of the blood, dispersed throughout the body so that one cannot lo cate the matrix, the spot of contagion." Sylvia Plath I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and l ive all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited. Sylvia Plath

The Types of People You Will Fall in Love With In Your 20s by Ryan O Connell An increasing number of people who lead mental lives of great intensity, people who are sensitive by nature, notice the steadily more frequent appearance in the m of mental states of great strangeness a wordless and irrational feeling of ecs tasy; or a breath of psychic pain; a sense of being spoken to from afar, from th e sky or the sea; an agonizingly developed sense of hearing which can cause one to wince at the murmuring of unseen atoms; an irrational staring into the heart of some closed kingdom suddenly and briefly revealed. -Knut Hamsun I dreamed vaguely of killing myself to wipe out at least one of these superfluou s lives. But even my death would have been In the way. In the way, my corpse, my blood on these stones, between these plants, at the back of this smiling garden . And the decomposed flesh would have been In the way in the earth which would r eceive my bones, at last, cleaned, stripped, peeled, proper and clean as teeth, it would have been In the way: I was In the way for eternity. -Jean Paul Sartre, Nausea

In the Valkerie Mountains among the strutting peacocks I found a flower as large as my head and when I reached in to smell it I lost an ear lobe

part of my nose and half a pack of cigarettes . "The first & only time you were eight you remember remembering being seven & the religious fear that filled you when you realized, growing up means dying. Even worse than dying, forgetting. If you were previously made of streamers now you alternated between thumbtacks & gelatin. Around this time the sky birthed guilt & it rained into your bones every day sweet. Good morning, thing I will carry the rest of my life you should have said when the thing that made you part of yourself, childhood-altering thing all childhoods run temple-first into, first smarted. But you didn t know any better than to assume life was a series of events that moved, that didn t get stuck on each other & stretch forwards & backwards: but the brain is a piece of taffy on a fork, the brain your brain is a simple concoction of sugars & time, & you are not always your brain. The last & only time you were eight you became nine." Ruth Ann Baumann, Small

"He presses me to him until it hurts." I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You re destroying me. You re good for me. H ow could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudde n. How sweet. You cannot know. You re destroying me. You re good for me. You re destro ying me. You re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the poin t of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you. -Marguerite Duras, Hiroshima mon amour naked bodies i guess it doesn't matter if it every meant anything fingerprints swollen lips bruised tights hipbones flushed red.

Something about him makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or turn to liquid. Or burst into flames.

Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your le ft hand probably came from a different star than the atoms in your right hand. I t really is the most poetic thing I know about the universe: we are all stardust . You wouldn t be here if stars hadn t exploded because the elements (the carbon, ni trogen, oxygen, all the things that matter for evolution) weren t created at the b eginning of time, they were created in stars. So forget Jesus. Stars died so you could live. Lawrence Krauss

we're fucked anyway. we're so young and insane.

She stands at Kurfrstenstrae He gives her 20 Deutschmark Schoolgirl on the sidewalk In rainy West Berlin 1 meter 69 43 kilo Lost child with no tits And she is only 13 Old men go crazy for her They know that she needs Dope and they hope She will step into their car... She stands at Kurfrstenstrae He gives her twenty Deutschmark She has long greasy hair And she looks really cool She's half a child With pinhead eyes And high heeled boots And skin tight jeans

it s as if i can only be happy when i m drunk or on something else. no wonder people get addicted to drugs. i can t cope with this world and it makes me so content to escape from it all. i don t know what it is. i m just messing everything up again n ow i came home and everything is going bad. i really try to get better but it s al most as if life doesn t let me. i try so hard in everything i do but i never seem to get anything back for it. i can t deal with the insecurities of not knowing how certain people feel about me so i just decide they dislike me. maybe it s the eas iest. i never had a boyfriend or a best friend, i can t deal with someone knowing everything because i feel like they d hate me anyway if they knew everything about me. i know that s bad, i always think for other people. i know i m being dramatic a nd this is just rambling but at times like this i m so desperate what to do with m y life. all i do is cry and i just wish i did have someone who could be with me and wouldn t mind for me to be a pile of messed up girl. someone who could just he lp me and would take care of me. i don t know if it s possible to find someone, some

one who will but it s all i ever want, all i ever want is for someone to take care of me. Bsame y veras lo importante que soy. Pruebame y veras que todos somos adictos. I've got ice in my veins blood in my eyes hate in my heart love in my mind

1.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roanoke_Colony 2.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Murray_Spear 3.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arecibo_reply 4.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tanganyika_Laughter_Epidemic 5.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mad_Gasser_of_Mattoon 7.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peoples_Temple 8.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/UKUSA 9.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MRSA 10.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sailing_stones 11.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thalidomide 12.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unit_731 16.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Original_Spanish_Kitchen 19.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Markovian_parallax_denigrate 20.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toynbee_tilesRead More

Y como a la muerte, yo esperar no pudiera, ella, amable, a mi me esper. En la carroza nuestras almas tan solo y la inmortalidad.

" Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines he wrote a poem And he called it Chops because that was the name of his dog And that s what it was all about And his teacher gave him an A and a gold star And his mother hung it on the kitchen door and read it to his aunts That was the year Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo And he let them sing on the bus And his little sister was born with tiny toenails and no hair And his mother and father kissed a lot And the girl around the corner sent him a Valentine signed with a row of X s and he had to ask his father what the X s meant And his father always tucked him in bed at night And was always there to do it Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines he wrote a poem And he called it Autumn because that was the name of the season And that s what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A and asked him to write more clearly And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because of its new paint And the kids told him that Father Tracy smoked cigars And left butts on the pews And sometimes they would burn holes That was the year his sister got glasses with thick lenses and black frames And the girl around the corner laughed when he asked her to go see Santa Claus And the kids told him why his mother and father kissed a lot And his father never tucked him in bed at night

And his father got mad when he cried for him to do it. Once on a paper torn from his notebook he wrote a poem And he called it Innocence: A Question

because that was the question about his girl And that s what it was all about And his professor gave him an A and a strange steady look And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door because he never showed her That was the year that Father Tracy died And he forgot how the end of the Apostles s Creed went And he caught his sister making out on the back porch And his mother and father never kissed or even talked And the girl around the corner wore too much makeup That made him cough when he kissed her but he kissed her anyway because that was the thing to do And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed his father snoring soundly That s why on the back of a brown paper bag he tried another poem And he called it Absolutely Nothing

Because that s what it was really all about And he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist And he hung it on the bathroom door because this time he didn t think he could reach the kitchen. " Stephen Chbosky

(IN ORDER TO UNDERSTAND, I DESTROYED MYSELF.) Whisky and cocaine skin, bones wet pants, red lips eyeliner and cigarettes.

The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundament al emotion that stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed. It was the experience of mystery even if mixed with fear th at engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot pene trate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, wh ich only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds: it is this k nowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity. In this sense, and o nly this sense, I am a deeply religious man I am satisfied with the mystery of li fe s eternity and with a knowledge, a sense, of the marvelous structure of existen ce as well as the humble attempt to understand even a tiny portion of the Reason that manifests itself in nature. -Albert Einstein A human being is part of a whole, called by us the Universe a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts, and feelings, as something sepa rated from the rest a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affec tion for a few persons nearest us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. -Albert Einstein I want to live simply. I want to sit by the window when it rains and read books I ll never be tested on. I want to paint because I want to, not because I ve got som ething to prove. I want to listen to my body, fall asleep when the moon is high and wake up slowly, with no place to rush off to. I want not to be governed by m oney or clocks or any of the artificial restraints that humanity imposes on itse lf. I just want to be, boundless and infinite. Your always haunted by the fact that your wasting your life

When I m good, I m very good. But when I m bad I m better. dying for attention affection addiction perfection You write so beautifully, the inside of your mind must be a terrifying place

KanMae West

Reality doesn t impress me. I only believe in intoxication, in ecstasy, and when o rdinary life shackles me, I escape, one way or another. Anas Nin we are the children of the night. we are the kids your parents warned you about. i'm half asleep my fingers are cold and my stomach is sick. i'm so alone

"I equate love (bodies touching indecently) to the limitlessness of being sea, to the sun, and to death." Georges Bataille, La Scissipari

to nau

A lovely young girl lies on a bed in the dark listening to a fairy tale, t she s naked and the storyteller s hands are all over her. Glen Duncan, The Last Werewolf

I said.

Bu

In a warm, lustful summer Baby sleeps with her blinds up and her windows open. S he sees the leaves and branches doing little to hide the moon in her cloudless s ky, and the wind that rages in countries away doesn t even try to brush her thigh. She no longer dreads the mythical creeps of nightmares that children envision b ut instead sits sighing until the monster that most excites and frights her knoc ks on her door. He enters before she said come in , the knock was faux-decency and it mocked her. The knock was foreplay. She s so sick of the sight of him, but glad that he s here, his eyes exploring (deploring) her skin like a connoisseur. She w ears a see-through gown of submissiveness and it looks like running water, when she asks him to take her clothes off he peels away her skin. Sometimes he d stop h alf-way through pregnant pause, magpie-eyed and stare at her, searching through

her bones for silver and sometimes for long enough that she ll realise she doesn t w ant to be there.

January is the burns from late night cups of tea and conversations that leave an invisible spectrum of broken hearts, indicated by the purples blues and yellows. February is the snowflakes that catch on fluttering eyelashes and rosy frost-bitten cheeks soothed gently by familiar lips. March is the hummingbirds tiny heartbeats perched outside your windowsill, matching the tiny words you only dare scrawl on the margins of dog-eared pages in Emma . April is all marigolds and honeysuckle, freshly picked from the garden that you met the boy with haunting eyes. May is the full blooms twining through your ribcage, daring you pick just one, despite the fact that you feel the bones cracking from the heavy perfume. June is ivory giving way to gold, and accepting the freefall of wanderlust for a strange boy with an even stranger name, begging you to run with him until you can fly. July is getting swept up in the monsoons that have been chasing you ever since you were a little girl, standing on your tiptoes and reaching for a falling star. August is the last chance you have to do something worth writing novels about, the ones you ve dreamed of writing but never had the courage to take the leap. September is falling back into normal routines, but still filled with the yearning to chase the clouds, hoping that maybe this time they ll take you home. October is the carrier of bruised hands and stung faces, numb apologies nestling into the fallen leaves, soon to be forgotten. November is all the things that were left unsaid, neatly bundled between the layers intended to keep you warm, but instead never fail to leave you shivering. December is the weight that ensures heavy hearts and paper-thin skin, in risk of tearing at any moment, yet you still run through the pine trees anyway. Cycles by Annalise

intoxicated with the madness i'm in love with my sadness " This is my suicide dress, she told him. I only wear it on days when I m afraid I mig ht kill myself if I don t wear it. But you ve been wearing it everyday since we ve met, e said." Denver Butson, What She Was Wearing

some people are just born with tragedy in their blood yo no necesito hablar para expresar una emocion, me basta solo con mirar

A Japanese legend says that if you can t sleep at night it s because you re awake in someone else s dream.

there is something wrong with me besides melancholia

it's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.

Esperaba dentro del auto para dar un paseo por la oscuridad... De noche la ciudad crece: yo miro sus ojos y veo cmo resplandecen. Esperaba dentro del auto para dar un paseo por la oscuridad... Me emborrach en el saln y persegu las seales de nen... Mirando el paisaje mutante del cielo, espero a que aparezca un trueno... La ciudad es mi templo: me arropa al amanecer con su destello. Esperaba dentro del auto: aguardaba el momento exacto para dar un paseo por la oscuridad.

torturing yourself with depressing music when you're sad as fuck.

she does what the night does to the day

http://themes.pouretrebelle.com/ http://sleepythemes.tumblr.com/ http://www.smpldesign.co.uk/ goodreads.com

Cristina, con tan slo 13 aos, se ve metida de lleno en el mundo de la droga; engan chada a la herona est en un pozo del que, a da de hoy, 30 aos despus, an no ha salido. Slo quiero probarlo, eso es todo. Tengo un control total sobre m misma. Estas son algunas de las perlas que suelta Cristina en la pelcula, que es una maravilla en todos los aspectos, desde la interpretacin absolutamente brillante de Natja Brun ckhorst en el papel de Cristina y de Thomas Haustein en el de Detlev, pasando po r la ambientacin que plasma a la perfeccin los ambientes insanos, asquerosos y lgub res en los que se mueven los protagonistas.

utilizar triangulos negros para unir imagenes http://lolitalightofmylife.tumblr.com/ dreamcrusher

El enebro - Peter Straub La piscina - Whitley Strieber A vueltas con los muertos - Charles L Grant Debido a las tinieblas - Jack Cady Good Girl Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing p ills. (So my hands won t shake.) (So my heart won t race.) (So my face won t thaw.) (S o my blood won t mold.) (So the voices won t scream.) (So I don t reach for knives.) ( So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So the wine goes bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So I remember the name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So I keep my hands insi de my hands.) (So the city won t rattle.) (So I don t weep on the bus.) (So I don t wa nder the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.) (So the insomnia sleeps.) (So I don t jump at car horns.) (So I don t jump at cat-calls.) (So I don t jump a bridge .) (So I don t twitch.) (So I don t riot.) (So I don t slit a strange man s throat.)

Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking your cu p size, say A, hang up. When he says you gave him blue balls, say you re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a sta irwell to ask if you re a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won t ha ve anything to grab when you head-butt her. Then head-butt her. When a guidance

counselor teases you for handed-down jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex f or the second time and there is no condom, do not convince yourself that screwin g between layers of underwear will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading: Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma, do not take your first feminist stand by leaving the classroom. When the boy you have a crush on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not stri ke back. When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his wri sts, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time. When t he skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do not turn red. When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use a screw dri ver, a beer bottle, your two good hands. When your father locks the door, break the window. When a college professor writes you poetry and whispers about your t ight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait, call the Dean, cal l his wife. When a boy with good manners and a thirst for Budweiser proposes, sa y no. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn red. When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know. When the girl on the subway curses you beca use your tee shirt reads: I fucked your boyfriend, assure her that it is not true. When your dog pees the rug, kiss her, apologize for being late. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Jersey City, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Harlem, do not move. When he refuses to s tay the night because your air conditioner is broken, leave him. When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your apartment, leave him. When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment hidden in the closet, leave him. Do not regret this. Do not turn red. When your mother hits you, do not strike back.

. Communion I know a boy who called his girlfriend s body a crime scene. Dad, my body is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body is a brush fire. It s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of them. It isn t raining any more. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long love letters but I don t thin k he loves me. I think I m used up. I think I m the grit under his nails, the girl w ho looks good in pictures. I don t think he loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it s because they broke me. I heard about two girls r ecently, two women crushed like cherries in a boy s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My bod y is melted wax, it is ripe and stink and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don t hate men, Dad, I don t. I want a washing machine. I want someone el se to do the dishes, someone to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She s an angry bitch she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don t make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I m a sick girl, a craz y wishbone. I have razors under my tongue. I m sorry I cut you, Dad, I m so so sorry. I gave you a card for Father s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your l augh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I can t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch? I use d to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches me an ymore because I m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up. They c racked me open, Dad, I know you don t want to hear about it. You don t want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one wants to hear ho w they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark thick of purple an d black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had freckles. He needs medic

ine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a hive. I am red ants and jell yfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom in an alley in Jersey City. I don t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus in biohazard tank. A Polaroid pi nned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I m hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough gi rl for too long. My body is a wafer, a thin, soft melt on a choir boy s tongue.

there is no she it s just a subway car on a tuesday morning where the fluorescent lights are flickering so loud