comfortable in chaos

the waves of creativity became as still as water at night, when my shadow work needed more focus. the past couple of months I've been more or less on the tipping point of being ok, and going absolutely off the fucken rails.

why is the things you should stay away from, the things you crave the most? well, it's not even really an urge, or a need, it's more not having an argument as to why not. the addictive short term highs, and the comedown that follows, where you wake up hungover, next to someone or completely alone.

i do always feel guilty when i don't take the time to write, it's not like i've got writers block. the issue is that i never even make space, take time, sit down, to try. it's like when you go so long without eating breakfast that you don't even feel hungry anymore. at this stage i'm just nauseous, a little bit dizzy, and my wrists feel cold. i wish i was in the habit of writing again. 

but i'd be lying if i said the shadow work was ineffective. letting go of illness and chaotic tendencies, as well as years of substance abuse, is fucken scary. i know it's not a defining factor in who i am, but at the same time i can't help but feeling that i don't know who i am without my parade of red flags. 

someone whole, someone healed, feels so far away from who i've known myself to grow into. when you get comfortable in chaos, when you create friction, and hurt, because the feeling of rejection and pain is familiar. 

i refuse to put pressure on myself in an effective, speedy healing recovery process. i've said this for years, but i will continue to say, i am not yet where i need to be, but thank god i'm not longer where i was. 

(oh and one more thing. i'm gonna just write here and publish whatever. it's not like anyone is reading this anyway. let a diary be a diary for godness sake).

22/06

marine blue curdoroys and chocolate brown curls tucked away in a low bun. safely secured by a hair tie made out of a moutmask. he’s pointing and telling me about the cathedrals in the horizon but the only view i care about is his lips moving and the wind playing with his sweater. he pours our shelf temperatured soave in the shared mug whilst hunched over, and the sunset colours of a light swimming pool blue and lemon merengue yellows melting into one another. now he’s pointing again. he’s excited but i don’t care. my eyes are sore, and today’s last sun rays feels warm on my lashes. and then he kisses me and for a moment i truly wish i were in love. the faded honks and the murmured chatters from the street of people walking home, whipping flag poles and the silhouette of seagulls soaring. clouds looking like whipped cream, and this, here, right now, is the sweetest moment i’ve could’ve asked for, such a shame i’m more of a savory kind of girl.

03/07

 i was never a slow burner of a girl. i was a beach bonfire, with glowing embers carried by the sea breeze. the one that laughed when my marshmallows caught on fire, the one to play with the candles till my fingers got black from the ashes, the one with a woolen sweater reeking of burnt wood. i have never been bothered by getting my fingers burnt because i’ve always loved to play with fire. the thrill of dancing with the flickering flame. because what do you do when the devil asks you to dance? you give him your hand. again and again and again. that’s what you do for love. and i think i’ve fallen in love with having blisters on my fingers. 

25/06

he says that every time he sees me his heart grows fonder. i make a face that i don’t know what looks like. i think it was a non convincing half smile, but i’m not sure. dismissive. full moon beers. shared earbuds like teenagers in the back of a bus. camera strap around him and his arms around me. canals mirroring the night sky between pollen and lily pads, like a broken compact. i’m dancing for him, and he’s watching me carefully, facing me, leant on the railing. golden burnt orange tones shaking in the ripples. tomorrow’s midsummer. i watch the tram lights passing on the other side of the canal in the water. like a painting of van gogh. footsteps. oh the sound of his footsteps. string lights in the trees and the red light of a cab reversing. i vaguely remember a van gogh quote explaining how the nights are richer in colour than most days. i will have to agree.

cherry cheeks and chokeholds

You were right, the scarves do in fact double as a picnic blanket! I can't even think of what the city sounds like, when all I hear's the reed playing with the wind around us. My hair is down, dark brushed out waves, my tits are out, after you pulled down my top kissing my neck before, and now that our heartbeats back to normal, it's just awkwardly hovering around my waist. Kinda don't feel like putting it back on. Arms: grateful for the freedom, stretching them out over my head, giving my wrists a spin, breathing in so I can feel my ribs showing through my skin. Resting my wrists on my forehead as I let myself down on the ground with a thump. The peaches' are boiling warm by the sun! Juicy slurping, nectar dripping, racing down my wrists. Get the droplets off before they're reaching my elbows! Any excuse to have your tongue touch me. Mmm your lips giving me zinc-y sunscreen kisses. How many freckles can you kiss on my lower belly before I melt like a popsicle on the sidewalk? Oh, your hair's messy, little sweaty locks, strands glimmering like a pretty rock under water. Twirled around my fingers, lightly tugging you, running my nails through your scalp. Turning your head, facing me. Squinty fluttery lashes makes me smile before I even realise that I do. Holy fuck you look good in the sun. Stupid indifferent waving gesture, acting bothered by the bees. I know you're loving their buzz.

The wine that we chilled overnight's condensed label's slightly coming off, and I can't even act like it's remotely cold anymore. Cows parsley swaying next to us, casting beautiful flowery shadows on your back. Look at my nails matching the strawberries! Feeding you, pinching the leafy green part. Your lips around my fingers as you bite down. Still only looking at me with one squinty eye, fingers still between your lips. I bite my teeth together. I didn't even realise my jaw dropped. You sit up, brushing your thumb finger across my bottom lip, opening my mouth again for you. Lightly sliding down the side of my jaw, tickling my neck, with a light playful chokehold as you push your fingers down on my skin. I adore his hands around my neck, pushing his thumbs into me. He lets my cheeks flush riper than august cherries, and my heartbeat pounding till my tits jiggle with every beat, before he lets go of the pressure and I can breathe again. Where do you think you're going?

the devil

Cover me in white linen, cover me in white lies. I whinge about being cold, but wanting to be a low- hanging, snow- covered branch, bending (over backwards) for him, glimmering, freezing cold, melting in his hand like a snowflake. He’s a red flag, but red's my favourite colour. 

When he didn’t want me, I didn’t believe him. I saw the way he looked at me. There’s no way he’s had a change of heart. And now he says he wants me. He’s saying how he’ll try? I don’t believe him. I see the way he’s looking at me. There’s no way he’s had a change of heart. 

Pushing and pulling and tugging and kicking. He’s like the devil, he just makes me want to sin. And every time he reaches out, I can’t help but let him in. 

stop, please

(tw, sexual abuse)

There's too many nights I've fallen apart, and there's too many mornings I've had to quietly picked up my pieces, bitten my tongue, held my breath. Glancing in the mirror, telling myself I'm strong, this won't break me. I didn't make this bed, but my body is shackled. I didn't cause this suffering, but I have to live in this torment. Closing my eyes and feeling the teardrops letting gi of my lashes. Letting the tears stream down my face, and run down the body that no longer feels mine. Please, let it rinse their fingerprints off me, let it wash the torture off of my damaged soul. My skin's filthy and heart's polluted with disgust, filled to the brim with agony. Holding myself together yet another day. No one will see the scars I carry inside. Bottling up the hate, choking the fire of despise, watching it die out. I am the sand running through my fingers. I am the pebbles caught by waves. There's no way I can do this alone, but I don't know how to raise my voice. I’ve fallen and I don’t know what it looks like to stretch out my arm. I just want to know what it feels like to be pulled out of the water, but I'm bound to quietly drown.

All these men, some that I trusted, some I didn't know. Ripping my clothes off, spreading my legs, stop, please, get your hands off me. I want to vomit, there's no sound when I scream, stop, please. Struggling under them, I am shackled, get your hands off me. Stop, please. Twisting and wrestling, I can feel myself being torn apart between grunts, thrusts, and tears. Stop, please.

playing with water

Brushing the hair away from my neck, so his lips can sweep by my skin. Soft smooches, warm kisses. The kind that breaks up into very intimate giggles. Kisses that quickens my heartbeat and slows his breath down. He looks at me with puffy, longing eyes, and stretches his arms, before he pulls me closer again. "I should get going". It’s way too late already. With him, I cross my fingers for time to stand still. I want to lay like this forever. Because as soon as I ride off on my bike, I am a stranger to him. Dreading the drilling thoughts that will come, when I stare at the ceiling wondering if he’s thinking about me too. I already know he's not. So for now i’ll just stare into his eyes. Those blue beautiful eyes, sparkling at me like glimmering waves. I can't see the shore.

I'm not worried about getting burned, because I'm not playing with fire. He’s my tide wave, washing over me like a tsunami, breaking me apart, and pulling me with the debris of my heart back with him as he leaves. "I forgot how to swim" I whisper, as I willingly walking into the water. And as the waves break on my thighs, I'm kissing him back: Knowing he'd let me drown. 

Birch trees are rustling their dried leaves. They're not ready to let go just yet. The northern autumn breeze is disregarding my jacket, and I roll my bike over the dried twigs on the sidewalk. Purposely walking on ice covered puddles. Delicate cracks and little bubbles in frozen solitude. Pausing, adjusting the weight from my heel to my toes. Resisting the temptation to jump. For a moment, I think that the way I feel about these frosted spiderwebs, is how he feels about my heart. Amused by the delicate cracks, tempted to crush me under his feet, but not jumping, just yet. Taking his time, to watch the fractures expands, just like I'm softly collapsing. I wonder if I'm going crazy, or if I already am. 

Tall white candles in oxidised silver holders I thrifted this summer. They stand a little bit wobbly but I tried to cut to balance. Equinox’s passed us and the darker nights are getting hungrier, swallowing the days whole, but the moon is flaunting her beauty, and the tree outside our balcony is falling for it. I sit on the bathtub wishing I too was having fun with the moonlight shadows. I smile at him dancing with her. May he never be scared of winter.

honey on toast

 For months I've been playing with the cloudy memory of how he felt. And out of no where, he kissed me again. So vigorously my soul left my body, and then he held me throughout the night till it found it's way home. Full circle to break the spell. And although he won the fight, I won the war. The war that was never really between us. This was never really about him.

Tangled golden curls, soft lips, addictive hands. Keep touching me. Melting me. Too much honey on my toast. Running down my fingers, but he's taking care of each and every part, licking it off, one by one swirled by his tongue, feeling the back of his throat. And he looks beautiful with his eyes watering up as I make him choke on me. I'm a fucken flower in spring for him. Misty leaves, dewy skin. Rosy and blushing, as he peels the pedals of my body with his mouth. It's too much skin between us. Come closer to me. Let me count your freckles with my lips. He's touching all the elevator buttons with a childish smirk. Knowing how I just want the top floor. But he's holding the door, feeling it push against him as it tries to close, and then, releases, for him, staying open for a little bit longer. Letting me "ding" with anticipation on every. Single. Floor. I'm impatient and he loves the tease, but oh how the thin air will eventually make me lightheaded as I glance at the rooftop view with half-shut eyes, waiting for my soul to come back home.

i come in (chick)peace

Little by little last years loneliness let go of the chokehold. and I could breathe. Like when you finally get to wash down a pill you tried to dry-swallow. Those feelings left like a dried dandelion in the wind. Made a wish and i woke up to days surrounded by faces fuelling my heart with love. Speaking kindly to me, tucking my hair behind my ear and kissing my fingers.

Yet another coarse curled man picked me up and dropped my heart and now, two months later i'm reminded of how it feels to be me again. The evening i shattered, i went to a public house, carrying white peonies in one hand and the pieces of my heart in the other. Sat in the inner corner, where the cream candles danced to my quiet cries, watching tears ripple and dilute my pint. wasn't asked how or what or why, but beers on the house and eyes meeting mine. 

Got myself two secondhand silk scarves with floral print so that i can keep my hair out of the food i plate at work. And i am beauti - fucken- full, with thighs covered in pita flour, rosy cheeks from the heat of the stove, burn marks across my arms and a glowy falafel fry highlight. But i think what made me glow more than the deep fryer is my happy heart - not the flour on my shoes but that i place my feet in a space where i belong, where i'm loved, cherished and encouraged. Where i don't see myself as a waste of space, but sing till my voice's raspy and i laugh till i cry. To love and to be loved. I guess hummus where the heart is.

nov

November is more gray than I remember her. The wind is pulling the leaves of the trees, the raindrops are racing down the windows, and everyone is glued to their phone on the bus home. I took the train to paris last week, and spent one night in the city of light. Danced with tears in my eyes, walked till my feet hurt from blisters, giggled at the metro and finally got to enjoy some good coffee.

The days since I've been home has felt a bit like the last pickle in the jars' resist of getting captured. Cold toes, two outfits on rotation, the occasional sharp sunlight exposing an apartment that could use a round with the hoover. Loss of a family member I've known my whole life, and I've gone to bed very drunk a couple of nights in a row since I heard.

November has been good to me. I have opened my heart a bit more, and cried more than I realised I needed. Just a couple of more weeks, and I'll be poaching pears, crunching on peppernuts, driving around to christmas music. I can't wait for low hanging branches, covered in snow. I can't wait for zeldas headbutts early in the morning. I can't wait to go home for christmas.