Sarah

In the etheral beauty of your diamond smile,
I have noted the slightest sound of buzzing,
Wasps in your mind flying around again, no doubt,
Stinging you petulantly with that old familiar venom,
The other dancers in this parade never do see the crash coming,
Though it's always been so blatantly obvious to me,
But fully equipt with my own wasp repellant,
I have to ask you, "When will you get your own?"

This hot liquid attraction never will fade, dear,
While you play charades with the future,
And dance, near flawlessly, with the religious "should-do's"
Always in the foyer of your plastic sanctuary,
He will be there,
Waiting for just one of those lovely diamond teeth of yours,
To break out of your porcelain mask and shatter,
Painfully,
Busting out into white powder upon the floor,

And you will fall to the ground, grieving in sorrow,
As I still do at times myself,
Lapping it up, breathing it in, like the junkie you will always be,
Like me,
Never realizing until it is far too late,
That the remainder of your mask has crumbled as well,
Turning into just another sugary-sweet hit,
That you are desperately trying to devour with avengance and haste,
Before they pull you away again from your medication,
And force thier version of "better" into you one more time

"Put back on the mask"
"Pretend, pretend, pretend..."
"Now smile and say you're okay"

Isn't it fun, being an addict?

Memoirs of a Pill-Popper

You are the sweet, plastic decadence I crave,
A soft pixie dust center lulling me into blissful ignorance,
Wiping the slate of my memory clean for a while,
The rainbow hues of the world you produce,
As light and colorful as your casing,
Are pieces of paradise lost in bitter reality and sobriety,
The hot rush of your neon love,
Injected into my putrid veins,
Has woven small, ribbon-like fingers into the very fabric of my existence,
I like you, love you, far too much,
Developed too much of a fatally wicked attraction,
...I cannot...Will not... let you go...
In a sober and painful moment of purest desire,
Tainted maliciously by the fire in my brain,
I realize I wouldn't let you go if I could, dear pill,
And tonight while lying supine in the dark,
I will taste the venem of your kiss over and over again,
Praying to you, my Muse,
To become the Sinuet I love to adore.

Cinderella

Your quicksilver, moon-sliver of a smile betrays the delicate lines in your razor sharp tongue,
The one that bit gracefully into my throat of alabaster and seeped toxins of a new disease into my sapphire veins,
That now I am slicing open, in pathetic attempts, to rid you from my soul
& the black rivers beneath my eyes that you've so callously placed there
Drip placidly from my cheeks
What new crime have I committed that you feel you must give my heart yet another lashing?
Smiling with putrid contempt at me,
You have bashed me into a broken state, leaving nothing of my once lovely surface,
Still, through the roar of your anger that melts me into nothing,
I manage to stare blankly and contentedly at the primrose sky above me,
Floating deep within the absence of the cosmos I fly away to where you never touch,
To where your acid fingertips will never burn the satin dreams of my heart again,
And I can be the Princess in her tower,
Waiting for the Knight to come and rescue her,

Ode to Addiction

You are the single thing I crave,
From inside my mind where you whisper seductively to me,
Lulling me into a rainbow dream as vivid as your smile,
You are something I will never be,
Seductive, Sensuous, Addictive,
Such preconcieved beauty drips from you,
And I lap it up in vacant hopes that pray,
To become a similar sinu(et),

But it will never happen...


Wild lovers and worshippers alike,
You have us entirely encased so small,
Within a grip tighter than the coffins that one day,
Shall eventually encase us all,
Overdosing on your neon love,
That bends the needle in the vein,
Breaking it off into the bloodstream, sick,
Ending this lovely little game,
Begging like pathetic little vermins,
Don't let us go yet,
Just give us one more drop,
One more hit and we'll be set,
To muddle and fuck around,
Day to day in miserable lives,
Dreams of decadence screaming,
The picture in the back of our eyes,
And when the nighttime falls,
Over sobriety all alone,
We'll climb from our cased cucoons and find,
That delicate fifty-one,

The Swan

You have captivated my attention like the sight of a swan gracefully leaving this frozen blue lake known as life. Flying to some far off exotic land, searching always, for something new. She never worried that her absence might cause some great distress to me. That I would grieve to death myself for the lack of her essence. The calming flow of her laughter that was infectious at times, no longer readily available when I needed it. The words of caring affirmation that slipped through her lips like grains of sugar. She never worried how or where the world would move without her once she's gone.

She is gone now.

They told us all today the bitter truth. Impossible to swallow, yet shoved down our throats into our souls like rotten meat, to make us ill. I'm still vomiting it all back up as if it would reverse reality, making it just a dream, or a horrible nightmare rather. They told us you could no longer breathe. Could no longer stand to smile, daily, into the simple divinity of your pain as if it weren't real. Could no longer stand to fight for a future that you knew didn't exist. Could no longer tolerate the cancer-like disease that was eating away at your soul instead of your body.

Could no longer stand...at all in fact...

I screamed for you time and time again. So loudly that a few times those glass walls around your brain cracked. Oh, but they never would shatter, would they? No...and no matter how loudly I screamed for you, called for you, my voice was never loud enough to overpower the voices that lived in your own head. Whispering...Debating....and then Debilitating you into sickness and sorrow so deep that you could never come out again.

They said it surely had to be an accident. Oh, but I'm not that blind, not that stupid, and not that naive. You were drowning in this blue lake of life, just like Virginia Woolf. Just praying to fly away someday. Maybe then you could breathe again. Could feel again. Could see more clearly and without this tainted vision of ours.

So I'm watching you, in my mind's eye, taking that beautiful swan-dive from out of your window that let you fly away finally. And I'm just wondering...what is it like to breathe again?

Like Father Like Daughter

It's been years since you left me this way. Dead on the inside and dead on the outside too at times. Oh, but I still see you so clearly. I see you every time I look in the mirror. I see your eyes stare back at me, devoid of life and health, devoid of love. I see your lips smile at me when I grin while I'm smoking. When I open them to devour another handful of pills that I don't need but crave desperately. When I swallow the last mouthful of Merlot. I see everything I hated about you and everything that you could have been. Now I only see them on myself, though. Because you are nowhere to be found. But you have managed to leave me here, cleverly, with all of your old ghosts and skeletons. The ones that have infected me with a disease that, even though it isn't contagious, is still threatening to everyone around me. Somehow I've managed to hate you so badly, that I have become you. Right down to your addictions and personality traits.

I often wonder how I became someone that left me. How I became someone that I swore was my lifelong enemy. How in the hell did I become someone that abused me? Used me? Dashed in and out of my life like a goddamn fairy godmother, always promising better and more wonderful things, but at the end of the night was gone like everyone else. Oh yes, and then when I became sick like you were, they all left me behind. Sick of me like they were sick of you. If I had a dollar for everytime that my mother said to me "You're just like your father" or "You're becoming like your father" believe you me, I would be a wealthy woman. Instead, I'm left here with your stupid ghost and it would seem that I am destined to become like you.

The Most Borderline Thing I've Written In Years....Turn Back Now!!!

The world has been spinning lately. I can't pinpoint what's wrong with me. Maybe (most likely) just the same old Bipolar shit as usual. Of course, my boyfriend, thinks it's mostly Borderline. Well...whatever. I've officially come back into the depressed phase of living. Oh the joy. It's been worse lately than it has in a long time. I've actually thought about killing myself. Isn't that fun? I feel absolutely out of place. I don't belong anywhere. I find myself alone most of the time, even when there are people around. I can't make it go away. Sarah moved into my room and now I'm basically homeless. I feel as though I'm some pathetic moocher just like my biological father, David was. My mother says I'm turning out like him. She's been saying that for years though. If she would have refused to let Sarah move in though, maybe I wouldn't be a moocher. I wonder if she thought of that? I wouldn't be HOMELESS then. People ask me where I'm from, I tell them I'm from here and there. What else are you supposed to say to that? "Oh hey how ya doing? I'm Jacqie. I'm a homeless bum from absolutely nowhere and I have no home to go back to and aren't you glad to meet me?"

No, I don't think that would work out very well. (Fuck that sounded really borderline right there) I can't help it though. I feel like shit. So I'm ranting about my misery. Misery loves company after all.

My anxiety is through the roof. I hate being alone. But I feel alone all the time. I'm a mess in that area. I haven't had anxiety issues for a while. I feel like screaming, ripping my veins open, and then slipping into a bathtub and staining everything a beautiful shade of burgundy. What's wrong with me? I was fine and then all of a sudden, BOOM! It all falls apart. It mostly started when Sarah moved in. As if it weren't bad enough she took my life from me. Her and Jon. I was happier. I had more life to me. I had confidence in a sense. I had a mother who could oogle and ogle over me and a dad who would take me fishing. I had a church that even though I was a little wild, knew I was the best prospect for all the drama plays, and cast me in a leading or semi-leading role. I was better than this. I was more well. I was semi-healthy. Before everything just fell the fuck apart. Back to Sarah and Jon though. I got stuck with her piece of shit life, and made something of it, and her kids love me. They thought of me as a mother. I raised them for 5 years. 5 years on May 12th, 2009. I went to school with that life she shoved off on me. I became sick and then fought my way back from hell. It's been a real fight too.

Now she's back. The vampiric bitch is back to suck the life out of the life she threw away. Once she's gone through 2 lives of mine, I am innately curious to see where that leaves me. I feel like everything I had worked for, or everything I had left, has slipped through the cracks in my palm and is blowing away from me. I feel like it's left me homeless and without family. I feel like I'm starting to crack into a million little pieces. Drugs haven't looked this good in a long time. I want a cockatail, a cocktail of 3 Effexors, 2 Geodon, some Lithium(even tho it makes me puke) and maybe some Rozarem (about 2). Then everything will be just fine. I miss my cockatails right now. They made everything numb. So blissfully numb. My ED thoughts are flaring up too. Starvation and Control. I'm so fat and hideous that I make myself sick. I keep thinking that if I can JUST be thin enough, skinny enough that my ribs show and my hipbones jut out sharply, that I'll be worth loving. If only just for my lovely outsides. Bulimia helped me lose 45 lbs from March to May of this year. I need to lose another 30 before I can fit back into anything and not look like a fucking COW. My Dr always said that I should weigh about 150. I need to weigh 120. I'll be beautiful then. I'll look like an emaciated junkie, but God, who cares? I'll be beautiful. I won't be fat. I'll be able to fit nicely into 60's clothing and be a hippie. I could be one of those beautiful model-esque girls who sit around and smoke and look lovely doing it. I need to start puking again. I need to get some Adapex. I need to do SOMETHING. I'm miserable and am going to DIE if I don't move somehow.

I'm running from myself. I'm running from my pain. I'm running from everything. But that's okay. It's how I got past James Todd, it's how I'll make it past Bryan Medlin. It's how I'll survive.

My boyfriend is pushing me into therapy. Because I'm sick and he's probably tired of hearing about everything. I talk too Goddamn much. I need to learn to just shut up and cut the pain out. I need a razorblade...