Dear Diary, I apologise. I keep spilling their names all over your body. Like somehow I can mold them from your tattoed skin, perhaps paper mache them back into life. I was hoping the dust would settle soon. That it would rain in this desert I call life but it has only drizzled. My throat is parched, I can not speak about it anymore. The songs I used to play on my vinyl recorder of a heart are scrached from all the chest pains and faulty orgasms.
I used to think i deserved things like affection. I was once obsessed with the idea of love and feelings. Now I want to weed out all my odd bits and plant Jericho Roses.
My lungs are a lover I am watching fall out of love with me. She doesn’t hold my gaze or stay up waiting for me while i’m working late. She stopped doing all those little things.
They are a building I have set on fire. The windows rattle while the wind blows even when they are closed. My lungs whistle when I breathe, this is a hunted house; the roof is leaking and the floor boards creak. When I sleep and the night is quiet, i can hear broken violin sounds. This is what hopelessness sounds like. I can’t seem to stop.Air was never meant to kill us.
I don’t think I want to die. At least not today. Not yet.
My father hasn’t been living on this planet for some time now. My mother tends to broadcast her frequencies on a station i do not listen to. I think we are growing apart. It scares me. she has always been the brown in my skin, the crooked tooth in my smile. She is my ventilator but somehow i find myself breatthing on my own…
Is this what growing up feels like?
I hate the smell of roses but i love the way the thorns feel against my skin. I do not remember the sound of my brothers voices so I keep replaying recorded skype calls but they are not trapped in time. They will be strangers by the time this varsity has finished shoving “education” down my throat. I am tired but i know this is just the beginning.
I should get comfortable in this body.