For Your Facial Manifestation,

     I have uncertainty on doing this alone although everything until now has been, obviously not saving your raping gaping holes poking the opposite of happiness into my everything of but what a dark matter.

     I’m on the precipice of unchanged trembling with fear of almost the Room 101 with no no puppy to save me. I received “ticket for two” when what I really requested was a ticket for one.

     My forsaken dance of the fucking death by dial toll is what we once knew as our tender romance of the tender ages, four by maybe five accusations—none deserving the ripe credibility they have grown: cruelty is never a gorgeous gore, no matter the tone.

     When I said that everything is forever changing and nothing is unstoppable, what I really meant to scream at the very top of the tightrope of my lungs was “ME, for man is BVT A WORM.”

 

Not Dead, Yet Dying

     Do you know the rights 

to finding me?

     Today was the day. The only thing coming in my mouth this leap is on an exit to existence, beyond the world I believed to be the only. Nightmares of your faceless stares, reversion into your kingdom for hours on end—you are not the only thing. Earlier gate calls might have saved us all.

 

Part Four: Maxims and Interludes. Section 89.

Terrible experiences make one wonder whether

he who experiences them is not something terrible.

when you have a face, i'll have a mouth.

     In the outside, Tonnie didn’t dare act the way he let himself act when he was in his own house.

     She looked over her right shoulder, over her left. She felt the emptiness at her back. The whole world, except for Tonnie’s house, was the outside.

     That was an idea she had never had before. She pictured the whole world — round — like a picture in a book, with the Australians hanging off by their feet and smiling, and the Japanese sticking out of one side, smiling. She pictured how little a dot Tonnie’s home made on that globe. Everything except for that tiny little dot wasn’t his.

     All the rest —

     Not that she thought the rest of the world was perfect, or even easy, or even safe. Just, it wasn’t Tonnie’s.

     And there was so much of it. So much more of the rest than there ever could be of Tonnie’s.

     She could almost see how much.

     The door started to open, and terror reached out for her, reached up from her belly to grab on to her heart.

     Tish wrapped her hand around that picture of how much world stretched out around the few square feet of house that Tonnie owned. She wrapped her hand around the idea and held it out in front of her, like a knife.

The Offer & The Received

Rough draft written on 28 March 2010

     It’s difficult for me to trust people, especially people I instinctually feel I should—family. Undressing before a twisted grin and hours of lost darkness with my great grandfather is my youngest memory.

     At a point, three more individuals began to take turns at my body. A short time later my birth mother figured it out, on several occasions witnessing my captors leading their prisoner to Hell. All the while she said and did nothing. She picked at me for it then and calls me a liar today, yet has an immense curiosity in what all lies I have spread.

     What sick & sane person would wish to hear such horrendous lies evidently in accusation of themselves? Or perhaps, and the truth is grave-ridden here, she seeks what truths I have told that she has attempted desperately to cleverly disguise as lies so that she may better cloak the rest of what I haven’t yet told the world in invisibility. Hardly.

     Aside from trust, holding on to self-worth from my obvious (re)collection of reduction to the V is a prominent difficulty. The one I felt by a subconsciously assumed mutual instinct should care for me most, harbors a malicious desire to constantly belittle and subsequently dispatch me in finite time. She wouldn’t protect my then-virgin body of all the things she could’ve, how could I gravitationally take pride in myself without an outside force? My body has always been the prison from the very first particle of dark matter I know exists but cannot see.

     This is the inescapable womb of a black hole that has swallowed me ad infinitum. Someone’s going to have to push me out, and maybe it’s me. We don’t know what triggers labor. All I’m sure of is my inescapability of responsibility for what I hope was this unplanned pregnancy. I wish someone had protected me from the egg, because the only life I’ve ever received from you Lisa Marie Kaufmann is your mitochondria.

Liberate Te Ex Inferis

     My boyfriend is asleep or so I think, my best friend never called me back to make plans like we were going to, my father’s reading Schopenhauer in the living room, and my mother is terrorizing the city with her friends.

     Although I rarely feel so nonexistent in this world to the people that matter most, a rarity unknown is how actually alive I feel. Today my horrors visited another human being, now I know that I am not the only one who knows them by first name. I am liberated. This is what it feels like to be free.

“A Tapestry” – A Poem

     It’s been nearly five years since I’ve written a poem. I stopped writing poetry around the time I started. My trash of cutting, suicide, and of my friends’ mirroring issues dramatized and resented because their poetry was better than mine was the only thing my twelve year old chute spewed. My creative outlet was limited to stories of wolves basking in the perfection of their Utopian planet, my gift to them. My father’s gift was a shot down from its reality of worldly depression.

     My love is a poet, whether or not he knows it. He is the entire definition of amazement on page 207, his first passage only the beginning. The proof is taped into celluloid from three days before I imprisoned him months ago. His bravery was one of the first things I found attractive about his being; his tongue landscaping a minute sunny maid was not a piece of his entity no matter the arousal it sprung.
     Always asking what I love of him, maybe now he’s caught a glimmer of the diamond I see when I look at him. Man is bvt a worm; Jonathan is the single diamond in the rough dirt—to me.

     Fears diminish in his presence, the range of bathing suits on the beach to comfort with my nudity is shocking news of a victim. Sexuality is my scaliest fear, those old snakes are still slithering about my island of self-deceit. With machete in tow, he cuts them away and tosses them into the forth flowing canals leading to the Lake of the Dead.
     The arrogant slayer of all my fear, then the noble shining hero of this proud damsel in distress. What Princess doesn’t fall for the Knight, what Princess doesn’t brand him her muse? Fairy tales only work in a single way.

A Tapestry

17 April 2010

Draped in your dark clothes where my comfort exists
Covering my transparent polar bear skin.
Your grey, brown, and burgundy hues collapse into me
Colliding, politely, as a unit of bursts
Rainbows—that’s what I’m thinking.

I’m guessing this is a poem of protection: by clouds
Another one of me, floating around
In love with kisses, skin, and you
And of course
Your grey, brown, and burgundy hues.

Monday's Excerpts - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

This Week's Book: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

    “Cheshire Puss,” she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider; “Come, it’s pleased so far,” thought Alice, and she went on, “Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to walk from here?”
    “That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.
    “I don’t much care where——“ said Alice.
    “Then it doesn’t matter which way you walk,” said the Cat.
    “——so long as I get somewhere,” Alice added as an explanation.
    “Oh, you’re sure to do that, said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”
    Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. “What sort of people live about here?”
    “In that direction,” the Cat said, waving its right paw round “lives a Hatter; and in that direction,” waving the other paw, “lives a March Hare. Visit either you like; they’re both mad.”
    “But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
    “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat; “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
    “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
    “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.” (Page 53)

—————

    The executioner’s argument was, that you couldn’t cut off a head unless there was a body to cut it off from; that he had never had to do such a thing before, and he wasn’t going to begin at his time of life.
    The King’s argument was, that anything that had a head could be beheaded, and that you weren’t to talk nonsense.
    The Queen’s Argument was, that if something wasn’t done about it in less than no time, she’d have everybody executed, all round. (It was this last remark that had made the whole party look so grave and anxious.) (Page 76)

—————

    “So you did, you know,” the Red Queen said to Alice. “Always speak the truth—think before you speak—and write it down afterward.”
    “I’m sure I didn’t mean——“ Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen interrupted her impatiently.
    “That’s just what I complain of. You should have meant! What do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning? Even a joke should have some meaning—and a child’s more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn’t deny that, even if you tried with both hands.
    “I don’t deny things with my hands,” Alice objected.
    “Nobody said you did,” said the Red Queen. “I said you couldn’t if you tried.”
    “She’s in that state of mind,” said the White Queen, “that she wants to deny something—only she doesn’t know what to deny.”
    “A nasty, vicious temper,” the Red Queen remarked; and then there was an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two.(Pages 221-222)

Books finished this past week...
None

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

I Regret, I Digress

    I wouldn’t doubt that if Florida had basements, that’s where it would have all begun.
    With this sole reason in tow, I am grateful for living near a coastline for one of the few times in my life. I fear that had we lived deeper within the states, I may have never escaped the basement he constructed around me with calloused hands. I don’t think my newly sprouted wings would have been enough to break.

    If Likens’ wings couldn’t break her free of her prison after having so long to grow with such grotesque nourishment, I know with complete assurance mine never would have. Our comparisons of strength are too extreme in diversity of the American crime.
    She is the high and I am the low because she is publicized and fabricated to fascination. I wasn’t hurt badly enough to be celluloid beyond recognition. Like the death of average caucasian children making C’s and D’s, once recognized by the media she was glorified far past the typical hormonal girl that lacked the suddenly bestowed qualities recommended for sainthood.
    Likens didn’t even survive, but she was not a martyr to her crime. The idea of her is the martyrdom, and with the control I hold I can go the far distance to become an idea for necessary remembrance. Vexed victims minded.

    Remaining unnoticed by the uncaring world surrounding, I revolve. I have remained a target of disgust and disbelief amongst the jeering circus crowd of ridicule and shame despite my revolutionary act. My pain is not exaggerated nor glorified for film or song, my face is not a poster child for survival, and it never will be. I must die several times alive before I become anything memorable, save killing myself completely.

    Knit stitched into my existence, the idea of killing myself has shamelessly reared its ugly head since the day I got my wings, so obviously it might as well have very well sprouted from the back of my head shrieking.
    Before everything completely destroys me to a point of being utterly useless (it’s possible, tis true), I know that now is the time to unravel the suppressive cloth from my head before I bleed out too much.

    Now is the only time left to risk pulling the axe from its Black Lodge wedged into my skull, and hope for a miracle of survival at the end of the hospital hall lined with baker dozens of reconstructive surgeries I will undoubtedly endure for the rest of my physical, personal life.
    Regression is upon us meaning me, my time to thoroughly delve within my history once and for all. This complete exploitation of all I have suffered is my final and only hope of destroying myself over and over again for a remarkable rebirth.

    With idealized suicide in mind, this is how I got my wings.

Monday's Excerpts - A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs

     When I read A Wolf at the Table last December, I was beginning to delve heavily into sociology, and what all the study contains. Sociopathy especially had become a high interest of mine after reading The Sociopath Next Door. I believed I had found what has always been wrong with my birth mother, and strands of me still tug towards that hypothesis.
     After reading A Wolf, I couldn’t help but speculate that Burroughs’ father had a likelihood of being a sociopath as well; I related so closely to how he was treated as a child and in his later years. The excerpts I have chosen today remind me most of what I experienced growing up the few years my birth mother resided in my young life.
     Although now exiled from the gift of enjoying my existence, my horrors of her still pang at my sides, ratting about my ribcage begging angrily to be freed of my prison skin. I imagine this is close to how Burroughs felt, by reading his descriptions of self-agony after the fact of his father’s absence. I can only hope alongside my willpower that someday I’ll find the solace I seek, too.

This Week's Book: A Wolf at the Table by Augusten Burroughs

     I came to think that maybe God was what you believed in because you needed to feel you weren’t alone. Maybe God was simply that part of yourself that was always there and always strong, even when you were not.
     And if I put everything in God’s hands, wasn’t that a copout? If I didn’t get what I wanted I could use God as an excuse, I could say, “He didn’t want me to have it.” When, in fact, maybe I hadn’t worked hard enough on my own.
     If I wanted to be free of my father, it wasn’t up to some man in the sky. It was up to me. (Page 163)

—————

     I knew I had an ugly life. I knew I was lonely and I was scared. I thought something might be wrong with my father, wrong in the worst possible way. I believed he might contain a pathology of the mind—an emptiness—a knocking hollow where his soul should have been. But I also knew that one day, I would grow up. One day, I would be twenty, or thirty, or forty, even fifty and sixty and seventy and eighty and maybe even one hundred years old. And all those years were mine, they belonged to nobody but me. So even if I was unhappy now, it could all change tomorrow. Maybe I didn’t even need to jump off the cliff to experience that kind of freedom. Maybe the fact that I knew such a freedom existed in the world meant that I could someday find it.
     Maybe, I thought, I don’t need a father to be happy. Maybe, what you get from a father you can get somewhere else, from somebody else, later. Or maybe you can just work around what’s missing, build the house of your life over the hole that is there and always will be. (Page 177)

—————

     Another thing was clear to me in this moment: I was not him. I was me. Whatever wrong thing he contained, he had not passed it on. (Page 229)

Books read this past week...
★★★★☆ Lord of the Flies by William Golding
★★★★☆ Beyond Good and Evil by Friedrich Nietzsche
★★★☆☆ The Professor and the Madman: A Tale of Murder, Insanity, and the Making of the Oxford English Dictionary by Simon Winchester
★★★★★ River Out of Eden: A Darwinian View of Life by Richard Dawkins

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

To Infinitum, the Womb

    Conclusory, there is nothing more I need other than the minimal necessities of my health and a capability to utilize the possibilities that have surrounded me since the day of my birth. Had I been aborted sooner, I would have been carried within another womb ignorant to tools used for human extraction.
    Balance exists on our planet that I decided is ours because I decided balance shall exist and I also decided that I will become an icon. I will decide for society until citizens decide for themselves, and although I don’t have a vice presidential candidate to regurgitate everything including the garbage that discharges from the part between my northern lips, I will be a bona fide maverick.

    Unwaveringly, I hate the color magenta because magenta is the color of the outfit I was wearing when a boy equivalent to my age tore it off my innocent four year old body. This memory is one amongst the few still attacking me in my daily life.
    Having only been able to recollect a handful of the molestations in clarity has driven me to speculate, were I presented with the choice, would I prefer the current torturous memories in the form of nightmares, flashbacks, sexual embarrassment, etc., or the closeted reality of the event?

    Attempts at recollecting specifications of my every encounter with sexual abuse have been nearly impossible. Many of the nightmares I have endured have simply vanished from my conscience mind, regardless of how hard I try to select them from an internal bookshelf affectionately labeled, “Things to be forgotten. With love & reason, Your Sanity”. Clearly, my sanity doesn’t know me very well, probably because we haven’t kept close company throughout the course of my vividly memorable life.

    On the rare occasion my whores provide me mental downtime, my skipping around the beckoning void leaves me pondering if Sanity is hiding from me, or if my sub-conscious has hidden her in an act to secure our entity long-term. Whatever the cause of Sanity’s disappearance was, I doubt I’d have been capable of mustering the courage to do this had she shown up for jury duty the day Overall Judgment sentenced “logical reason” a few years behind bars, sole reasoning being so all those with a desire to attend could come together and finally craft what my bestowment recommended from first moment I realized I had outlasted my first victimization.

From the mouth of a sexual abuse victim:

"Education saved me because it allowed me to become more independent, more functional, a contributing member of society, and people started paying more attention to what I had to say, especially when I said I needed help."

My Priorities

            Everyone’s priorities are different, but often it seems like some people have theirs in a constant scramble, or they’re completely lacking. I’ve never understood people like that outside of a sarcastic comment. I cannot fathom traveling through life without a set plan or set of rules for myself (outside of my instincts). Where would I be? I’d be lost, aimless, I’ve been there before. I reached my lowest of lows when I had nothing to live by or for. I lost all hope to create anything for myself, so I simply didn’t. Destruction wasn’t creation in the form I practiced.

            Today I decided it might be a good idea to publicize my priorities to help others realize the importance of their own. I’ve also come across a frequent issue in regard to how others perceive my priorities. Outside of my obligations to others, for those that feel the urge to quiz me or even ponder my doings when they should be focusing on their own, I do not want anyone to ever be confused as to what’s on my mind as far as my daily and overall plans go. I hope these listings will give the inquisitive a better insight as to why I do what I do, and maybe they will grow to understand the way in which I do them. By opening my mind to every element, I hope to crack the surface of others’. My practice isn’t typical, but I should never be doubted on serious matters, it’s a shame when I am. I never seriously doubt myself.

Daily Priorities

• Waking up early, around 8 AM. What time I go to sleep matters less, I will always wake up at 8 without excuses the next morning. If I’m tired the next day, well, a lesson was provided to be learned from.
• Studying a beneficial subject, physical and social sciences, to my future formal education. Science will always come before philosophy studies. I read chapters or entire predetermined books, then do citations and excerpts in respective files on my laptop.
• Writing. I strive to write something every day if the inspiration strikes me If I don’t write, I’m thinking about writing. Actually, now that I consider it, I’m constantly thinking about writing, the English language, word painting, etc. I also write five things I’m grateful for each day - different than what I’ve written before - if I remember to do so.
• Exercise. Bike riding, group sports if an opportunity presents itself among my friends having similar interests that day, dancing, work out videos, walking my dog(s), etc.
• Eating right. I never eat when bored, a feat in itself considering I’m home alone all day. I only drink water and green tea. I’m happy with my body, but this and the latter are done to better my health and to tone my shape.
• Talking to each of my best friends at least once. Too many times have I been self-consumed by my personal activities, only to lose touch with those that meant the most. (Unfortunately, one I lost for what I imagine will be forever.) It’s not that I don’t care about my friends enough to go out of my way to contact them on a daily basis, I just get so focused on my bigger plans. Sometimes that focus blocks out my daily priorities, but not just this one.
• Share my thoughts of the day with at least one person willing to listen. Whether it be an idea, a concept, or something else to do with future writings, it doesn’t matter. I simply hope that those I share with enjoy listening.
• Spending time with my father for at least an hour a day, if he is available. I try to spend as much time with him as I possibly can. It’s easy to get along with him, we never run out of things to talk about because our likes and dislikes are nearly identical, our thoughts in sync to a scary degree. I cannot even think of any dramatic difference of interest or opinion, I could only measure it by our levels of passion for things we both like.
• Speaking to my mother at least once a day, if she is readily available.

Overall Priorities (In Order of Importance)

• Helping others to the best of my present capabilities. Everything I do and strive for in life is to better my skills in doing so. Constantly improving myself for the greater good makes me happiest above anything else. Family, friends, pets, even writing and learning. Of course, to help I exercise the things I just described, but this gives me an absolute joy, never to be diminished.
• My formal and private education. Formal, for credibility. I still have faith in learning formally by teacher and school. Private, for gaining knowledge on subjects I am personally interested in that may not be formally taught to the length I would prefer to comprehend them.
• Overcoming on a daily, yet lifelong basis, the sexual and physical abuse I endured as a child. I place this second on my overall priorities because I feel that if it were my number one priority, it would consume me.
• Writing memoirs. This ties into my third overall priority to a lengthy degree. Writing every story I know, from every horror I personally faced and witnessed as an outsider, every joy I felt and the ones I later resented… these will be actions that set me free, this victim crime will liberate me no matter the expensive cost.

Monday's Excerpts - Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

     I've been thinking about Lolita a lot lately because of how often I've been listening to 'Eat Me, Drink Me' when I'm in the car ("This is only a game, this is only a game"). I'm not sure why, but I love driving to the title track, and 'Wrapped in Plastic'. The first excerpt is pretty relative too.
     I feel like I've posted about every typically read book, I need to find something different next week if I can finish the three books I'm currently working on. This series is going to be extremely boring if they're all excerpts from books everyone has already read.

(This is not the edition I read.)

This Week's Book: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov

     And presently I was driving through the drizzle of the dying day, with the windshield wipers in full action but unable to cope with my tears. (Page 256)

—————

     I see nothing for the treatment of my misery but the melancholy and very local palliative of articulate art. To quote an old poet:

The moral sense in mortals is the duty

We have to pay on mortal sense of beauty.
(Page 258)

—————

     Every serious writer, I dare say, is aware of this or that published book of his as of a constant comforting presence. Its pilot light is steadily burning somewhere in the basement and a mere touch applied to one’s private thermostat instantly results in a quiet little explosion of familiar warmth. This presence, this glow of the book in an ever accessible remoteness is a most companionable feeling, and the better the book has conformed to its prefigured contour and color the ampler and smoother it glows. But even so, there are certain points, byroads, favorite hollows that one evokes more eagerly and enjoys more tenderly than the rest of one’s book. . . . ('Nabokov on a book entitled LOLITA.' Page 287)

Books read this past week...
Currently working on The Origin of Species, The Book of Animal Ignorance, and Thus Spoke Zarathustra.

(All title links link back to my webpages of them on Goodreads.com, a great library/reviewing/rating website for readers. Check it out, and add me as a friend if you decide to join!)

Here is My Real Head series Pt. 2

Organ Grinder by Marilyn Manson
I am the face of piss and shit and sugar

I do a crooked little dance with my funny little monkey
What I want, what I want is just your children
I hate what I have become to escape what I hated being
Calliopenis envy from your daddy
You're not gonna hear what he don't want to hear
What I say disgusts him
He wants to be me and that scares him
"let's do a funny little dance with my funny little monkey"
The black keys
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head
They try to blink me not to think me
Don't want to bring me out
I am the rotten teeth, my fists are lined with suckers
My prison skin's an eyesore-mirror-sketch-pad
I am your son, your dad, your fag, I am your fad
Here is my real head, here is my real head
I wear this fucking mask because you cannot handle me
Here is my real head

Here is My Real Head series 

Pt. 1 - Addiction & Self Mutilation 

Pt. 2 - Childhood Grooming & Sex and Relationships 

Pt. 3 - Worth of My Peers & Trust

Pt. 4 - Being Honest with My Parents
Pt. 5 - The Sound and Feel of Carpet

 

3. Childhood Grooming

     I believe in childhood grooming, because it’s a reality. I do blame the impressionable family members present during my childhood for a lot of the false ideas cluttering my head that I cannot cease to always reel back in, no matter how far I’ve cast them out into sea. Unfortunately, some people’s installation of ideas differs little in that of a pedophile’s grooming of a desired future victim. There were some people that existed in my childhood that had a purposeful reason for convincing me of the things I still believe, or their negative actions towards me. These people are factually to blame, and they don’t just exist in my childhood, but in yours too.

     Blame doesn’t necessarily have to be negative all the time. You could blame your mother for raising you to be particularly kind to the elderly, but you could also blame your mother for raising you to believe you’re more worthless than the gum on the bottom of her shoe.

     I am not afraid to cast blame where blame is rightfully due. One thing that bothers me above most is when someone is to blame for something, but are allowed to carry on believing they aren’t. Blissfully ignorant to their harm, even worse if they vocalize their believed righteousness.

4. Sex and Relationships

     I don’t remember the night I lost my virginity, not even a fragment of the event. I wasn’t drunk or high, it’s likely I don’t remember because it was held with little importance, or possibly because my brain is cold-wired to throw out anything sexual because of its experiences with sexual events in the past that were obviously negative.

     Being unable to view sex as a normal human being is mainly the fault of every person that molested me and my biological mother, were she not sociopathically void of conscience, who didn’t stop them after she became aware of their doings. I am guilt-ridden whenever the topic of sex comes up without plausible reason. Sex is viewed so negatively in my mind that it tries to completely flush it away every time it’s made re-aware that sex still exists in the physical world I reside in.

     I think the reason I’ve ever been in love is because I was never presented with a positive example of what a relationship should be like, and still have not been to this day. I’ve never been in a relationship with someone I could fall in love with because I seek out difficulties and mutual abuse subconsciously. I don’t want to be in a relationship now and foresee no future desire to be in one because of these recent realizations. All the aspects of a relationship are positively worthless to me, dating, marriage, sex, sole companionship, children with a partner (as opposed to single adoption), etc.

     Upon first perception, my concepts of a relationship are extremely negative compared to societies norm. Physical/sexual abuse between partners or towards the children, destroying property with fists (‘Use Your Fist and Not Your Mouth’, Marilyn Manson),  secret hatred or disgust of your partner, dishonesty and lying, cheating with and without consent, frequent screaming matches, lack of desire to resolve resentment, remaining with your partner only for financial benefits or another sort of personal gain, plus the various types of other torture all come to mind at first thought. I have to otherwise convince myself to believe for a second that other behaviors exist in relationships outside of fairytales, least long enough for them to come out of my mouth as my false perception of normal to please my listener.

     My perceptions of a normal relationship lead me to seek out the very things I listed and more. By not consenting to a relationship, I am protecting myself from what I don’t particularly want, although sickeningly, a part of me does find the aforementioned appealing. Nonetheless, I view them as relatively acceptable, meaning I am not often shocked by the darkness of relationships. Growing up in the society of the Western World has shown me that the types of relationship aspects that first come to my mind aren’t acceptable by the society I’m a part of, the one most influential to the world therefore subconsciously deemed as correct, but I remain well groomed.

I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention

Power is a concept constantly flooding through the nerves and whatever else of my brain. Power stimulates my brain into the function of ‘mind’, which is then in a constant overdrive. Without exaggeration, when I’m sleep-deprived my waves are rapidly lapping at the shores with new concepts and ideas, and personally unexplainable, they are darker than the normal tidal crashes. Somehow, lack of sleep or actual sleeping beckons my most malicious demons to dance about my brain, but malicious isn't enough of a word. Masochistic seems much more appropriate for what all they do to me.

I've had nightmares for a very long time, as deep into my childhood as I can remember. I can still vividly recall childhood nightmares of the most insane, yet if sought, symbolic things. A common dream was of me climbing into the ‘family car’ at night in search of safety from the house’s activities, only to fall through the car and carport forever until I woke up in cold sweats. If you can't find symbolism in that, even if you know nothing of my personal history and detach the dream from me to do so, I don't believe you.

Another dream I had frequently involved me stepping out of my abandoned house via carport door and looking down to see fiery lava at my feet. I would look up to the same spot in the sky every time, past the trees across the road that shrouded a mysterious ditch that probably stretched for a mile, and see fire raining down (Envision the end of The Believers, that’s what it resembled). I had a hopeful feeling every time this dream occurred, I wished fervently for the fire of the volcano to engulf me whole and swallow me into its red-hot depths. Whether or not it would be painful or painless never crossed my dreaming mind, I knew outside of either speculation it would be painless because I loved volcanoes, and I knew whatever pain it caused me, it wasn't causing me. I was letting it hurt me, just like everything else in my non-dreaming life.

So, “I had a dream, this one I feel the need to mention,” actually I have two I’m going to relay today. These have both been dreamt in the past two weeks but are not at all abnormal. For a while, I have wanted to post some of the dreams I’ve had so others can speculate, or just point at me like a roadside freak show dreamer. They are pretty interchangeable, after all.

I don't know the bloodcurdling degree of other people's dreams, and I haven't had the time to study sleep. Considering the frequency of my nightmares, I probably should make it a relative priority on my list of ‘me-search’.

After awakening from some of the scenarios in dream form my mind creates and plays for me on its own special film, I am often terrified. It’s not a rarity for me to wake up from some of the more severe nightmares I have and lie in bed completely still for minutes at a time, anxiety-ridden. Often, even from a relatively typical dream, I’ll be anxious the rest of the day. Neither are because the nightmarish visions I have to endure night after night are extraordinarily horrifying at this point, but simply because I don't know what caused my mind to construct them. To dream of death, torture, and what Christians would call the apocalypse* so frequently leaves me in wonder for days, weeks, months, and years. I suppose now, it has been so long I could even claim a decade for some dreams.

*Or what John would call a Brave New World.

(Warning: Some things detailed in these dreams may be disturbing to some readers.)

Dream One

            Albeit being slightly smaller, I am visually my current age of seventeen, but I feel a little younger. I’m not sure how much younger I feel. I’m not a child, but I know I’m not quite an adult either because I feel like someone should be watching me. In the midst of attempting to figure out my age, it crosses my dreaming mind that maybe I’m nothing definable, likely I’m all of me all at once, because that’s how I feel the most. I go with that, and it becomes truth. I am now an infinite being of my dreamland.

            I live in an odd complex of houses because all the households look exactly the same down to color and the cars parked outside them. I look through a hole in the tall white fence that blocks off sight of the next neighborhood. From my one eye gaze I see the neighboring complex is styled in the exact same way as the one I hold residency. Anyhow, I don’t see Kauvuo (my dog), and then I realize why I was looking through the hole in the fence in the first place. Kauvuo is gone, I’m not sure where he is. He’s gone. Ran away, stolen, hit by a car, I don’t know, I cannot recall and I’m disgusted with myself. Because I cannot remember, I am motivated further to find him and provide him safety once again.

            Suddenly I’m warped through dreamland and I am now at my childhood preschool, its original housing on a ranch-style property being upheld in my dream. I’m walking across the dirt that seemed to span forever as a child, so it does so as well in this trek. I pass the horses, the pool, and the faraway picnic tables before finally reaching the fence. Another hole, but this one is gaping, I can walk through this one with ease. I step through without a second thought.

            I’m in the identical neighborhood that is only distinguishable from my own because of the fence that divides them. I begin to walk down the deserted road, not a person in sight at all tending to lawns or playing with yard toys. It’s warm evening, it’s humid and very Floridian. Finally, I reach a house that looks different than the rest. This particular residency is run down, the wooden panels are falling from the structure and the grass is dead and brown. I take unexplainable note that there are no weeds cluttering the lawn, and later sarcastically think, ‘Not yet.’ I approach the door and enter uninvited.

            I am greeted in the house by someone of my past. I am faced with one of my molesters, instantly wishing I wasn’t in a position to be possessive of them. Kauvuo comes running from somewhere within the house towards me, instantly knowing I’ve arrived to rescue him. I call to him although he can see me, and my molester does nothing to stop me from trying to retrieve my beloved dog from his disgraceful residence. He smiles, but it’s not just a smile. It’s worse than a smirk, it is sadistic, he’s going to hurt me if I claim what’s rightfully mine by entrapping me after.

            Pulled out of the house by an invisible force, I kick and scream hysterically as I’m instantly warped back into my identical but well-kept home, and I realize it’s my dad that has rescued me. I argue, I complain, I reason. He didn’t rescue me, he left Kauvuo to die, or something worse. He tells me if I wait ten days, Kauvuo will return unharmed. Regardless of the promise, I am not comfortable with Kauvuo’s location. I proclaim I will retrieve him whether my dad likes it or not, the majority of me doesn’t believe he’ll jaunt back safely after ten days anyway. He tells me I won’t be doing that, instead of the expected advice that I shouldn’t. For the first time my dad is strictly telling me ‘no’, not ‘maybe not’. I feel surrounded by unfamiliar warmth beyond my body, is this what it feels like to be protected from the most horrible of things? I am realizing that although he is protecting me at the cost of another, I am appointed the most important being. This is something I don’t experience when I am awake.

            And then I awaken.

Dream Two

            I’m staying at a friend’s house, but I am not enjoying myself. Since I arrived earlier in the evening, I’ve had a lurking feeling that someone or something was watching me, just out of sight from my glance over my shoulder. It’s the feeling I used to get when I felt extreme anxiety to the point of near insanity from irrational thoughts. I keep my cool for show purposes only, and interestingly I don’t self-destruct in the privacy of the bathroom before bed. I drift into double-sleep with thoughts of pride at not letting my anxiety get the best of me.

            Snatched in my slumber from my friend’s bed, once woken I wonder how she didn’t feel the weight on the bed shift or the door creak open and closed, why her dog didn’t bark at my captor, or why her dad didn’t hear someone enter the house in the first place. ‘It seems like it’s always me’ I think in a juvenile fashion, without considering the array of possibilities of what could take place next. This isn’t unfamiliar territory, plus I know this is just a dream. Therefore, I know the inevitable is likely to occur, upping the likelihood of my abuse.

            And it does occur. My kidnapper (almost-adultnapper?) enters the dark room, and flicks on a light switch. Above me swings a sole lamp, it is so typical of a lamp that it could have been taken right out of Sybil’s childhood kitchen. Unsurprised, I discover that I am tied to a table by legs and arms. Maybe if I combusted, maybe if I set myself on fire with one quick jerk, I could escape. I don’t even try, but the metaphorical ideas cross my mind. He approaches, and begins his work.

It’s an interesting thing, after suffering the same thing time and time again for so long, you think you’re not dreading it until it hits you in whatever form it takes shape of. In this case, its shape is that of someone else cutting open my arms to an unexplored depth.

First working on the tops of my arms, he retracts layer after single layer of skin down to the fleshiest of flesh. In squared-off folds, he’s lifted it back and exposed my bloodless pink meat. I creatively ponder on the idea of ‘if a strong wind blew, it might blow them all back into place like pages of a book’. The force of nature on my body would be beautiful, and nothing else of a sad sort. But there is no wind in this basement, and I am not even graced with a half window that spends its life barely peeking over the grass.

            Now my abuser makes his way to my inner arms. The concept of not dreading this has fled from my mind completely, at least during this act of mutilation. He plucks out straight razors from somewhere underneath my mutilation platform, and begins once again. He works the razors effortlessly down my arms, and I writhe in intense agony that my mind tries to convince me is unbearable. I’m terrified, I want to wake up, I am screaming silently. I remember to cover my mouth with a towel that isn’t there, so I say nothing instead. I make no show of emotions, but I cannot control the tears that stream from my eyes. I assure my mutilator it’s not crying because I am not sobbing. Somehow he has missed all of my veins during this process, so he slashes them last. And yet, after the razor has plucked my guitar string veins for a single note, I live.

            I wake up shaken from the nightmare. This is one of the worst types of dreams my mind has created so far, naturally I hate reliving them when they grace my sleeping mind. Dreams of this nature have made increasingly more appearances. I wonder if this dream entails my deepest desires, defensibly I argue with myself, otherwise why would I concoct this situation in dream form? This dream possibly represents an extreme form of what I’d ‘love’ to do to myself in times of delusion, this is complete self-annihilation from another’s blamable hand. There is no pleasure in this abuse, only relief that I’m not carrying out my most secret desire.

After some speculation, I realize I am doing this to myself. In my dreams of the very same nature the person is always me, regardless of what mask shrouds them to give the illusion that my body’s mutilation isn’t my fault. This time, it happened to be my biological mother’s father.

I am as hollow as...

         "Pray until your number, 
         Asleep from all your pain, 
         Your apple has been rotting 
         Tomorrow's turned up dead."

    I created a playlist to listen to while I fall asleep at night.

    I don't sleep at night though.

    I begin sleeping with the world begins waking. At least the east coast, the hardest working coast in the United States because they're the first to arrive at their cubicles.

    The first of everything always has to work the hardest, the first is the revolution whether you believe me or not.

        "I have it all and 
        I have no choice but to,
        I'll make everyone pay 
        and you will see."

    I never thought I'd have to say I've become what I hated because I ever desperately tried not to ever provide myself reason to. I never wanted to be the type of person that spun on an axis of music constantly consuming them. I wanted to believe I didn't need anything. I didn't always need my idols, not even the ones I trusted most to influence me. I don't know if I'm wrong or right, or what my opinion even is, or how I could have clarity in so much confusion.

    Being an influence is such a great honor, and not because of the respect it requires, but because of the trust it requires. Trust is so foreign to me, maybe that's why influential people are so special on their Alexis-crafted pedestals.

        "Peel off all those eyes 
        and crawl into the dark."

    Well, it is 6:06 and it's past Christmas morning.

    Our tree was torn down no less than twenty-four hours after we opened our gifts. It was stuffed back into it's box a day later, and just a day after that it had been pushed back into the attic for another year. That's "family" for you (but that's not even what this really is, here), that's our tradition, that's our love within our home.

    The tree is like my spine, complete with loop installation for easy hanging away, and not the model desired by Meiwes.

        "(I am so tangled in my 
        sins that I cannot escape)."

    I never thought I'd escape the hell I lived in, and now I know I never did.

    Lies have watered me, and lies don't water a flower. An unwatered flower is a dead flower.

    The torturous years plucked at my petals, with every body part not my own entering my body or space dropped away another tendril of my innocence. Everything has been lost in the dirt, but a weed comes from a dead flower.

    With no where else to go from my place in the dirt, I grew into a weed. A strong weed, cut down so many times, sometimes the weed-eater was even held by my own bloodied hands. My wrists dripped, begging to be a dead flower instead of a strong weed. You see, a truly dead flower becomes a blossoming bouquet. As for me, I am a forever a weed, and when I die I will be a weed then too, only finally my roots will be destroyed once and for all. I could leave a patch in the yard, I could not.

        "Someone had to go this far."

    Lately I've been reliving past feelings. Not experiences like deja-vu, making me question a past life or if I have arms broken in a casket, but I know I do.

    I feel so numb, but I've been wearing shorts all night. It's 55 degrees outside, but this isn't what I mean. That is just temperature, it's not numbness, and I've never seen snow so I wouldn't know what a pleasant numbness feels like, but I know this wasn't it.

        "We're on the other side, 
        the screen is us and we're t.v."

    I'm back in my square bedroom with shit brown carpet. I suppose this might be deja-vu.

    I have posters on the walls, Britney Spears and Spice Girls, and my bed isn't against the wall it will be in a few years. I will hide under that bed, clutching my newly abandoned dog's ratty pink leash. She never had a collar, no one ever cared enough to keep it on her. No one cared much about anything except whatever was going on in their own worlds. My father took pills out of the cabinet everyday. My mother typed away at the computer, cheating on our family. My brother threw his bottles against the wall and stained it with formula.

    I hated everyone under that roof, and I justified my hate. No one saved me. No one expressed love towards me. I was nothing. Absolutely nothing, before I truly became nothing when the first uninvited dick graced my lips. I wish I had considered a beheading.

        "Pinch the head off, 
        collapse me like a weed."

    As I said before, I'm back in my room with brown carpet; it might as well be dirt.

    I'm shivering, I'm not cold. The blankets are just there to envelop me, to consume me, "Please, please swallow me whole. Let me disappear. Let me die, please just let me die."

    For years I believed if I concentrated long enough on the suicide of my existence--the most devastating of suicides--I would simply disappear into thin air. I thought I could will my physical body away, but I realized I couldn't soon after my first few attempts. Instead, I dissociated from my body so frequently I hardly have any childhood memories. Dissociation has left me as cloudy as a tank of dead pigs, and like dead pigs I have maniacal scratches.

        "I was born into this 
        Everything turns to shit."

    Crying is holding hands with trembling, and if I died they would have died holding hands. "There's no one here to save ourselves."

    My dad is telling me he's leaving, only for a night. He's visiting a friend.

    "Who?"

    "Her name is ------. She has a son. He likes Zelda just like you, and has the guide. She said he'll let you borrow it."

    I never shared my dad on the playground, and now I'm sharing him with a stranger's miss at the opportunity to abort. She is responsible for destroying my family and the image of my father that I have been supplied with, and I am completely sure that she would have never passed the test required for permission to procreate. The test should include a psychiatric evaluation.

        "You've poisoned all of your 

        children to camouflage your scars."

    I cried and I cried, and still my dad left that night, and multiple nights following it at intervals I cannot remember. I don't know the women, I don't know their names, their faces, or their children's Zelda walk-throughs. I know if I knew anything it would be more violent than this has to be.

    This event, these memories among new ones manifested itself tonight. It replayed flawlessly. I was paralyzed for ten minutes, at the minimum. I don't know how long I laid here before I could move again, before I could write this. I had to write this, for you.

        "The world in my hands, 
        there's no one left to 
        hear you scream."

    I don't know if my father ever realized that at the time, to me, he was the one responsible for our family's destruction. It was never her, I knew she hated me from the moment I was conceived. (Despite my lack of memory, how could you not when you're in the womb of a sociopath.) I was used to her hatred. I wasn't used to him leaving me so abruptly, especially when I cried. Especially when I really cried, and begged. I hoped he let me hate him then for a bigger reason, I just hope he has some plans with real structure.

    Really, I just wanted someone to save me. I wanted someone to shake me violently and ask me why I smashed text books into my head on a daily basis when no one bothered to look at me. I wanted someone to ask me why my play dates were spent in my closet, but I wanted it to be someone that didn't already know.

    All I wanted as a child was to be saved, and instead I got an over-abundance of truth while my other half happily lives in ignorance. Good for him.

        "There's no one left for you."

    Despite my many resentments, I hope no one ever touches him. I hope no one ever scathes him. A lot of people deserve miserable lives, but not him. He doesn't deserve an award of survival, but he doesn't deserve pain and devastation. He doesn't deserve to be a weed. He doesn't deserve unwelcome wings.

    I hope his mother dies before he learns the truth, but mostly I hope with all my heart that when she is a dead flower she becomes the most beautiful of bouquets.

    But only for my brother.

        "Pray unto the splinters, 
        pray unto your fear 
        Pray your life was just a dream 
        The cut that never heals 
        Pray now baby, 
        pray your life was just a dream."


        The Playlist-
        1. Kinderfeld
        2. Untitled
        3. Godeatgod
        4. Man That You Fear
        5. (Untitled)

        "You are [I, am]
        as hollow as the 'O' in God."

    I'm crying as I finish this. It has been exactly twelve hours since I wrote everything prior.

    I feel like I'm on a continuous cycle of breakdowns with a destiny of ultimately sobbing into my pillow, my hands, a towel like my biological mother used to make me do so she could sleep peacefully, anything to drown out my screams. I am so dismantled. No child deserves to be destroyed like this. No child. If "God" is creating these children so others can learn from them, fuck your God.

    Pushing through is my only option. I must remain strong for the greater number, to accomplish the greater good. My head might not be as high as I've held it in the past, but I'm doing my very best, I'm doing more than trying. Eventually my head will be held even higher than ever before. All I'm asking of you, whoever you are, is help me survive the bottom.

 Note- All quotations are lyrics of the song "Man That You Fear", except for the last one, which is from "Untitled". If anything describes how I feel today, it's the excerpts I've chosen.