Excavate

I am dilated;
A black sponge
In your white marrow--

Virgin to skeletal
Penetration,
My blood scrawls
Across bite-size
Cavities, edible rings
Of ambrosia fringing
My fingers.

I am an octopus;
My tentacles plunge
Into deep black oil--

Coiling beneath your
Carotid artery, I suck
Until you are white and
Dry, crippled by my
Demonic cry, your feet
Pacing the air like
A vertical trench.

Excavate

Posted on

Friday, June 7, 2013


But This Time It's Not the Same

Destruction plays
A brain in bloom,
A dish of red flesh
Served on a tin platter,

I never said that
I would matter—
Charm them with
A thunderous drawl
Of spit, tongue in the
Slit, I nip and nip

At broken walls
In broken corridors,
Suckling on the remnants
Of sighs and screams
From deep within the
Wallpaper—

I never thought
I would be the girl
Hiding plasters in
Her panties,
Prying blood out
Of candies, paying
Homage to silent
Ultimatums over
Post-adolescent skin,

Because even within
The pulsing rings thin,
My body a chaos
Of too many selves,
Turgid and lanky in
Daylight.




Flightless

Stimulant affliction,
I purged my addiction,
Of soft-shell bombs under
Transparent levers—

And,
Ruffling my
Feathers,

I hold the command
In the pit of my palm,
The white granular
Ovals an intercellular
Psalm,

Chanting along
Nervous train tracks,
The synapses humming
In unison—

Be happy
Be happy
Be happy.

Flightless

Posted on

Tuesday, April 30, 2013


Nobody said it was easy;
No one ever said it would be this hard

I just love how much of a busy bee I've become; I mainly write during my 45-minute bus-rides to and from Helsinki. And here I am again, writing as the sun sets and as my thighs throb against the seat from a super-exhausting but amazing three-hour dance lesson.

I doubled my dosage on my new meds, Lamotrigin, from 25 mg to 50 mg last Wednesday as guided by my doctor. The pills taste icky. They're the kind you let melt in your mouth or chew. One was okay but with two the taste stings my tongue. I've been having a bit more of generally-good days this past week, though I've had a few anxiety attacks. I forgot my meds yesterday morning and was wondering why I was developing a terrible anxiety attack and crying fit at dance class. Then I had a light-bulb realization. I told my teacher and she got really worried as I was just crying and crying. I made it home safe though, and took my meds and took it easy for the rest of the day.

I'm starting at the Day Ward next Monday. I'm nervous. Very, very nervous. I did not get a very good first impression of my ward doctor and nurse, so I'm worried it'll be a waste of time. But I'm trying to keep an open mind. Attitude is key, right?


Almost home now.
I'm so hungry.

Monday Madness #25

Posted on

Monday, April 22, 2013


April showers bring May flowers

I'm sitting on the bus as I write this. It's 8:30 PM and the sun hasn't set yet. Today has felt, and smelt, a lot more like spring than te past few weeks. No more winter coat. No more winter shoes. No more thick leggings or tights. The wind feels milder. It has been raining instead of snowing for the first time in five months, FIVE months, so it's a welcome change. The tapping of droplets on our tin roof has really helped me fall asleep.

I had my admission interview for the Psychiatric Day Ward last Friday. I had suspected it would be a disappointment - and, naturally, it was. The doctor and nurse, my soon-to-be personal worker, were of the soft-spoken kind, their speech a slow, whispering drawl. It felt as though they thought even a slight raise of their voices would make me crumble to pieces like a fucking pastry. I guess in a way they were trying to gently give me the news that I have to wait another few weeks to be admitted. Embittered, I stared at the tiny alarm clock in front of me and tried to control my aggression as I demanded to know whether I would receive support and treatment in waiting. The answer? Negative. They said I would normally be seeing my nurse once each week. I scoffed loudly, explaining how I receive nothing out of those appointments and that, as my nurse had told me herself, they were mainly for them to stay posted with my symptoms. I asked what the hell they expected me to do in the meantime. The doctor leaned in and told me to focus on the good things, and that these things tend to heal with time. I swear my face was firetruck-red with rage by this point. Had I been capable of just focusing on the good things, like a normal human being, I wouldn't have been sitting in that room in the first place. I reluctantly took the nurses business card and walked out the door, locked myself in the bathroom and cried, kicking at the door frame. 

The truth is, had the clinic really taken action a year ago when I was first admitted, I would not be in this condition. I have repeatedly demanded to get the sort of treatment I need but have always been cut short. Only when I went through the Emergency Room a few weeks ago did they begin to do their job. And I guess in my naivety I had built much too big an expectation for the upcoming treatment. My cynicism and naivety tend to clash a lot these days.

On a positive note, once I got home, I talked to my family; I let out my resentment and aggression and disappointment vocally instead of clutching a blade and listening to the voices telling me to slice my skin. I guess I'm recovering. I guess I need to wait. I guess that I'm not always right. I guess I just need to remain open.

Fuck.

It's time to actually listen to the advice I give others and act accordingly myself. I am so ready to help others. Yet I cannot help myself. The thought of throwing my blades away gives me the same sort of stab in the stomach that I get from thinking of losing my 17 year-old teddybear. The thought of asking for help makes me feel like an infant. But I guess I need to accept the fact that I am not alone anymore. You'd think that would be easier to embrace.


I Ate the Flowers You Gave Me

I’m standing on the threshold,
And it saddens me to think I have
Been here so often—
Bold against the world, like an
Adolescent lion, my sighs
Saturated with the stench of
Antelope blood, haughty of
My cynical third eye—

As my mind walks by,
Bearing swords, rapturous
Of the destructive path ahead,
The blood to be bled,
Purple against the well-lit walls—

We fight indoors, too lazy
To control our teeth.

----------------------------------------------




Source

Rebirth

I stare at the sun,
With brand new eyes,
The sleepless night,
Has left a film over 
My corneas and I 
Can feel it peel split 
In the middle like 
A rusty zipper— 

I've anchored my mind 
Upon steady sea-borne rocks, 
My scalp embellished with thick, 
Curly tentacles of mermaid hair, 

Floating in waves of 
Black water, red and 
Courageous as the 
Wind finally awakens,

Reborn from the
Womb of night.

Rebirth

Posted on

Thursday, April 11, 2013

Category

,

,

,



The Cat that Lost Its Claws

It's been a while. It's quite ironic but the way I have been feeling inside my head has gotten so twisted I haven't even been able to write about it. But I guess I have to, for the therapeutic benefits, right? Today at 10 AM I have an appointment with my nurse at the psychiatric clinic for diagnostic testing. These past few months have been hell with my anxiety attacks and auditory hallucinations. I have gone on a cutting spree on several occasions and I am not proud of it, at all. I have this thing I do that when I think I'm supposed to be okay I fight it out and try to be too brave and perfect. It's like there's a war in my mind between the helpless, sick, and traumatized me and the ambitious, happy, and balanced side, which results in a perfectionist climb that ends up in an anticlimax where I don't sleep at all and mix medication with alcohol. 

The worst thing about these past few months has been the fact that people haven't taken me seriously. I am repeatedly told that it would be okay, I am made to go in circles; one place tell me to go to another but that other place tells me to go back. Even at home my symptoms seem to be belittled in accordance to my personality traits. The fact that I mixed sedatives and alcohol is still not believed by my family even though that is what happened --- even if it was just one sedative and a normal glass of coffee liquor that had an alcohol percentage of twenty. The scary fact is that I wanted to have more of both. The voices in my head were just getting too loud. Luckily my darling was up and helped me stay awake long enough for the medicine and alcohol to be out of my system.

I have been contemplating throwing my blades away for good. 
I have yet to find the strength to do so.

I have started eating a new medication, called Lamotrigine, for Bipolar Mental Disorder. It's a starter pack so it's just a teeny tiny 25 mg tablet in the mornings for two weeks until the dosage is doubled. It may just be placebo effect, but I can tell the difference after a few days. My mood doesn't go up and down like a roller-coaster anymore, and my stress-levels are considerably lower.

Due to my various visits to the school nurse and one to the Emergency Room, my treatment has been bumped up to a more acute level. I will be spending one to three-week treatment periods at the Psychiatric Day Ward nearby, which means I would stay at the ward between 9 AM and 3 PM every day and go to school for about one day per week. Within the ward I will have my psychiatric doctor, my nurse and several psychologists and functional therapists. Let's just say I'm ready to kick this thing in the butt!

My choreography has been ready for a long while now, I just really need to clean it and sharpen it up so I have been training a lot. The past few weeks were a low point since I had basically no time for dance classes or other exercise due to my mishaps. I did go to a Dancehall workshop yesterday and it was superb <3
So I'm going to start the morning off with some pilates and try to make it a good start for the day.
Wish me luck =)


Let the Universe In

My mother always tells me
That my life revolves around technology,
That the touch-screen I clutch in my hands every
Second of the day is determining my
Every move; that every bling and buzz acts
As an activation key to my nervous system,
Zapping me like a dog with an electric collar.

The thought seems comical to me—
That the black-and-pink rectangle in my hand
Merges together the mechanics of
My daily timetable, the emotional and biological
Details of my menstrual cycle, and
The bits and pieces of love letters exchanged
Across seas and continents
Between my fiancée and myself—

It serves as a sort of physical mantra,
A reminder that I, indeed, am connected to
The rest of the world through stellar satellites
And inquisitive search-and-find databases.

My mother always tells me
That my life revolves around technology,
And I usually refuse to admit she is right,
Because every time I hear this question
I get the urge to open all the windows and
Let the universe in,

To prove that my
Daily project of leaving more fingerprints
On the screen of my phone isn’t meaningless.

----------------------------



Let the Universe In

Posted on

Sunday, April 7, 2013


And I Taste(d) the Truth

The memory is like
Suckling on pills meant
To be swallowed;

Crystalline microgranules
Brushing across misconceived
Sensory territories,

The taste similar
To baking soda;
                               soapy, sour, sweet—
In a stinging kind of way;

You are the filling agent prematurely
Metabolized, the melting capsule
Tickling on cellular membranes,

Spreading up the roof of
My mouth & beating my uvula
Like a punching bag,

The feel of you impossible to
                                            wash away
with neutralizing liquids.

And I Taste(d) the Truth

Posted on

Sunday, March 31, 2013


Mind the Gap

Thighs are off limits, 
I see prophets through gaps 
In the ceiling, disciplined pieces 
Of heroic gesture staring 
Down at me— 

Waiting for the moment, 
The sublime zeal of sin, 
Imaginary candlelit dinners, 
And tears pinched out of open 
Eyes— 

We peel away the gentle aura, 
Gazing at the middle matter 
Like chemistry candidates, 
Squeezing at the suffix of 
A disillusion, 

Until we find the core, 
The root of dust and 
Blue-haired mold, 

Coiling.

Mind the Gap

Posted on

Friday, March 29, 2013


Mendacity

And then there are those nights
When I long for blood and vodka,
When familiar faces swarm the foot
Of my bed, snarling at hidden blades
And dried out scars in the back of my
Brain, a silent revelry of painful
Nostalgia, my body will convulse in
After-midnight allure, aching with the
Words etched into my skin—
Never knew how to be a victim
When all I felt was iniquitous,
A dark delight to a faraway audience,
Pared and naked like a dead fish.

Mendacity

Posted on

Sunday, February 24, 2013

DAY 1 / DAY 2 / DAY 3 / DAY 4 / DAY 5 / DAY 6 / DAY 7 / DAY 8 / DAY 9 DAY 10 / DAY 11 / DAY 12


Day 13:
A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days(write a letter)

Dear Lady Gaga,

Back in 2010 I was locked up in the psychiatric ward. Every possible connection to the outside world was cut off, leaving me stuck in a room with walls of three different hospital colors. I spent the days reading books to escape the place I was in, and ended up reading 20 books during my three-and-a-half month hospitalization period.

I was originally brought into care due to my self-destructive behavior, which was connected to my disastrous past. However, something else was characterized as the cause for my problems. Earlier that year I had met a Lebanese woman online, and had in some naïve sort of way fallen in love with her. We were speaking non-spot for about a month or so. It turned out, however, that this woman was, though young and just four years older than me, married. Her husband of the time got a hold of our texts, and threats started pouring in. Helpless, I told my parents of what had happened. This happened to coincide with the climax of my self-destructiveness. So, inevitably, when I was put in hospital, my little love affair was put as the blame.

For the next two months I was the main subject of gossip among the nurses of the ward. I was typified as the lesbian lover of a Lebanese housewife. Instead of helping me with the problems at hand, I had to repeat my “scandalous” story to every nurse in every treatment meeting. I was banned form any contact to the internet. My phone and my laptop were taken from me. A rumor had somehow come about that my Lebanese friend and her siblings were developing some sort of mass suicide plan. My father and stepmother scolded me of having been in connections with a possible terrorist, making assumptions of them having used me in some sort of sexual play.

After the two months, I was discharged.

But after a week, I was locked right back in. During a treatment meeting I had told my nurse that I had been sexually abused. My parents, appalled, did not believe me but instead stated I must be psychotic and locked me right back in. I had to go through several psychosis tests, police investigations, the works. The nurses told me they believed me, but again and again my “false memories” were put on the backshelf as some sort of symptom of a more serious mental illness. I was banned from seeing anyone, including my siblings. My father would come in, teary eyed and white-faced, to describe things that would account for my “change”. I would cry for hours, curled up into a ball on my scratchy hospital bed.

To escape, I wrote and wrote in my diary, hidden from the nurses. I would lie on my bed, earphones attached to the little cd player they had in every room. I’d listen to the Fame Monster on repeat for hours, read the lyrics in the little booklet, and attempt to forget everything. I had a Monster Ball audio recording on my iPod, and would listen to that with my eyes closed and pretend that I was there instead. I can’t imagine what it would have been like without you, screaming words of acceptance and love and strength in my ears. I stuck to my word, and stood my ground. I stayed in a youth home for the following summer, again accompanied by your music. And in the fall, when I was actually able to go to the Monster Ball, I cried my eyes out.

It felt funny, for somebody who never knew of my existence, could be able to say the exact words I needed to hear. I stayed strong.

Thank you.

DAY 1 / DAY 2 / DAY 3 / DAY 4 / DAY 5 / DAY 6 / DAY 7 / DAY 8 / DAY 9 / DAY 10 / DAY 11


Day 12:
Something you never get complimented on

Okay, this is going to sound weird. But there are minor things in my body that I really like, but I never get compliments on. Like my fingers, and my fingernails, or my collarbone, or my eyes — my fingers are really long thanks to my mother’s genetics, and my fingernails are bigger than usual, not that they’re long past the fingertip, but they start from an earlier point in my fingers.

I’ve always liked it since nobody seems to have fingers or fingernails like me. There’s one finger that got stuck in a car door when I was seven, and has been crooked since. I love that finger; I love the little tricks I can do with it by bending it weirdly. Usually, though, it creeps people out.

I’ve always been fond of my collarbone for the way it sticks out, not in a too-skinny stick-out kind of thing, but it’s something in my body I’ll always consider beautiful. It doesn’t change whether or not I have a good or bad self-image day. It’s always there, like a comfort. I hold my fingertips to my collarbone when I’m nervous, or really focusing on something.

My eyes, well, I usually get compliments on my glasses but not my eyes, or how my glasses make my eyes look but not how my eyes look just as they are. It’s funny, cause my glasses are just a frame, the lenses are see-through, after all — yet they act as a barricade. My eye color tends to change in the light a lot. It changes with time, too. When I was little they used to be bright blue. Now it’s some green-gray-blue mixture.

30 Days of Truth: Day 12

Posted on

Thursday, February 7, 2013



Thimble

I wasn’t a man of many words,
I climbed on top of cities,
Metropolitan mountains,
Libraries and churches,
To absorb the wonders of
Caramel latte lips, of red
And pink nails on cracked
Touch-screens—
In a feeble attempt to
Melt together the old and
The new, the repeat and
The reverse, to grasp
The scent of exhaust
Fumes on a cold July
Day, rimmed with cardamom
And cigarettes—
The world was like a ladybug
Stuck in a thimble: red and on
Its convexed back, legs
Twitching in the shadows.


Thimble

Posted on

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

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