Recently in depression Category

The sun places me in a stupor. I feel half drunk on the drawl of my skin to seek it. I want my legs drinking up the light under the tight restraint of a jean skirt. I want my feet confined and brutalized in the cage on a pair of exposing high heels. I want thin colorful tank tops and my breasts braless beneath.

I am too petite and absent about my looks. Summer clothes redeem me.

Give an Autumn one nice day and she's going to want some more.

I need some time to write. I have a character named F'lynn walking slow circles
playing with bones
talking to the dead
acting as a puppet for the past
rash
Not like anyone else
brand new and
all mine

Colors seem the haunt me.
The exact and subtle purple of the Japanese Maples. The heavy slap on the leaves together and I'm below.
The slap to the eyes on the color of steamed broccoli.
The nightmares of a red/pink room in a large white monster house.
Now I love my red room.
I'm still bombarded by the gray of wayward eyes.

_____

When I first came to school I felt like a cork bobbing in the sea. I was trying to shake off the last of the mud clinging to my shoe before I stepped in a new door. I was still fettered by the past. I shoved my depression in a skinner box. He couldn't really move in it. The walls are entirely white. It's all about sensory deprivation. I kept him in there for a year or two. He found a marker and some crayons during this time. He drew a picture of you. He wrote to me about love. I let him out into my old bedroom. The one on 302 and blackhawk. He sat there wearing rich allen's brown shoes and lounging on the couch collecting dust like a doll. The blinds were always opened onto dusk and the bedside table was still covered in white and lace.

Sometimes I'd visit. Sit in his lap and let him murmur to me. Sometimes he'd demand i let him out and pound on the door. But I was determined to keep that part of myself under control and out of my life. I think he pried the window or slipped messages under the door. He told me to enjoy each moment and love Jason. He said he was happy for me. I began to get dizzy with beauty. I felt alive and electric like I hadn't for years. I felt 17 yrs old and crushing leaves just to enjoy the smell. So I opened the door and said "come out" and he went out the door, the screen hissing behind him, and blinked and smiled into spring light. The honeysuckle branches overhead swaying and the wild roses in bloom. I told him he could not leave the yard. He was content to lay in the sun and watch. But I wanted more and said "Run where you will" and when his foot crashed down on the pavement of blackhawk edge where the tar was in small balls beside the grass. It felt like a gong went off in my head and a million heavy plump purple wild grapes rolled from my father's creased stained hand all over the road. I was staring at a thousand glops of grape flesh and juice, crushed. The cicadas were screaming and the trees beating against one another. My whole skull felt tight and filled with vibrations. I felt high. Slamming doors in my mind. Running like a blur, opening and shutting, exuberant and crazed. Everything seems to hold so much meaning and all the world seems to be mine. And with all that comes the anger. I want to shake and demand that people see and listen and fight for what they want and need. I yearn for a challenge. I want to talk until my tongue bleeds. That is how I feel in too many words

My weekend was spent reading, doing some homework, and watching movies.

I am seriously bothered by the older man on campus. He reminds me of my father. Today we stood side by side making waffles. I felt ill. I just kept thinking "Don't you talk to me" Of course he did. He seems so dumb-uneducated. His hands are ruff looking from years of manual labor. When I see them I feel my world spinning. I wanted to demand of him "Are you a drunk too?" Instead, I quickly hurried to my table, ate as fast as I could, and got the hell out of that place.

My mother called to bother me about not going to church- although I stopped going quite awhile ago. I don't understand why she would be annoyed and disappointed at this when she never goes to church. (and her being from a heavily catholic family and with the memories of ruff catholic school girl skirts and dresses) I don't know what she expects of me. I believe she wants me to get things in life she didn't. She insists Jason and I wait to get married until we have lots of money so we can have a nice wedding. HA! Maybe I don't want a nice wedding. She never stops in her nagging to consider that I may not agree with her.

Soon I may be trapped up on a mountain by obligation and guilt. I'll watch the smoke curl around them and smell its stink. I feel them wondering about me. But I'm used to that. I've always been the odd one. I blame their ignorance on lack of a good book diet in their lives.

There is something about St. Paddy's Day that causes me to be a real bitch. I suppose it is a mixture of the smell of beer breath and my own love of hanging out on the fringes of crowds alone. Last night I took the bus down, tired and cranky, and examined the drunks. Some girl was talking too loud in my ear and she stank. I eventually walked downtown to get pizza. I wove my way trough crowds and was enjoying being alone in them. But on my way back and man, like a blur with beard, set a small square of paper on my pizza book. Kindly saying, "Here is some reading to go with your pizza" The square of paper proudly proclaims "GOD WANTS YOU" SO I read it while sloshing through snow and drunks. By this time I am weepy, not because of God, but because I am so angry and was rude to Jason and I can't pin point why. I see an old guy huddled near the corner by NBT. He is clutching papers in his bare hands and watching the groups of loud kids go past. I turn and backtrack and say "What do you have there" His relief fills his face. Some of his teeth are missing and one is long like a fang and tipped in blue. He notices I already have a paper from God and gives me a different one. He asks where I am from. I tell him where and say "I am questioning my faith in things" and he tells me "That is nice" He is awkward and his voice is sweet. I take his papers and flee up the street my thoughts rolling. Old men who seem as foolish as my father freezing in the cold in attempts to help the souls of collage students drowning in booze on a day that no longer is recognizable as a religious holiday. There pathetic actions are so horribly heroic to me that I just begin to bawl. Later I knelt in the snow and asked "Why is it only silent?"

I did not have a religious change of heart I just hate the way things can be. I can't meld myself into those crowds. I don't enjoy drowning myself with a fogged brain for any sort of mass collage celebration of ones ability to become stupider. And besides, beer smells too much like my father. My thought in the dark reel back and back and I become angry and hurtful.

But that had passed now. I just want to go to work and relax. Because no one knows me there and I can loose my thought in manual labor.

below I am turbulent
All the magic is fading now
If I close my eyes I can hear this song playing in DC
If I close my eyes I can see the layout of the room, the window bright with yellow light.

disgusting disgusting disgusting

the feelings will not slacken. Sometimes they roll back and below into the whirlwind where all the pretty sentences take shape. but always there is the disgust and the terrible shame. I find myself staring at the wall, tracking down the indentations, finding patterns and pictures.

I'm still living in hazy summer days, and bright happy go lucky days and dreamers days, when imagining love would send me to easy quick sleep. A part of me, a good part of me in tied up back there, enchanted by the gray dust on the street sides, and the lazy heavy purple leaves in front of the church. Maybe it is my destiny to stay back there and watch the world wisk away them all.

There I am picking lilacs across from the old brick school, dreaming. A paper doll clothes line suspended between then and now.

Laying on that cold freezing silver bench in the wane sunlight of early spring thinking up my pretty words. Fool. Say that I'll change. Say that it is just me. Say that I can learn. Then tell me why I am the only one still sitting with my toes pointing down into the pit, watching the tangled hulks of metal. Why am I all alone in the knot of jungle, sitting there watching myself in the guise of another. Lips just a bit bitter, eyes just a bit sad, hands gripping the concrete, white knuckled with rage. She's sitting over there with her dark hair down to her ass, and her lips kissed by no one but her brother's best friend. She's sitting there dreaming of love perhaps, and wanting someone to just hold her while she cries. See me sitting here, watching her, having cried, having love, and still falling to my misery. I don't want her pity. I don't want her youth. I want her perception. Where did that perception go? Did I burn it with my school papers in a metal barrel? Did it drown in the shit tainted river? Is it stuck in the cracks of a window sill with a note that I wrote before I left? Nina, tell me if it's locked inside the old blue coffee cans hidden in the pine needles? Is it there? Is there any touch of mine left in those places? In the mountains of garbage in the woods? Beneath the tree where that kitten lies dead. How it cried. Let me out. How it cried. But I wouldn't let it out. I couldn't hold it anymore. It had worms coming out of its ass. It was sick. It was sick. So it cried behind bars until it died. In the sun sitting on a rainbow, sinking away from reality, is it there? Did it get smashed away when he told me that filth sitting on the stairs. Oh I didn't want to know. I'm just a kid. Don't tell me these disgusting things. Don't shatter my world. Don't kill me Daddy please. Did it die while sipping strawberries in the dark with looks of pity. Can you tell me? Can you hear me? I can not save the world. I can not save the world. Why not?! Why can't I? Why the hell not? Why the hell not? Then what is this worth..what is any of this worth if I can't go back and feel the piss of that little cold baby in my hands again. If I had gotten there sooner..If only I had been aware. Then I wouldn't have had to hold it dieing, cupped in my palms, mewing for its mommy, crying for milk. I was helpless. I was helpless. Tell me, why do I cry still in guilt? He had electrical tape around his knees. The torn knees of his jeans. Every time I saw him I tried so hard not to cry that it hurt. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.