Why I’ve been gone.

I haven’t written in a while. Here’s why. Take a seat. (Trigger Warning)

I want to put into words the numbness that I have felt. I want to find a way of explaining or drawing or sculpting the feelings of sadness and random bursts of tears which I’ve experienced these past few months. I am going to be very bare with you. Here’s the first example of that: it’s been fucking hell.

I couldn’t motivate myself, I couldn’t understand how I was ever happy, but most importantly I wanted just to be gone, to vanish into thin air, or to become paper thin, and be invisible. I didn’t want to add to conversation. I wanted there to be nothing on my body at all. I stopped eating. I couldn’t talk myself into eating breakfast, so I didn’t. Hunger pains meant I was doing it right. And, when I started losing weight (I don’t have a scale, though) I kept going.

I got so sad, and so suicidal that I started trying to starve myself to death. I am so sorry.

And I couldn’t write, or do anything that I didn’t really have to, without just wanting to cry. My friends didn’t make me happy anymore, or maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t make me happy, it was just that I couldn’t be around them and have to talk, or talk to them about why I looked so sad. Maybe, even, and probably, it was because being around them made me happy and I didn’t feel like I deserved that feeling.

But here’s the thing, even though I don’t feel that same numbness, and the feeling in my face and my skin and my bones is slowly coming to life, I still don’t want to eat.

It’s weird, because I know that I need to, I know that If I eat 3 meals a day I won’t gain weight, but… what if I do. I’ve upped my calorie intake, to 1200, and I have days where I eat a lot of chocolate (binging), and I’m trying to eat normally. It’s a lot easier now that I’m happier. But I still hate going over 1200, and last night I definitely was. I didn’t really stop feeling hungry, but I promised myself I’d eat for hunger.

It’s hard, and I can’t explain it. I feel my body, and it has started to connect to me in the way that it did before. I’m not sure who is reading this that has been with my blog (there are very few of you, but I love you a lot) since the beginning, since my posts about the way trees moved and the way yoga made the breath run through my body, my heart and my skin, but I just want you to know that I’m almost there again. It’s been a journey, so it probably will get worse again, but the feeling of life is starting to sew through my fingertips. It has been poetry about the way I want to fall away into no skin, the way I’m angry and the way I just can’t breathe at all. But I am recovering. I am recovering the idea that my life is a journey.

God, I look at the trees and I breathe again, into them. Do you know, the other day, I ignored all of my responsibilities, took a walk, and then let my feet go anywhere that they wanted.

I followed my feet and felt the way my thighs moved (which was hard, because most of the time I want to cut them off) and then I just inhaled. I felt the presence of the atmosphere and the universe and my own life. And then I started crying. And then it started raining. And then I sat down under a tree and shut my eyes, and opened my eyes, and put my hands in the fucking mud and I just felt the earth and the ground and I knew and know that I was and am alive. That will not stop. I am living. It’s my fucking life.

I rearranged my room. I have a lot of natural light now. I am trying to recover a routine I had at my happiest time.

I am remembering that it is okay to love yourself, and nourish yourself, and treat yourself.

You grow with your body, and your body is the product of the love that you give it.

You have choices in life, and you just need to make the right ones. Make the right one for that moment.

So it’s getting better. But it will probably get worse again, and then better. But I hope to God that I don’t feel like I did again.

Fingers crossed that my posts do become more regular, and I keep you updated, and hopefully there will be more for   you to read about the passage of the tingling sensation of love through your skin rather than the affairs my fast beating heart has with numbness in my emotions. But God, it’s been a year, and then some truly terrible months, and I  think we’re almost back.

 

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feed me

feed me to the lions,

watch them tango,

hear them roar,

as they move back and forth,

and tango with my limbs.

 

twist the rope,

tight,

around my neck,

and on my skin,

i want you to burn me.

 

go on,

do it,

everybody wants to.

 

watch them tear me limb,

from limb,

ripping my skin from my bone,

i am skin and bone,

just endless skin, and too much bone.

 

i need to feel the blood,

drain from my body,

making me less, and less,

my skin as it tears,

for i am just meat.

 

i am meat to them,

and meat to you,

and too much meat to me.

 

then see the fire,

burn and alight in my eyes,

and extinguish in my soul,

alight from my feet,

and through my skin.

 

iv been itching to tell you,

its been bubbling up beneath my skin,

between my many bones,and my endless skin,

giving me goose bumps.

 

ive been meaning to tell you.

ive been twisting at night,

contorting my body,

it feels just right.

 

ive been itching to tell you,

that i love this pain.

i love feeling my skin get less, and less and less,

and feeling the rope bind my arms,

and twist around y wrists,

giving me scars.

 

i love it so much,

that i will do it if you wont.

ill start the fire, under my feet,

watch it eat through my skin,

 

ill tie the rope around my waist,

and then to my shins,

to make it easier.

everybody wants it easier.

 

ill grow the ivy from the bottom of my soul,

growing up and around me,

climbing throughout me,

binding me like i am forest,

like i am a part of this world.

 

and then,

i will perish.

natural selection.

when the weak,

grow weaker,

the sun,

burns brighter when there is  only darkness.

 

ive been meaning to tell you,

i am only skin and bone,

but oh my god,

there is so much skin,

and too much bone.

absolutely nothing

A poem.

 

huge in the ocean,

drifting always,

further away,

willingly pushed,

by my own feet,

walking away,

my wrists on my heels,

kneeling as i beg to go forwards,

knowing not what it will bring.

head in my hands,

keep going, come on,

pushing always,

though i want not to push anymore,

cold infiltrates,

heart starts to palpitate,

skin lifts up,

climbing around me,

encasing my mind,

pulling me limb from limb,

only encouragment,

forcing my hand,

my fingers into the water,

my skin feels the cold,

i become it, so vast,

my skin wraps it up,

the water,

and there it stays,

between my fingers,

neat parcels,

but i jeep finding buckets,

misnomers, mislabelled,

i keep hearing sirens,

not unwanted,

undestroyed.

i feel the sickness,

from the sea.

i become the ocean,

but i dont want to be the ocean,

i become torn paper,

but i want to stay whole,

i had neat parcels,

wrapped up,

undiscovered,

capsules of bad time,

but i keep finding buckets,

unwrapped and open,

pushing my head down.

i keep finding stop signs,

strange ocean traffic lights,

i hear taxis,

bright orange lights,

all fuzzy,

in the ocean,

chasing me,

faster than i can walk,

on water,

i am life,

i don’t want to be life.

 

Outside of myself

Like breaking 1000 glasses.

I look at myself, in the mirror. I notice the hills and troughs of my face, the curves of its womanly shape. My face is confident.

Eyes, my own, roam my face, my pale skin, dry skin, warm skin. My own eyes look back at me, challenging me, piercing blue- some green- asking questions I can’t hear, teaching me age-old games of loathing and love. I love it. My face- I do, it’s nice, but what’s behind it? It won’t tell me.

I look at my shape, in the mirror, and it does not respond. I pick up my fingers, one by one, off of the mirror, pulling myself away, and I call myself. I reach my fingers one by one into my open mouth, feeling my teeth and tapping out words in my cheeks, feeling out for feeling. But I go straight to voicemail. Quickly, I take a last note of my curves and the layers to my skin, staring hard; on top of one another, laced in and out of each other- impregnable. Softly, I feel my feet lift off of the floor, and I am thrown into a room- no windows, no wall. One phone. 3 calls.

For the first call, I just try dialling the number and waiting… and waiting…. and waiting… and I get a sharp hang up. I am an unknown caller, myself is scared of me- no- no- not scared- maybe- I think- I don’t know- not scared.

I need to try a different approach. How do you show someone that you just want to be heard? I think. I turn blue, and purple. I throw the phone. And I scream, my stomach knots up and I become the knives inside of me- sharp and scary- the phone lurches and hisses at me, and it does not want to respond, but at least I hear a noise. At least I know that someone is there.

Lifting the phone to my mouth for the last time, I kiss it. I hold the phone and I take it into my mind, and it becomes a heart. A heart in my mind. I tell it that i love it and i hold it and i care for it; i cry with it and we cry together i hold it tightly and rock it and the lines on my forehead rest on the curved body of the heart curved rivers on my hands and a sweet breeze of breath comes from the phone i love it, i love it for my whole entire god damn fucking entire life, with everything i have and it costs me nothing but i feel myself shrink with each minute and it combusts.

As if an art critic, I am confronted with all of it at once, blown away by the mistakes. It’s almost too much to take in. Maybe if you hadn’t used too so much red? More yellow perhaps… the colours don’t blend well. You seem outside of yourself.

I don’t like the shape, either. Maybe you should make it bigger. Although, it’s already bigger than it seems but just… not big enough. It’s too big and it should be smaller. But also, Emily, you haven’t done it right.

What do you mean, Emily, that I haven’t done it right? I am trying.

The phone pops up, out of thin air, from the floor, and starts at my feet, touching each corner of their skin. As if slowly filling me with conversations. It’s a start, it’s only my feet, but I am being filled.

How to untie a knot

A poem.

 

I finger the delicate bind of the rope,

The frays lace between my fingertips,

they teach me how to laugh;

it tickles.

 

I feel the spiral of its bind,

up, up and on forever, it seems,

the ivy wall of the rope,

reaches up as it teaches me how to climb.

 

My hands explore their tissue paper skin,

feel the crinkle bound to their skin,

endless skin,

and I know it all.

 

I feel the rope wound around my nerve,

and I feel it slip,

and I tug,

and I don’t know why.

 

But, I tug at the rope wound around,

and around my nerve,

willing it to unravel and-

and all of a sudden, I know nothing anymore.

 

The nerve stands alone, bleeding,

the canopy of midnight encasing its agenda

my own nerve, as it wants to watch me bleed.

nerve,

 

how it is so true.

 

Nerve- no not brave,

nervous

I am nervous and I tug,

grip, grapple, will,

want, beg, plead for the rope to come undone

 

and

 

and

I want the rope to fall away

 

for a minute i want the wind to pick it up

i want the damage to be done and for the frays

to spin themselves into nothing

the game of tug of war only has one player and its me

 

i can’t watch as the hurricane winds around

me and my endless skin goes on

as my fingers move to route march its corners

finding all of the hideouts i didn’t want to find

 

the ground between my rope,

oh and there is so much.

 

i want to find nothing, feel nothing, see nothing,

be nothing, i want to fall away into nothing

as the midnight rain washes me into the ocean

and out into orbit

 

i need to be away

 

i don’t need to be fixed

the rope doesn’t need to be mended,

tug of war was never meant to be played in teams

the frays aren’t there to be tied back together

 

no,

i need to be sewn, glued, designed

and ordered to stay, sit, stay stuck

i need my arms restrained and my nerve a fountain of sticky

 

sweet, sweet glue.

I need never to reach for my endless skin and the suffocating rope

throw me in a barren land where no rain falls

and if no rain falls i can never dream to be a hurricane

 

destroying nothing but myself.

Orienteering

This is on feeling my skin but not being able to touch it, of plaiting my hair only for it to become undone. Its sister specialises in turning up the volume only to feel nothing and in writing when the sensation of communication is lost in all words.

What’s worse: wanting to be loved, or knowing that you’re not? What about both at once? What about feeling unsure about the both of them. What about asking 3 questions when there should be none.

When the bridge leans over you, when it reaches around your neck and tells you that there’s a door at its other end, that’s the worst part of it all.

This is on being lost.

Of having too much skin even when you know you have too little, of trying to be everybody’s friend when there is nobody. Of farming when there is nowhere.

That is what I am writing of, on and for.

I write for being lost. As a compass to tie to trees and throw to the sky, to lose in rivers as the mud pulls my shoes off and pulls me down.

Love letters to the forest breathe clean air and save me none; after I am done knowing that I am lost, I am not allowed to know anymore.

No matter the effort, how much strength I steal, how much clean air I pirate from my deprived emotions, no matter, I am empty. There is no going backwards and certainly not any going forwards.

What is worse: knowing that you’re wrong, or not having the energy to be right?

 

Fucking crazy (a poem)

fucking sick,

fucking hit me like a tonne of bricks,

fuck me,

fuck it.

 

Hell only knows,

my conscience only shows,

my smorgasbord of sins,

mistakes, but its too late.

 

Fuck him,

fuck her,

fuck hate,

fuck this shit.

 

Flowers and roses,

look at our big noses,

from our years of ferver,

wanting to go further, mad.

 

fucking wow,

fucking let me show,

you the way,

to my dungeon of things,

 

things in your dreams,

things you can’t eat,

or think, or see or taste or breathe,

or swallow.

 

it’s hard to swallow.

I try too hard,

you try too little,

she looks too much,

 

and he knows too little,

shut the fuck up,

is less a command more a warning,

don’t speak or i’ll sin once more,

 

i’ll tell you i love your voice,

and he’ll tell you from hell,

it’s from heaven,

we love it, the grass,

 

and we bathe in the mud,

our skin licks up its suds,

your dirty words clean my dirty hands,

i like the taste,

 

of your mouth,

she likes the sound of his wealth,

lately, have i shown you,

everything we’ve done.

 

fucked up?

shut down, we’re corrupt,

have i shown you,

im awful,

 

fuck this,

fuck that,

fuck her,

fuck this fucking hat-

 

ill lay it out on the table,

i’ve got a presentation,

of how its all wrong,

it might take too long,

 

my nose is too long and my,

heart hasbeen wrung,

out,

can i be done?

 

i can’t do it,

we shouldn’t do it,

our conscience should know its all wrong,

far too fucked up,

 

to show your innocent,

soft fingers,

the way into this world,

shut the fuck up,

 

no,

don’t,

close your ears,

its all something you don’t want to hear.

 

Kissing girls

Kissing you is like kissing stars.

Girls are soft and delicate, beautiful and strong, powerful and bold. Girls kiss with intention and they kiss like they mean it. Girls mean it.

Kissing you is like kissing pillows, you are beautiful and intelligent, witty and enthusiastic.

You are out of my reach. You like me and I like you, but I fucked with you one too many times. You are soft and delicate and I want to kiss you again.

I want to hold your face and kiss your neck and I want to lie with you and feel your skin and I want to be with you.

Kissing you is like kissing dreams. You are so much fun. I love you.