The camera spans showing a girl, putting a VHS tape into a vcr player. She double presses the fast foreword button, pounding it as if that will make it go any faster. I soon realize the girl is me, and I am sitting in front of an old tv, hugging my legs like a child wrapped up in a blanket. I am leaning forward in suspense. I see familiar images, people, places, sights moving quickly across the screen. I laugh and laugh and laugh maniacally, “none of the content matters! waste of time! The end is all that matters.” Ensue the cackling. As an outside observer, this seems to be madness. “What a maniac”, I think aloud, without even thinking and suddenly I am there, beside her. She quickly pivots to face me and snarls. “I know you are, but what am I?” She grins and shoves a handful of potatoe chips into her mouth. I turn my attention to the television but all I can hear is her loud, obnoxious, chewing. She looks at me point blank and says,” Be quiet, the best part is coming.” As if she weren’t the loud one here.. I feel slightly offended just being around this girl. She continues to chew distastefully. I watch the tv, and on the tv I watch myself. I am sitting in a room with a lighter and a bomb. I am wearing lingerie and black lipstick. I keep flicking the lighter as I stare into the camera. After hours of this I start to ugly cry, and it’s confusing to see someone in lingerie ugly cry like what are you? You’re kinda hot but really you’re crying so hard I don’t get what you’re trying to be? Do something interesting already? I’m thinking all these thoughts and the girl finally looks up at me to flick the lighter once more just to light the bomb, at last. The maniac laughs in a hyper fashion, as if she’s having a panic attack but she’s just that excited. The bomb explodes and demolishes the girl in lingerie. Blood splattered on the walls. This is Me. I am aware this is a part of myself but all I can do is stare at the mess. I’m not cleaning it up anytime soon, I kind of just hope someone else gets fed up seeing it before I do. I’ll throw the rug over it for now. We all know that the maniac is going to kill me soon anyways. She wants what I’ve got and I don’t have it in me to fight her. 
I wrote this on June 3rd 2016. I forgot I even wrote this but found it in the notepad on my phone. Who knows if this makes any sense whatsoever but I kinda like it. let me know what you think lol! thanks for reading 

I am slime you squeeze through the palms of your hands. you squeeze it just to watch it bulge. I am scratchy carpet you are cuddling because it is the warmest thing you’ve got. When your arms rub against me you are rug burnt, red and tender. I’m an expired cookie in the garbage can. I look soft but I’ve hardened. I’m no longer something sweet, I am wasted potential. I am best described as “trying” because it doesn’t actually qualify as succeeding and I’ve always been “getting there” but not quite. Only I sense my inadequacy but maybe I’ll drive it into you. Finger nails dig into the skin of your back and you wish it felt good but it just hurts.

oil spill

Not my photo

Like a chemical spill in the water, I am a disease to the earth, but boy do I make it pretty! Like an oil spill on the concrete you walk over with your feet. you know it’s bad but you can’t help but look at it. The way that all of the pretty colors melt together like an abstract painting. when I paint, I put the colors together in all of the right ways, and you just wish you understood that but you don’t. You’ve heard that there is beauty in tragedy and you’re cliche just like whoever told you that. All I know is tragedy and it is the farthest thing from beautiful. some damage is irreversible and the earth still cries and so do I. Not every painting is meant to be beautiful, and neither am I. I am struggle. I am hardship and resilience, I am neither tragic nor beautiful. I am open to your interpretation But you’re always a bit off.. you will be guessing as to what I’m really trying to say and I guess what I’m really saying is that to you, I’m like the rat in your laundry room- and you’re starting to think that you really should have bought some poison. you’re going to have to exterminate me but you’re not looking forward to it.. Does that make sense? What I’m trying to say is that I don’t have to make sense to you because you’re going to say I’m wrong anyways. You didn’t even give me a second glance, you say “I’ve always had good judgement.” I say, you see what you want to see. Especially when you’re looking at me. You have a flair for the dramatic, and love the tragedy. Thoughts transform gold into lead, you would say this is alchemy; but it’s chemistry you fucking pseudo-science motherfucker.  It wouldn’t be like you to take responsibility. You’re the catalyst causing your own chemical reaction- you have more control than you think. We are toxic and we made it this way. Hail and grey snow on a summer day. You love the cold, you say, “this almost makes global warming okay.”

Not my photo


I believe and I can’t turn my back now, I’m too far in to quit and you know I’m not stopping. I have embodied the vision, I am becoming the future. The world is in my hands. All I have to do is hold it in my arms as I stumble forward. It’s heavy but not as heavy as the weight from the past. I’m shedding like a snake and I peel my skin off like an onion. All I need to do is keep moving. You won’t see me coming. 

Scientific method // Stockholm syndrome 

A smashed mirror and my broken concept of family. I’m seven years in debt but twenty one years of bad luck could have fooled me. The only meaning is that which we assign, and I’ve always been the superstitious type. But unintentionally, like “fuck I hope it doesn’t happen” but I’m thinking about it until it does. Like I hung my mirror with push pins because that’s all I had and hoped it wouldn’t break but I knew it would and either way I unintentionally broke my mirror. Now shards cover the floor, but I’m still going to walk through the glass. And well, I knew we were broken, but I still wanted to get through to you. You slit my skin and I slit yours. I watch the blood ooze and in some sick way this is meant to bring us together. And yeah, maybe it does, but my healing scars itch. This is a blood ritual of some sort but I’m not aware of there being any meaning, just senseless bleeding. You tell me there is a point to all of this. You tell yourself that there is a point to all of this and that gets you by. That is the meaning you have assigned. All I know is that it happened, and when I itch my arms, they bleed.


You’re walking around this infested house in your high heels just to crush the insects.

Your eyes dissect what you consider to be a defect.

When you look at the world, you search for division.

You wish I would agree to my own excision.

You are looking at an alien with monochromatic vision, 

So undoubtedly you see me as grey.

It doesn’t matter how hard I try to convey to you – you don’t see my hue.

You can see me however you wish to see me, but what you see is not truth.