ParisianTwist's blog

its your turn to read all this from my perspective, between the ywo of us, I've never really understood what you meant by "enjoying the view". At this point in life, it seems a little relative from where you're standing, don't you think? for me, I could be enjoying you watching the view of me, or, perhaps, more astoundingly, you could be enjoying the view of me watching you watching me. In essence, we could be enjoying each other, or selfishly, ourselves. But what do you mean? are you waiting for some sight, some incredible happening that will awaken your heart and force it to leak from your every pore? are you looking for some event that will spread your mind wide and far covering every crevice of doubt you'd ever thought you might dwell in or upon? You'll never find that. You know that.
But I'm trying to understand the little things now, no, not understand, realize, appreciate.

This time from a camp/college class I'm attending.

i.
"What do you have?" "I have 1:40" (referring to an illness)

ii.
I hate it when people think I'm sarcasming

iii.
I want you to be a fountain!

iv.
No. Fuck. We're bitchin' ave, not BITCHING ave.

v.
"DO you think we can pay them to kidnap us?" "No, I'm pretty sure its about the same rules for prostitution."

I write letters to the people
I think I love or at least
Hope I can understand on some
deeper level.

it's hard, you know,
dripping my precious word-blood
onto papers for my father
or worse yet:
Others I'm not sure I even know.

My watch tells the time of how long
things take to digest and how
beautiful
they get when taken from the baby's mouth.

I'd grown used
to the love-making with eyes and arms and teeth and legs,
sharing two seperate thoughts, motions,
movements
in friendship.

My friends and I all share a family,
We're allowed to touch, you know?

It's awkward keeping from finger-touching.

Some days even One o'clock
finds your mind wandering and wondering and wounded
simply because
either you're not good enough
or you're just too far away.

*written in the perspective of Hansel and Gretel's stepmother for a class.*

Two square pegs can never find a place in a heart.

Dishes need washing
Clothes need mending,
Supper need cooking

I'm so tired.

Two square pegs can never find a place in a home.

Children keep crying
(so loud)
(so long)
(so sadly)

You're not here.

Two square pegs don't fit along with the round ones.

No games in the yard
No laughing in the garden
No baking in the kitchen.

They're already gone anyway.

Two square pegs don't belong in this place.
Nothing quite fits,
and
(woodcutter, dear)
You're the only one who can pull them out
just before they
splinter.

i.
I asked him if he liked strawberries, even though it's not what I really wanted to know.

ii.
It's not that I'm cold, it's just that I'm lonely.

iii.
I miss the tears you shed when we said our goodbyes.

iv.
I'd like to send you a letter, but I'm not sure I ever caught your name.

v.
my pen (my knife) is losing its sharpened edge.

6.
I'm sorry there's a faint hint of butterflies when you make me laugh.

There's just one more, chance you can take,
before we come back to this:
I'm just not sure how long I can break,
myself away from your kiss.
It's just too hard,
It's just too long,
I'm sorry, I won't be alone.
It's just too hard
I'm just too strong
and Baby, this place, it's not your home.

Cause you ran away, to el-dorado
Sleepin' in the back of a car,
I guess right now, I just wanna let you know,
I never thought we'd make it that far,
but now you're there, in California,
drippin' with the booze in your shoes,
Now you're there in California,
You've got nothing left to lose.

You take those pills, everyday now,
I guess that's what you're all about,
you're selling your soul, your clothes your everything,
You're selling yourself out
Its just too hard,
It's been too long,
I'm sorry, I just cannot stay.
It's just to hard,
I'm not that strong,
I can't watch you, fading away.

I take a plum, you take a peach,
You lay out naked, on the beach

It’s odd to watch yourself bleed out into someone else, to watch yourself become something else so easily, to change like a Chimera from day to day, shape-shifting-colour-taking in so many ways it seems as though you’re not longer yourself in this body. You are no longer in this body. You don’t even know who YOU are. This body doesn’t FIT right, there’s too much there, not enough here. Your teeth are too sharp. Your hair is too frizzy. You can’t bite the palms of your hands with your nails because they flaked off because you just didn’t care enough to cut the hang nails. You’re lips are too big. Your toes look too funny. You want to shake you head and snarl at the reflection staring back at you each time you glance in a mirror. You want to break that glass, pull out that picture, destroy it. Rip it up. Forget what you look like together.

i.
$200 cannot make up for all the years youve spent convincing yourself you're not responsible for loving me.

ii.
I almost scooted onto the stool next to him, realizing only then it would have been a huge mistake.

iii.
Avacado phones look like they could connect us forever.

iv.
My heart jumps from time to time when I look at the memories of us I posted on my wall. Then: We're not us (no we, not even you and I) we're not even talking.

v.
I met another arayan today. His blue eyes froze the "I love you" clogged in my mind and I discovered: No more Blue eyed boys.

vi.
The fourth of July is just an excuse to get drunk and blow things up, if just for those without a family.

vii.
I'm ready to tell secrets.

They're not going away,
I suppose its only there to tell me:

Write it all out.

i.
I can't help but think I loved him too much to help myself (but that could be backwards, couldn't it?)

ii.
You haven't spoken to me for three days.

iii.
His brown eyes glittered as he listened to my laugh in the rain today. (too bad I'm only sixteen. He was drinking a Long Trail Ale and I knew when he asked where I lived it wasn't just out of curiosity.

iv.
My favourite jeans don't fit me.

v.
Damn. I'm scared I'm not good enough to be an artist.

vi.
I feel different. as though something inside me is me, but this shape I'm trapped in is not.

Some day I'll be a Suicide Girl, a pin up queen with pop-art lips and a body only those dedicated to tattoos and piercings, rainbow coloured hair and trashy rock star babies adore.

Some day I'll be a wife two kids and a life I wish I could trade in for a mint condition copy of my favourite record. I promise I won't drive a mini van, they're a little too big in back for my taste.

Someday I'll get drunk and make out with a girl in the rain. We'll share a cigarette the one am tram to London and I'll realize the the only reason I'm there is because... because I can't stand the sickening thought of going back to my "family".

Some day I'll let someone tie me up and slap me around, you know, just to prove I can survive. Or maybe, it's just because thats what love is, isnt it?

I'd love for any lines that people absolutely love to be pointed out, so I can go somewhere with them. I'm sick. This is what you get for a while.

If I could be your beautiful witch for just one day,
I'd show you what it's like to be free. I'd show you what its like to listen to Cabaret punk and drink Rum while eating pineapple sorbet.
I'd love to bathe each and every word I say to you with lighter fluid, waiting for them to ignite in your mind, letting you know that where you bet, I wouldnt care and I'd do it anyway.
Each and every lip-kiss I've never had seems to linger even more in these rainy hours, coating the pages of my leatherbound heart and dripping form my fingertips and tripping form my tongue.

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry (I don't know why)

Can't you admit You were the last I kissed and meant it?
(I'm sorry I didn't love you, your lies were just to big)

Instead of posting quotes:
I'll post a conversation that they had.
Once again, from camp.
Everything I said is in Italics. everything else: They girls said.
Ages 9 and 10.

"It's OK for us all to change in here. We're all girls."
"Yeah, But we all need a private space"
"No. Only if there are BOYS in here."
"But there arent any boys."
"But if there WERE we'd each need our own space."
"Yeah."
"But boys don't want to see girls naked."
"NO! They're like... EWWWWWW... GROSSS!!!"
"Boys are stupid."
"boys are icky. they have, like, cooties."
"no. Boys don't have cooties."
"YES. yes they do."
"no NO NO NO NO! No they don't."
"FINE! but boys are still stupid."

"yeah"

"and gross"

"yeah""
"I wouldn't want to kiss a boy."
"Me either. boys would taste funny."
"Yeah. Boys are dirty and muddy."
"I KNOW!"
"I'd rather kiss a girl"
"me too!"
"Girls would be ok."

"BUT you're not supposed to want to kiss girls! it's like, wrong."
"NO! my mommy says its ok."
"oh."

I'm sorry my unicorn
stamped muddy footprints on your
clean swept dirt floor,
pummeling pieces of rock and wood
further and further into the earth.

I'm sorry my bird
landed on your rotted log
at the egde of the clearing,
catching its tiny talons
between the rotted wood and the worm-holes.

I'm sorry my voice
caught your ears
smashing my song and speak
un-delicately into them
cramming each word

until I was crying
and you eyes were tiny black pools
That didn't want to understand.

Cotton sheets or the way to California?

They asked you, looking as though they knew the answer.

Six months ago you would have found the answer
pressed somewhere miserably between our soft,
disillusioned bodies beneath the winter sun,
shivering where your blue-red hands grasped mine
whispering stories of grandeur and gypsy princesses.

My dear, sweet, Aryan.
My Nazi boy.

When you were young, you rode on tractors,
grasping for the pedals with the souls of your feet
yearning to press those rusted
wilted
painted sepals and stamens.

Today you've flown away,
red-eye to California in a 13 hour long decision
I knew you'd always make.

I saw a picture of us,
You in the blue shirt,
The turquoise dress of silk and butterfly wings
draped across my body,
My arm gently sliding along your shoulders
Your musical hands tightly gripping my waist.

I sat on your knees,
smiling.
Your lips were parted:
too.

It was hard to believe only two weeks ago