i’m drowning in new york city.
i want to die, again.
always! why is it like this?
i hate everyone; i want my ****** dramatic burlington life and friends back.
her, him, those two, even them…
i want it back.
i wanna be no one.
i wanna be everyone.
i;m full of emotions that i don’t want because everything is so different except for them.
no matter what i do the doom and gloom is always there.
i wanna change my name
i wanna get a dog—auggie or esme, a red border collie—and flee to the south.
I WANNA DRINK MYSELF TO DEATH.
i see these visions of a stable, happy, healthy version of myself but i also see these visions of me literally not making it past age 21.
i’m eternally stuck on self destructing.
but why?
why!
everything is good but it’s never enough.
i’m never enough, it’s never enough, he’s never enough (whoever he is at any given moment)
sam says he’ll fly me back to santa cruz and my insanity says do it but the small semblance of “morals” i still possess tell me not to…
only because of my parents. because of joe.
i don’t want to hurt them.
i don’t want to hurt anyone. but i’m hurting. always. forever. unless i’m drunk. no, wait…even when i’m drunk. i learned that the hard time this last run.
but life is meaningless (words are meaningless and forgettable) and time is a flat circle
blah blah blah
i’ve been here before
i’ll be here again
everything i do i’ll do over and over til i die.
if i don’t get drunk anytime soon i will eventually.
eternal return; the emo version of destiny.
remember when caroline myss’ book told me my highest potential was “victim”?
i’ll be drowning forever.
i’d rather be drowning in absinthe than drowning in aa meeting coffee.
i ache at the beauty of the world; the beauty which i will never achieve or be a part of.
i cry and i cry and i cry.
i want to be beautiful and pure but it’s all so dark.
all the people i’ve loved and who love me…i weep and i weep and i weep.
i can’t breathe fully; why do i wish i could not breathe at all?
i look back at all my pasts as if they were yesterday, and yet they all feel as if i’d made them up entirely.
disconnected and yet fully involved with each and every era of my evolution…
and yet i swear, i haven’t truly changed a bit.
the details change—the scenery, the faces, the dreams…
but all the emotions…all the thoughts…they stay the same.
“i won’t change, i’ll stay the same—darling, fade away…”
fading & falling & then blooming for a single lovely night
time is a flat circle.
i ache, i weep, i cry.
i naively hold onto the hope that someday…someday i’ll be okay.
please, god.
i have to be okay.
i have to turn off the bon iver.
i’m just trying to breathe.
maybe someday.

I realized how much of a stereotype I am.
I’m a writer; an alcoholic; a chainsmoker.
I have crippling existential depression.
I fill my life with lust and longing.

I break my own heart approximately three times a week.
I would be numb if I didn’t, and it’s near impossible to write when you don’t feel.
I forgive easily, because I know that it’s always a mistake to forgive.
You get hurt over and over. You feel.

Being intelligent is the most ungodly curse.
The thinking is too much, and that’s why I drown myself with liquor.
That’s why I am the way I am.
That’s why.

I’m in love with ghosts. Maybe it’s because I long for distant memories.
Maybe it’s because I’m preoccupied with life and death.
Preoccupied with immortality.
Everything is fragile. Our ghosts will haunt us forever.  

In a year, I’ll be in London.
My soul is too drawn there to deny it any longer.
In a year, I’ll still be emptying bottles.
I’ll still be breaking my heart. I’ll still be me.

Do you see the moon?
It’s full again.
The time is passing so quickly.
It’s full again.
She hands me a glass of warm milk.
It’s full again.
Something catches my eye.
It’s full again.
The door closes by itself.

Did a ghost do that?
It’s hardly a ghost.
I sit on the washed out sofa.
It’s hardly a ghost.
My heart screams and my bones ache.
It’s hardly a ghost.
The way she speaks is so soft, so sweet.
It’s hardly a ghost.
She hands me the telephone.
It’s hardly a ghost.
Suddenly, she’s vanished.

Ellie. My name is Ellie.
I want to be a writer. I want to be a star. I want to be free.
I imagine myself riding on wide open roads,
on the back of a motorcycle with a boy
who is as much of a ghost as he is a person.
I imagine myself dazed in rooms
filled with a purple glow.
I imagine pills, lust, liquor, leather.
I want to live forever
and I want to die young.
My name is Ellie.
I don’t know what home means;
I don’t want to.
I need people to love me.
I will break all of their hearts.
I imagine late nights in underground clubs…
Marlboro, rock & roll, Howl by Allen Ginsberg–the bible.
Tanqueray;
falling down in a graveyard muttering in Romanian,
hoping for salvation,
but while I’m called an angel night after night
I’ve got the devil in me.
Rosewater runs through my veins,
the blood has already been spilt.
I won’t ever belong to anyone, not even myself.
When you have the knowledge that nothing’s real
it’s hard to do what’s expected of you.
I relate to flowers a lot.
They’re beautiful, but they don’t last.
Sometimes no matter how hard you try to take care of them,
they just run out of life.
I think I ran out of life the day I was born.
Everything is nothing.
The gods don’t want you to know that,
but that is the one truth.

It’s August and the big fat sun
Hangs in the sky.
It seems to be taunting me,
and I just want to cry.

Summer’s almost done;
thank god, it’s felt so long.
I just crave October,
when will it come along?

Born in Lion season,
though I feel more like a mouse.
So emotionally timid,
I’d rather hide in the house.

The sun’s streaming through the window,
taunting me still.
But I’ll stay put til October comes
with it’s familiar chill.

I once ended up
in the middle of Arizona
with nothing but a single cigarette
and a couple mints.
No phone, no money,
not even any shoes.
This one guy on a motorcycle
pulled over to the side of the road
where I stood, lost,
gave me a funny look
and then took off again.
I don't remember how I got there,
but the next morning I woke up in Phoenix
outside a gas station with
50 dollars in my pocket and a slip
of paper that read:
"keep it up, honey" on one side,
and a phone number on the other.
I never called.
I never even wondered
who had written it.

i can't write
i can't write
i can't w r i t e
i'm happy and i'm sad and it's got me in this place
where i don't know what i want
because really, i want everything
and really, i want nothing
i can't write
anymore
the words just won't come
and i don't know what i want
i don't know what i expect
i'm happy and i'm sad and i can't write

my heart chokes me every time i see you

haven't written much because
i forgot how to feel.
i shut off my emotions
when i got sick of hurting.
but now i don't know
how to turn them back on.
do i even want to feel?
i still think about you.
you you you you you.

I thought I would try
to write like Bukowski.
But then I thought,
I have no experience
when it comes to
horse races
or women.
So I gave up
and wrote
this ****** poem instead.
They're always ******,
unless you've got enough whiskey
to rid yourself of that
nagging voice,
the one that reminds you of your mother,
the one that always says
it's not good enough.
Oh hell, I guess even I can write
like Bukowski.

4am means nothing
when you're alone
in a cheap motel room.
With the television broken
and the phone line dead,
it's easy to find yourself just
lying there, humming to yourself.
I also like to look at ceilings.
There's really nothing else to do.

sun-soaked and bittersweet;
that's the way the memories are.
and the lust for life i used to have
makes me so nostalgic at times
i feel that i might *****.

come over
and we'll play scrabble
and drink cheap wine
until we're both too weary
to remember
that we're just friends.

at 3am, you can almost always find me
wide awake with a cold cup of black coffee
obsessively reading books on astrology
in a desperate attempt to understand you.
at 4am, you can almost always find me
listening to all the songs that remind me of you
on repeat; crying along to their tune
at 5am, you can almost always find me
frustrated that i can't sleep because all
i can do is wonder if you're dreaming of me.

I came across a Weeping Daisy
            Cowering away from the sun;
In the middle of a field of Poppies
            Wilting one by one.

The Night washed over the flowers;
            The moon shed its light below;
And in the witching hour they danced
            In the moonlight to and fro.