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Rachel Giudici Aug 2014
I am hallow and your cryptic messages echo echo echo in the cavern depths of my mind. and I erase myself into a hallow dark nothingness because your voice reckishays so beautifully into my abyss. to let your essence fade within me until i can feel your silence, is a sound I cannot regurgitate. I hide in you more than i do myself and the feeling of vulnerability entraps my soul inbetween-and i taste it on my exhale and you sense it on your inhale but you will always breath it out and ill always breathe it back in. the dictionary in my head is composed of emotions and my fragmented thoughts will appear on my tongue in words that know well solitude. so don't ask me to compile a sentence when nonsense is such a poetic language. and maybe you're shocked by your own electricity but i know that when my socket lips meet your outlet I don't need my eyes open for you to feel my stare. I started in a void, rap music drains me into being comfortably numb like the security of a scratched cd that will repeatedly mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble mumble nonsense until you can handle the silence again. Sedation. but silence does not exist-there will only ever be nothingness.

and memory is a misconception. and my memory is paranoid fading fading fading fading deceptions that i mutilate into some kind of black hole limbo of existence. I forget memory does not exist. not even the best moments are worth remembering into ghosts, shadows, silhouettes, silhouettes, silhouettes. I wont remember but i wont inbetween. I've never felt so lonely as you keep a memory but forget me within it. my extinction to you is inevitable. Forget me to death. I only know the sensation of breaking, breaking, breaking. but you say my name in halves like it was meant to be broken. like the last syllables of my names are the sound of my last breath. a secret spilt in the killing, your last words to me were my first name. that was the most purpose ever put to my accidental label that my parents branded me with because mistake, seems more like a nickname than a first. first times aren't anything more than any other time. Innocence costs more than its worth, and my worth to you and you and you and you over and over and over again was never a matter of giving or taking because purity and promiscuity are just different forms of the same breaking, breaking, breaking. you **** me like a mortician dissects a ****** victim. and i ******* like a corpse in a dirt smothered grave, ***** to the bone. love has everything to do with it because loving me is the promise of i will die for you. will, not would. and i love you like the ceaseless immortality of time measuring my bodies end in mortality. so all jokes aside, id rather say ill ******* to death than ill love you because it more crude, offensive, and morbid to ever suggest my love for you could end at wood. intensity, burdens, accidents, rejection, characters, you don't know me past an expiration date. You don't know me and my caffeinated brain at 3:22am 156 days past last, high on an artificial happiness overdose. To never sleep as a self inflicted insomniac. Intoxication, addiction, I understand survival. I never write anything short. I never write anything worth saying. Irony is the core of infinity and infinity is temporary and my muse is the epitome of all. And in the end, you are every question and i am a single factual answer.
my muse
Rachel Giudici Aug 2014
i will not remember, but i will not forget. an in between.

for memory does not, and will never, exist in immortal time measuring mortality. that is why it haunts,

memory haunts the mind and rests its grave in the depths of your soul
killing one slowly with invisible, fragments and fading pieces of life that once were your only existence.
attached to invisible, fragments and fading pieces of life that were once your whole existence.

i hate fading in and out of existence.
being manipulated by my mind to hold onto that moment for one more second, one more hour, one more day
so that every time i recall it, it changes into a fragment of fantasy,
fading into imagination,
at the same time that memory will define and confuse my now.
a present moment stolen by the stale air of the past and i let myself rot in it as if it were holy water.
the past and future are oblivion, the in between is eternity.

I only trust my emotions and feelings.
paranoid of my mind to warp a memory into what it is not-a thought.
Memory is a moment that's trying to be preserved by the mind when it was experienced by the soul.

no memory, even the best, is ever worth remembering
Rachel Giudici Aug 2014
i have an attraction to the grim these days
the dirt, the mess, the rancid, rotting, stench of things gone bad
i like when i sweat and the makeup smears under my tired eyes
i like when i eat and the crumbs of something devoured remain in my teeth
i like when i bite my nails and the chip in the polish makes my breath smell like the chemicals poison
i like being gross, *****, rancid, rotting, soiled in my own filth, decaying...
i wont brush my teeth
i wont change my underwear
i wont put a bandied on the scratch on my thigh
because i'm always looking for a release from my mind
and what you see is what you get
Rachel Giudici Aug 2014
held within and tragic strain
dosed and left for comfort more ,
the tears of desperate, fragile, rain
left weeping corpses in the morgue.

distraught by what the muse kept,
but further more for one to keep,
within the death grips weeping, wept
the hands of time of timeless sleep
my muse.end
Rachel Giudici Apr 2014
i'm never gonna have that.
i'm going to have drunken kisses, private hand holding, secret, captive, solitary, messy, *****, abused love.

i'll never be the one worth loving out of chains and grim and empty streets. i'll be the one worth leaving. worth letting go. worth forgetting about.

because i'll only use your love to punish myself. to torture me in sweet painful affliction and no one wants to be my addiction. intoxicated by my love feels like a nightmare, alcohol poisoning, acid, a disguised medication... and i'll force you to love me like a rufie before the ****. you'll feel the threat of my intensity and conceal me in your darkness.

Hurt me. a *****, disgusting, morbid, *****. you can brand me in your cigarette ashes. tobacco flavored saliva can stain the space between my legs like a wet match trying to burn. you can mark me in your bad habits and dig your chemical colored fingerprints into my flesh and wound me to scratch away the lust you feel. at least my flesh will be touching yours under your ****** finger nails. you can give me your alcohol scented breath and breathe into me whatever you were trying to drink away. I'll keep it in between my stale lung cavities. You can touch me in the dark and neglect me in the day. Think of me when you take out the trash, flush the toilet, put your ***** *** soiled ******* in the wash...a temporary disgusting, filthy, nuisance that you can always dispose of.

i'm fine with that

because i'm not the kind someone wants to hold hands with in public. the kind to laugh with and admire the sparkle of magic in the depth of their eyes. the kind that someone could love without destruction, or thinking of leeches, heads in ovens, dim light, dark alleys, or rancid, rotting, smells that linger to stench the whole atmosphere.

i'm a morbid, dark, twisted, ****** up, ***** and when you say you love me...

i know you mean you love me like unreadable, scratched, handwriting fading into the cracks of a wood grain table.
April 15th, 2014
Rachel Giudici Mar 2014
I don't like to celebrate my birthday
I don't celebrate my birthday.
What is there to celebrate?

My existence is stained in accident and I don't need to be given purpose in rubber balloons, and paper streamers, and cheap wax candles.

My birthday feels like a date that's begging and pleading for someone to acknowledge that I'm alive, and I don't want to have to pretend to be.

I don't want to be thankful for stupid gifts that are brought on by obligation and I don't want to smile when I hear "happy birthday" come off your lips. I'm not happy.

My birth is just a day. A mistaken date, an accidental date, a victimized date that had to bear my name being attached to it like I'm of some significance to the calendar. Like I'm of some significance to time.

Time that will also be one more year closer to death which is just as unbearable because it's confirmation of my accidental, mistaken, existence. It's the stamp that says "she shouldn't have been breathing in the first place". Don't date my tombstone.

Its uncomfortable for me to celebrate my birthday.

I'm not trying to be depressing, or pitiful, or too "deep" about things BUT this is just a fact. A statement. An acceptance in my life. A way things are kind of feeling. Permanent.

So don't tell me I'm thinking about it all wrong and to be more positive. That people love me and are happy I'm alive and want me to know that. That's a bunch of *******. If you loved my existence you wouldn't need to express that to me in chocolate icing, and blow horns, and confetti bits. I'm not pitiful. Birthdays are just a pitiful excuse for you to make my existence more about living for you. A debt for your "kindness" at throwing me a party. A debt for your "thoughtfulness" because of that expensive gift you bought with me in mind. A debt for your "love".

That's what  I mean when I say simply, " I don't want to be 19".
Rachel Giudici Mar 2014
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me

im always so vulnerable with you

you told me you only let yourself be touched when you cant feel
when the alcohol
when the drugs
when the substance has mutilated your insides so that when they are inside they do not touch you vulnerable

but you touched me vulnerable
would you not let me kiss your neck because its outside?
because that intimacy is closer than all the men, all the women, that have been inside you
because you would feel the spasm of every one of my lips muscles contracting and convulsing against your skin.
because my kiss on your neck would demand to be felt,
like a knock, like a doorbell wanting to be inside, an echo that you can't ignore.
breaking the blood vessels just on the surface of a cavity holding your air to existence...
would i break your existence?

a bruise for you to feel on the surface
a bruise for you to feel the exposure
a bruise for you to feel what can be lost in memory with every heavy sigh you take in
a bruise reminding you that you took my breath away
that you took my innocence away
that you took my virginity away
that you touched me vulnerable...

you made me stop...
in your taunting saftey word phrases, in your pauses, in your avoided eye contact
i felt your vulnerability most

i confessed once that i love when youre vulnerable

you said youd walk around later hearing "let me let me let me" as i whispered at your throat
begging for you to let me into something more than your mouth, something more than your body
does it haunt you like the doorbell?
does it haunt you like the echo?
do my words stay at your throat like the kiss that never made it an invisible threat or torment to your vulnerability?
do my words strangle you and suffocate your air?
are my words grasping prsion bars from the outside?
trying to touch something locked away...
would my kiss have broken your existence?

would my kiss on the outside awaken something inside you, that if i touched, would hurt you more than the bruise at your neck
because a kiss that hard is somewhere inbetween pleasure and pain
and we both know how both,when felt together, weaken your mind, your body, and soul to be stripped down, naked, VULNERABLE, shards of self not inside or outside
and that feeling of inbetween is more vulnerable than the definite evidence of a hickey left on your outside, or the definite reaction of your body to the sensations when fingers are inside
because the phsycial cannot touch your soul
because no matter how many ******* or hickeys penetrate your body,inside and out,they cannot touch your existence

i wanted to touch your existence

i didn't want to make love
i didn't want to have ***
i didn't want to have pleasure or pain
and thats why i also confessed that when you touched me vulnerable i felt nothing
because i was waiting

waiting like the doorbell that you never came to the door to answer
waiting like the knock that you never came to the door to answer
waiting like the echo i whispered that screamed for you to "let me" in
waiting to feel your existence

to exist with you inbetween;inside out outside in

i told you once before that you felt like a soul mate to me
and you touched me vulnerable
you touched me vulnerable
you touched me vulnerable
but you did not feel me

so now when i slip my fingers inside myself i feel to see if my innocence is still there
i feel to see if my virginity is still there
and this bruise that you left on my throat i press my fingers against to feel the throb of pain so i can feel if my vulnerability is still there
and they are...
they are because i kept those when i left my existence on a tongue thats tasted many souls but never swallowed
on the fingers of hands that touched many bodies but only felt the wet that washes away with the soap...clean of something permanent
a temporary high
would you let me touch you without being high? no.

you didnt care to be my first, said it was a weapon, that the only thing you wanted was for me not to regret
i dont regret. i dont regret at all.
but i hope my existence that i left to you is a weapon that you can't fight off with the drugs or the alcohol
i hope my existence that i left to you stained your hands and is holding onto your teeth like those prison bars
so that when we ****
**** because ******* has no love and is a pitiful attempt to be ***
when we **** again
i hope that if not my existence, you at least feel my presence
my presence that will be your echo, your knock, your doorbell for the ignored and dismissed love i feel in the depths of my soul for you...

the love that you will never desire to feel more than my body (outside)
that i, more than your body, desire to feel your love-not for me or for anybody else but the love you feel for yourself (inside)
and we will never be what's inbetween

we will never be more than you touching me vulnerable but not feeling my vulnerability

vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me
vulnerable you touched me...
crap confessions
crap confessions
crap confessions
that take too long to read

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