Janie pushes the metal book cart back into its parking space in the Document Delivery Department of the St. Louis Public Library and hangs the last sticky note for October 30, 2012 on the wall by the head of the department’s closed door. She retightens her brown scarf under her chin, tucking the wispy hairs above her ears back into hiding. Having your hair begin to prematurely gray as a teenager has dramatic effects on a person. Her mother wore scarves around her wrists when Janie was growing up and when Janie begin to wear scarves to conceal her salt-and-pepper hair, her mother just smiled. The clock hanging on the wall above the children’s section reads 11:28pm.
Two more minutes.
She reorganized the pens and books on her desk and set the box reading NOTES onto the right corner or her desk with three blue pens and a stack of note cards. Her coworkers learned fast that Janie does not like to talk. She does not like eye contact. She loves the silence, and never ever to ask her about her hair. Her manager gave her the NOTES box after about a month of horrible miscommunication and everyday it fills with requests for books or tasks that Janie has to complete. She completes the tasks one by one, alone, in her back office in the Reference Department and hangs the completed sticky notes on the wall by her manager’s door. She works the night shift and locks the library up every night. When she’s alone she can talk out loud to herself and those are the only voices she cares to hear.
“Goodnight, books. Good night, rooms.” Janie shut the heavy wooden door to the library, placed the color-coded keys in the front right pocket of her jacket, and began her walk to the bus stop one corner away. She avoids the main road, taking her first right onto a side street that she knows would spit her out right beside the bus stop.
“Goodnight Taco Bell Sign. Goodnight Rite-Aide. Goodnight Westside Apartments. Goodnight Jack-o-Lantern smile.” She stopped in the middle of the alley and peered up at the Jack-o-Lantern grinning down at her from the third story window above. “Mother wouldn’t’ve liked your smirk, Jack. She would’ve slapped that **** right off your face.” Janie, satisfied the pumpkin was put in its rightful place, smiled as she trotted on.
“Mother carved smiles into her arms and that’s why Daddy left, it is, it is.” She kicked at a crushed Mountain Dew can as she remembered that night from years ago.

“Mommy?” Janie pushed opened the door to her mother’s bedroom and saw the moving-boxes torn open and all their contents scattered across the floor. She tiptoed through piles of scarves and silverware and corkscrews until she reached the bathroom in her mom’s room.
“Come to us like rain, oh lord, come and stay and sting a while more, oh lord…” her mother’s voice was slipping off the tiled bathroom walls. Janie pushed open the door and saw the blood for the first time pouring from her mother’s wrist. Her mother was naked and perched on the bathroom sink, singing to a red razor blade.
“Mommy?”
“GET OUT!” Her mother jumped from the counter and perched on all fours on the floor. She began to growl and speak in a voice too deep to be coming from her own throat.
“Mommy! It’s Janie!” She began to cry as her mother, still naked and bleeding, twisted and writhed onto her back and began to crawl towards the door that Janie hid behind.


“Thirty-Three percent, dear. Just a thirty-three percent chance.” She shivered trying to clear the last memory of her mother with the words that all the shrinks had echoed to her over the years. “Schizophrenia is directly related to genetics, little is known about the type of Schizophrenia mother was diagnosed with except that it is definitely passed on genetically. But, there is only a thirty-three percent chance you could have it, dear. Thirty-three percent.” The sound of the bus stop ahead reminds her it is time to be silent again.
“Disorganized Schizophrenia.” She mouthed to herself as she stepped back out onto the busy street from her alleyway. She tightened her scarf and saw the bus pull into the pickup spot. She walked forward to the bus, again immersed in her self-imposed silence.
Stepping out of the February cold, Janie removes her wool scarf as the bus doors close behind her.
“Where to baby?” The driver smiles a sticky smile. Her nametag reads, “Shannon” and has a decaying Hello-Kitty sticker in the bottom left corner.
“The Clinton Street drop.” She hands the driver her $2.50 fare and avoids the woman’s questioning eyes. The night drivers are always more talkative, curious.
“Your ticket hon.” She tears Janie a ticket stub. “Everything is pretty dead this late, I’ll have you there in ten minutes top.”
Janie begins to shuffle towards the seats, ignoring the woman.
“You mind if I crank up the music?” The bus driver asks, purple fingernails scratching in her thick blonde hair. “I need to keep my eyes open and blood flowing and music is my fire of choice you know?”
“Sure.” Janie shrugs her bag onto her shoulder and walks on before the woman can say anything else.
“Route E-2, homebound.” Shannon’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker.
She shuffles down the bus towards her usual seat; second from the back right side.  Shannon starts the bus rolling before she reaches her seat and Janie can hear her singing along to “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. The bus floor, today, is sticky because of the morning rain. Two years of riding public transportation has taught Janie that staring at the floor as she walks to her seat is better than the risk of making eye contact. The bus is usually empty this late but if there ever happens to be anyone else on, it’s better not to converse. Safer that way.
She plops into her seat filling the indention that ghosts of past passengers left. The seat is still warm and Janie squirms around until the stranger heat is forgotten. She tightens her scarf and sighs. The brown pleather seatback in front of her is peeling towards the top. Janie leans forward and idly picks at the scab-like dangles of brown as she watches the sodden city canvas roll past her out the foggy window. As she picks, the hole grows. She twists and digs her unpainted nails into the seat until her hands feel wet, warm. Looking down, they are covered in blood and mud.
“What. The. Actual. ****.” she whispers, wiping her hands on her pants leg. She cautiously picks off another piece of pleather and a trickle of deep red begins to run from the seat back, clumps of mud now falling onto her knees. A puddle of blood and mire splatter down her legs and pool around her feet as she picks at the seat. Her white tights are definitely beyond saving now, so she digs faster until her thumbnail catches on something, bends back, and cracks. She gasps and withdraws her shaking hand, watching her own blood mix with the clotting muck in the seat, half of her thumbnail completely stripped off.
Looking around, all else seems normal. The driver is now muttering along to some banter by Kanye West, completely unaware of Janie’s predicament. She closes her eyes.
This is a dream, this is a dream, wake the **** up.
She opens her eyes to see the pool of filth around her feet trickling towards the front of the bus. Panic sets in with a whisper, They’re going to think it was you, your fault, you’ll be thrown in jail.
“But I didn’t do this.” She lashes out to herself. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Next stop, E-2. Shannon blares on the intercom.
“It’s just a dream, get your **** together, Janie.” She laughs at herself, manic.
Prove it! Her subconscious screams.
Convinced to end this moment she has to continue; Janie plunges her hand into the pleather grave one more time. Frantic and confused she laughs as she digs, spittle of muck splashing on her bus window.
Faster, faster, faster.
Deeper, deeper, deeper.
Realer, realer, real.
Wake up, now!
Then, as the bus slows, one last chuck of mud splatters to the floor and Janie sees a pink piece of her thumbnail stabbed into the white of a bone in the bottom of the seatback pit. Her white Ked’s were becoming so red they were almost black. She pulls her knees up to her chest and begins to rock back and forth. Clenching shut her eyes she begins to hum. Janie’s sweet soprano harmonizes with the buses deep droning purr, their wet melody interweaving with the driver’s alto and Lil Wayne’s screech made her feel dizzy as the bus turned right.
She take my money when I'm in need
Yeah she's a trifling friend indeed
Oh she's a gold digger way over town
That dig's on me
The bus slows to a stop and the bass is shaking. Janie is cold. She slowly peeks out of her right eye, expecting to be instantly immersed into the same dismal scene. The seatback is whole again. Releasing her knees, her feet fall back to the floor and her shaking fingers stroke the solid pleather.

“Ma’am? We’re at the Clinton Drop.”
Janie hurriedly picks up her bag and flees down the aisle to the bus doors.
“Everything alright, dear?” The bus driver asks, smiling.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You be safe out there tonight. The night is dark and only ghouls stroll the streets this late.”  Shannon laughed as Janie’s jaw dropped. “Happy Halloween, dear. It’s midnight, today is October 31st.”
The bus doors opened and a cold wind ****** the warm bot-air surrounding Janie into the streets. She begrudgingly followed, her mind spinning as she stepped onto the pavement. The doors slammed behind her and she turned to see Shannon pull out a tube of lipstick and smear it, red, across her cracked lips. Shannon made a duck-face in the mirror and reached down to crank up the music as loud as it would go. The bus exhaled and rolled forward, leaving Janie behind as it splashed through the potholes.
She surveys the surrounding midnight gloom and the street is quiet and dark. Even the stars are hidden behind swirling clouds. She begins to hum, hands in her pocket, and shuffle towards her apartment.
“Goodnight, stars. Goodnight, street.”
As she approaches her single-bedroom apartment, digging through her coat pocket for her keys, her thumb pulsates. She grasps the keys and pulls them out as she steps up to the apartment. Sticking the cold, silver key in the lock she looks down at her thumb and in the shadows of the porch sees half of the nail completely missing. She laughs as she pushes the door open to her bare apartment, light flooding out. Without any hesitation she closes the door behind her, sheds her clothes, and slips onto the mattress in the corner of the room gripping her thumb tight. She reaches out for the glass of milk on the floor beside her bed from the morning and it’s still cold. Nursing the milk, surrounded by blankets and solitude, she reminds herself,  “Only a thirty-three percent chance. A nice, small, round number. Small.”  
She sets down the empty glass and curls into the fetal position under the heavy blankets, pointer finger tracing circles on her thumb. Only when she has heated her blanket cocoon enough to feel safe does she remove her scarf and allow her thick white hair to fall around her face.
“Goodnight, room. Goodnight, mother,”

I have been doing a lot of work with my feelings lately.  I have avoided them for most of my life because, well the bad ones outweigh the good ones.  

The rest of them were f@#ked or beaten out of me.

I have always believed that my feelings only led to trouble and pain.  A simple feeling stated as a child sent me tumbling down a rabbit hole of horrific pain.  An innocent smile was interpreted to be nothing but filthy desire.  A frown was nothing but blatant rebellion that had to be dealt with.

My thinking is extremely black and white.  Good or bad.  Right or wrong.  But what I'm learning is that feelings don't fall easily into any of those categories.  The classifications that I have used to reason my life into some semblance of order do not work for feelings.

So walking in this grey area is very difficult for me.  I cannot make much sense of what I allow myself to feel and if I do, I get stuck.  The detachment I have felt to my memories is slowly being bridged by the missing feelings.  And that is terrifying.

I have always been able to share, matter of factly, the details I have chosen to disclose.  And I'm very afraid that those details were the easy ones; the ones I could disconnect from and push the feelings onto someone else.

Remember those rabbit holes?  When I find the feelings associated with that pain it's like falling down that hole bound, gagged, and blindfolded.  My logic was my only means of control and I've lost it amongst the feelings.  The only way to climb out of that hole?  

Literally feel my way out.

I ' m croo ked like
I ' m croo ked like
I am croo ked like
I am crooked like
Grass under your foot

I am a person of survival
But last year, that was not really my title
A dead soul who was screaming for revival
A young girl who became suicidal

I felt the pain, because of the comments off society,
Probably the reason, why I've suffered from anxiety
I've never been close or the definition of perfection
But at the time all I needed was protecting  

They called me names from gap tooth, to fat ****,
To other **** I won't bring up, because to be honest it's that sad
They'd call me thick, they'd say I was fked up,
I wanted to fight back, but instead I kept my mouth shut

Getting told to die, getting called worthless
It's like people thought, there words would be hurt less
Every time the school mornings came I thought to my self here we go again,
Same **** different day, will I be crying by the time the clock hits ten

I felt so alone, The only place I felt safe was when I was home
But it wasn't always possible, I felt like I had no friends
I wanted to give up I wanted everything to come to an end
And it didn't, it never did, it was like something was holding me back, something was keeping me here

Every time I felt good, something would remind me and make me feel like nothing
Every time I was down, something would kick me even further,
It was horrible I felt like I was drowning, and there was no way up,
It tore me apart, took all the fight I had in me, everything was just getting to much

I had enough, I was so fking done,
I had suicide plans I was ready to run
I couldn't face anything anymore,
I never went out the house, I never opened the door

I ate to comfort myself, as I piled on the weight
I looked at my self and thought what's not to hate
I was self harming making a mess of my arm,
I knew I needed help, but I didn't no how to raise the alarm

I realised I couldn't hide forever, eventually I’d get tired,
But I stared at the bottle of pills while running the razor down my arm,
Trying to cry silently without being noticeable like an alarm
I thought **** it, I really am nothing

So I took the pills, one by one,
Whilst listening to the sound of a depressing song
I got scared, told my friend  what I had done,
She told me to call child line, to stay calm and to listen and not run

I hung up on child line, fell asleep thinking everything would be alright,
When my Mam burst in to my room, later that night,
She said wake  up darling what have you done she said I'm not gonna be mad at you
I said nothing, she said I'm on the phone to the police, I no you've overdosed and tried to forget it by going to sleep

Later that night I was lying in a hospital bed, throwing up my guts, while my body was fighting, trying not to shut.
watching the tears stream down my Mum's face whilst her heart was breaking like thunder and lightning

In my head thinking what have I done, to put my self in this place
How could I be so selfish, how could I think I was nothing,
If god kept me on this earth, he must of thought I was something

Now I pray, pray for the people who never saw the light,
Pray for the people, who are still suffering, and crying them selves to sleep at night
And those people will think of my word like protection
I hope they see the light, and learn smile again, I hope they find the strength to fight depression

Cos I know what it's like, I've been there before
But for every closed room, I'm here to open a door, I'm here to open a door.
Keep your chin held high don't give up, be proud of who you are and don't end up being one of those angels in the sky
Chin up, your perfect the way you are

Du sidder ligeså stille
Uden at sige noget
Dit hjerte banker i en stille rytme
Uden at larme selvfølgelig.
Du snakker med dig selv
Men kan ikke tale
Du vil ikke andet
Og du kan ikke høre dig selv
Hænder urolige og krummende
Dit hoved altid summende
Du må hellere smile
Så du ikke bliver set
Set igennem
Opdaget og afsløret
Sig frem
Jeg ved du kan
Ikke andet du vil

Du er ikke så tydelig som du tror
På den gode måde selvfølgelig.
Alle venter men ingenting sker
Der sker ingenting
Du smiler og griner
Det hele er okay
Hvorfor vil du ikke med?
Der sker ingenting
Du er i sikkerhed her
Jeg ville ønske du var mig
Hvis du var mig
Og jeg var dig
Muligheden for at kigge
For at skue og blinke til
Du ville se
Ville kunne se mig
Som faktisk er dig
Hvor eksisterende du er
Hvor værende du er
Du ved ingenting
Jeg ved det hele.

Du ser hen på dem
Den derovre ved siden af selvfølgelig.
Altid glade
Altid på toppen
Uden at vise tegn på
Lave tegn til FARE
Det er bare en væg selvfølgelig
Det er det man siger
Jeg så dig en dag
Faktisk i dag
Du var glad
Du smilte så man kunne
Ja man kunne faktisk se dine tænder
De var hvide selvfølgelig
Du gør hvad der bliver sagt
Hvad der bliver fortalt
Ligesom tandlægen altid sagde
Rundt i cirkler
Altid mere end en gang
Helst mere en fire
Der var nogle
Hvem var de?
Der var ingen fare selvfølgelig.
Det er klart
Man kan hvad man vil sagde du

Man vælger det man føler
Man vælger hvad man tror
At man fortjener
Ikke alle fortjener det her
Det skal nok gå
Det var det du sagde
Det fortalte du mig engang
Nej faktisk hver dag
Hver eneste dag
Hver gang jeg tvivlede
Det var *** selvfølgelig
Alt på højkant
Uden at det talte
Uden at nogen holdte regnskab
Som et bassin fyldt til kanten
En dag vil vandet løbe ud
Ud over kanterne
Det var alligevel ikke så stort
Vandet vil ikke blive tørret væk
Det vil tørre selvfølgelig
Det vil forsvinde

Jeg så dig være glad en dag
Nej faktisk i dag
Det gjorde mig glad selvfølgelig
Jeg så dig være ked
En lille smule ked
Af det, af hvad?
Det er okay sagde du
Det bliver det nødt til at være.

det er svært synes jeg,
at bruge sin tid på at lade som om det er ligegyldigt
at holde det nede,
det er ligemeget, intet problem, som det plejer, vi klarer os
men hvad så når man vil bruge det,
bruge det imod dig
så virker det dumt,
for hvad hvis jeg aldrig rigtig var ked af det, hvor vigtigt kan det være
og så går det galt,
og så er det svært
fordi spørgsmålet er jo,
om jeg er ked af det
eller om jeg leder efter opmærksomhed,
opmærksomhed kun fra dig
så fortsætter jeg med at gøre det svært,
lade som ingenting, det er ligemeget, intet problem, som det plejer, vi klarer os
så fortsætter jeg med at gøre det svært,
og bruge det imod dig,
at du er ligeglad,
men hvad skulle du ellers være,
når jeg virker ligeglad

Boring and rude?
That's a rich call, coming from you!
But rude I'll concede,
Given the circumstances -
You pester me with calls and texts,
And invade my private domain,
And won't listen when I say, "No" -
What would you expect?
That I'd be grateful towards
A drunken lush intruding my peace?
That I'd be receptive to a needy egoism
More entrenched than Catholic Dogma?
No, that is not my way - No!
You can get f**ked! And I told you -
I had to spend an hour
Convincing you I wasn't interested;
That your infatuation wasn't reciprocated;
That, when you're drunk, you're not worth knowing;
That I've heard of your glory days
And your present travails a million times;
That you can't offer me what I need -
A decent conversation, nor a decent *******.

And I told you - I didn't pull punches;
I didn't lie - I wasn't playing games.
I told you in no uncertain terms
And you didn't like my Truths -
Perhaps they touched a nerve?
Rude? Sure, maybe I was,
But there was no other way
To sink these facts through your alcoholic haze.

As for boring - I'll not concede boring.
I may not lead an exciting life,
But boring? No - anything ****.
You've a hide, when every conversation
Begins with an "I", "Me" or "My";
Anyone would think the World revolves around you!
You take egocentricism to a new level;
So self-involved and hard-done-by,
You feel the need to inflict yourself on others.

Adios, me amiga!
And, Hola, me Amigos!

(Tr)aveling w(i)th the younger I
With her on your back
She gazed at intricate diamonds of the dark.
Never facing an ounce of (um)brage.

With age, her knowledge flourished
Growing from the water of your trunk
Her brain was nourished with ex(p)erience
Following in your trail

Strengthening over time
She (ha)d no i(nt)erest on your back
Nor the night sky
Rather clouds and the outside
Away sh(E) wa(l)ked from your shadow
With your trunk raised high

Lions and crocodiles swarmed her on s(e)a and land
With no trunk or tusk
Adrenaline rushed
She shook in nerves til dusk

Continuing days with no shade
Skin cells accepting harsh sun rays
With the storm of your stom(p)s
She awaited your presence
(h)yen(a)s laughed as you came
Splattering blood on your name

You laid with your wheel
As she wailed with no trunk
She wept
For you sculpted her i(nt)o who (s)he was

Long, Long down the road.
Buying from an old bookstore
Finding a binder filled with the Royal Animals

Turning the first sheet
She noticed a stamp
Reminding her of her stuffed friends
Triumphant  *Elephants

I hold still in a room of people looking for one face,
There was never a cat or mouse who more enjoyed the chase,
Our friends have no idea the things that happen between us,
The ***** thoughts and actions brought to life dripping with lust,
I asked you once why did you start this merger of two broken souls,
You laughed before responding you might be ****** up enough to make my heart whole,
I laugh dance and flirt with other guys giving a show for only you to see,
I walk around the room pretending not to notice the intense jealous eyes that fuel me,
I can hear the harsh demand of your voice in my head all the time,
It's screaming reminding me of why I am yours and you are mine,
The game is too much fun to make the truth real with spoken words,
The energy of our secrets keeps our attraction propelling forwards,
In the light I am a free succubus enchanting all but in the dark I am a  captured spirit bound by chains labeled yours.

This is just a dark piece of creative writing. It is not aimed at anybody. Just a bundle of words! Before you read this I hope you don't find it too offensive. I think I posted adequate censorship warnings.  EVERY SO OFTEN I LOVE DOING A REALLY DARK WRITE! THIS IS PROBABLY THE LAST ONE YOU WILL BE PRIVVY TOO FOR A LONG TIME!
Thank you for understanding!

Tore  my eyes out.
Popped them on my plate.
Stuck your fork in.
You watched them pop.
You said that I was watching you.
Well I can't do now.
Whatever.
For a really brainy man.
You sure as hell aren't very clever.

You tied me up with ribbons .
You sat me in your favourite chair,
Tried to feed me mushrooms.
Gave me them in a witches brew.
Think you called it tea.
I couldn't see.
It was foul as foul can be.
Told me that I'd like them.
You said you didn't care.

The volumes were distorted.
My love he then aborted.
Left my soul ******* in the chair.
Tripping out like I won't care.

Jesus Christ
I was so scared.
Almost crucified.
Now my love he had denied.
My man of so black.
F**ked off and left me.
Won't be back.

Shut my eyes and try to sleep.
And only then I realised.
I could not find my eyes.
Just have sore sockets.
That drip with blood and weep.
My peepers can no longer peep.

He took them out a while ago.
So I could not see the way to go!

If this is love.
I'll give it a miss.
Don't need no more of this!

(C) Livvi 01/12/2013

Det eneste jeg vil læse, er dine tanker, men alligevel bladrer jeg videre i bøgerne, æder dem op.
Jeg er blevet weekendnarkoman,  og din kærlighed er mit stof. Jeg er blevet afhængig.
Verden forsvinder under mig, så jeg kan flygte ud over den sorte hinde af kulstof, vi har spredt.
Du er lykken i lykkelighed, men jeg er ked af det. Selvom du ikke ved det.
For jeg vil have DIG til at være med MIG, jeg vil se på intet. Jeg vil lade være med alt.
Jeg ser på dig opgivende. - Over de ting du ikke gør, og ikke siger du vil,
Men som jeg i fortabelse af dig, ved at din underbevidsthed kan føle jeg vil have.
Du skal kunne mærke mit hjerteslag, slå som 1000 piskesmæld hver gang
DU er i nærheden, og ser ind i mine sårede safir-blå øjne og sarte sjæl,
Den er kombineret og komponeret af lange klagesange fra alle de mennesker,
Der har det svært. Som jeg hjælper, og elsker. Selvom, jeg selv føler mig
I underskud af kærlighed, men anderledes. Fra dig. Til mig. Til dig. Fra mig.
Vi er samlet, når vi ligger ned, sammen - smilende i solen. En melankolsk drøm.
Jeg gør mit liv, til et univers alene. Virkelighed… For ikke at blive fuld med mig selv -
over dig, speeder jeg mig selv; med for mange for evigt, forandrede tanker.
Du forstår ikke, det er dig. Og kun dig. Min hyldest til den sommer, vi ikke får sammen.
For jeg er den, og du er det, som jeg er bange for, forlader mig i efterårets mørke.
Jeg ser solen går ned og jeg ser mit maniske humør gøre det samme.
Pladserne i de små byer er fyldt med folk, som drikker italiensk rødvin, det kan vi også.
Det bliver et sted jeg tager mig og dig tilbage til, når jeg gennemgår min hjerne.
Vi var der ikke. Vi kommer ikke sådanne steder. Men hvis du bare så på mig,
Så ville du vide, at jeg vil give dig hele min verden, på trods af den er rodet og grim,
Og du er smuk og ordentlig. Men vi er ens, med få modsætninger, en symbiose.

Dear all,
           It was a new day yesurday, and tomorrow will be what it should, when I dream these dreams I feel good, do you know snow is white, not slight colour of pink.  
and when that telephone calls
           I think I have no dreams for this, so i will not answer you and say hellow.

jeg forstår egentlig ikke hvorfor
jeg har det på den her måde
og jeg er egentlig ikke sikker på om
jeg har ret til at føle hvad jeg føler
og det er faktisk noget der er svært
for mig at beskrive med ord
altså hvad jeg føler
men jeg må jo konkludere at
du giver mig åndedragsbesvær
og en lille smule kuldegysninger
fordi min forestilling om hvad
vi kunne have sammen
er så utrolig smuk at det
gør mig så ked af det at tænke
på at det eneste du så
var bare hvor smuk jeg er
og jeg følte at når jeg kiggede
på dig så jeg alt din skrøbelighed
og al din sødme
som afspejler sig i den måde dine
øjne smiler på
når jeg siger at jeg syntes også at
du er smuk
på en måde hvor andre drenge ikke
er smukke
men at du som menneske er interessant
af den grund at du er kompleks og
sød
og jeg har aldrig oplevet at blive behandlet
så godt som du behandlede mig
og jeg tror mine mindreværdskomplekser
måske er lidt anderledes end så mange
andre teenage piger
fordi jeg ikke er bange for at jeg ikke er smuk
nok eller lækker eller har en flot krop
for det ved jeg godt at jeg er
og jeg er heldig
men det er så overfladisk at det gør ondt
fordi jeg har så lave tanker
om netop de værdier som gør at jeg syntes
at du er smuk
og jeg er så bange for at der aldrig vil
være nogen der syntes at jeg har et smukt indre
jeg er så bange for ikke at være god nok som
menneske
og jeg føler mig så ofte som en skal, som ikke
er mere værd end det du ser udadtil
fordi det altid er det som drenge
tillægger en værdi hos mig
og jeg ville så gerne have at du kunne se
at jeg var så meget mere end ***
og at jeg har så meget mere at byde på
og jeg er så skrøbelig inden i
jeg har set så meget og skåret mig på
alt hvad jeg tør røre ved
føler inderst inde at jeg ikke er noget værd
jeg er bare ikke sådan en pige man forelsker sig i
fordi det kræver jo mere end blot et kønt ansigt
hvorfor er der aldrig nogen der fortæller mig
at jeg er sød eller at jeg er godt menneske
der var engang en der elskede mig
men han var for bange for den kærlighed vi
havde fordi den var så ægte og konkret
at han aldrig turde indrømme det
han sagde den gang at jeg var det bedste menneske
han kendte og jeg havde virkelig et stort hjerte
og jeg var så kærlig og sød
jeg tror også det er derfor jeg altid vil elske
ham et eller andet sted inden i mig
og han var smuk af de samme grunde du er smuk
men også fordi han var ødelagt og knust inden i
og det fik mig til at føle
jeg havde fundet min ligemand
men du er så glad og ser de smukke ting i livet
og det tror jeg gav mig lyst til at dele det liv
du så fra dine øjne
jeg ville så uendelig gerne være en del af det
og leve lidt i din radius hvor
livet er en dans på roser og du nyder bare
øl og gymnasie fester
venner og veninder
og kærlighed virkede ikke til at være en skræmmende
ting for dig
indtil du mødte mig
og det gik op for dig hvor destruktivt det kan være
følelsen af at have noget at miste
det var det sidste jeg ville have dig til at føle
men jeg kan næsten ikke styre mig selv
for det eneste jeg har lyst til er at skrive til dig
hvorfor vil du ikke give mig en chance
for at vise dig at der gemmer sig roser i mit sind
bag de røde læber og det lange bølgede hår (som du er så vild med)
og vise dig at den krop du rørte og hviskede i øret at den
var så fandens lækker
gemmer på en person som du rørte meget mere
med dine fine ord
og din person
men sandheden er jo bare at du er ligeglad med mig
at jeg blot bliver gjort til en ting igen
som du kan samle på og objektivisere
og indramme og hænge op på din væg af
trofæer
og dér kan jeg så pynte
men jeg længes efter så meget mere
jeg vil ikke blot hænge der
jeg vil røre din konkrete krop
og dit udefinerbare sind
og bare elske

I often rode my bike there
the closest store
in Nankin Mills, Michigan,
a staple for penny candy and
whiffle *****.

A  month into the summer me
and my best friend, Craig Hewitt,
who lived four doors down
mounted  our one-speed Schwinn's
and decided to pull our first heist.

The ride was a turn right then left around
a curve out to the four-lane Joy Road,
and we rode determinedly. Four blocks on the right
was the small shopping place
a grocery store and
a Ben Franklin's Five and Dime.

We hitched our Schwinn's in the bike rack,
located near the entrance and studied. Thought of possible quick escape routes.  Excitement flowed, I wanted a quarter piece of chocolate and Craig had his lust on a Matchbox car his unfeeling parents refused to purchase.

I checked my holster the Roy Rogers shiny six-shooter
was at the ready. We sauntered in. Walking tall but shaking in my pretend boots, which were actually Ked's.
My friend was so brave he barely looked nervous.
I followed his lead.

We were in there two minutes pocketed the loot and walked out sure we had made a clean escape. Our Schwinn's had barely moved when two arms grabbed us. "Hey boys!" We were apprehended.
We gave full confessions to the Principal looking
old lady interrogating us. They called our moms.

They let us go.Craig had wet his pants and I had squished
hell out of the chocolate candy. We left not wanting to go home.
Pondering what state might take two refugees with records.
I imagined walking the rails with a stick and a handkerchief
tied on its end full of my marbles a pair of socks
the remains of my Halloween candy in.

We went to a field near our school playground and fidgeted and talked and rued and scratched the dirt with the toes of our Ked's
and tried to think how we could explain or make an excuse or
go back a day. It was getting dark.  The night on the run was more scary to both of us than our moms.

When I entered the house there at 8587 Blackburn, a white brick
normal house, now so scary with danger pain foreboding out every window and door, it was my bravest act to this day, expecting screaming a scene a beating my mother towering over
asking "what were you thinking?"

Yet nothing happened. my oldest sister, 14 at the time sat grinning
on the couch watching tv. And Mom was in her apron by the stove like every other day. As I walked by my sister said "I was the mom today.
You owe me a kiss". I hated to but I nearly kissed her every day for a
week.

Craig got his *** whipped.

Jeg må da være den værste datter af alle døtre


Jeg lod ham sidde der
mutters alene
Et ovalt bord og en lun lasagne foran sig
En rank ryg iført en perfekt strøget blå skjorte
Og han var så skuffet
ked af det
grædefærdig

Fordi jeg var egoistisk - sagde han
og han var hensynsløs - sagde jeg

Og nu er alt bare så trist

Trist af alt, var synet af ham alene ved bordet
Det ovale bord
Hvor han stirrede ind i væggen istedet for på mig
Egoistiske jeg, mig men aldrig dig

Ikke en lyd spillede for at opmundre ham
Ikke andet end gaflen som tilsidst ramte den tomme tallerken
som nok forundre og dundre frem for at opmundre

Egoisme er min alkoholisme af individualisme
men denne samvittighed smager af likør midt på dagen


Han er måske den værste far af alle fædre
men jeg må da være den værste datter af alle døtre

SÅR DER HELER PÅ LÆBEN,
RU HÅNDOVERFLADER
OG BEN DER RYSTENDE FORSØGER AT VALSE MENSTURATIONSSMERTER, ØMME MUSKLER OG GRIMME NEGLEBÅND

*** SPØRGER OM HVAD DER ER GALT
JEG SIGER JEG ER KED AF DET OG GRÆDER
*** SIGER HVORFOR
OG JEG VED DET IKKE
OG HAR PÅ SAMME TID LYST TIL AT SNAKKE
MEN JEG SIGER INGENTING
OG INTET BRÆNDER MERE I HALSEN END USAGTE ORD
MEN DET VED DU VEL IKKE ******* LORTE PSYKOLOG

JEG GÅR PÅ EN STI
DEN ER 11
OG DER ER INGEN MENNESKER
SÅ JEG SÆTTER MIG PÅ EN BÆNK
OG JEG TØRRER IHÆRDIGT TÅRERNE VÆK
IMENS JEG VRÆLER BANDEORD
OG FORSØGER AT HULKE ALLE DÆMONERNE UD
SELVOM INTET GIVER POTE
OG JEG ER FORDÆRVET INDENI
TRÆKKER JEG PÅ SMILEBÅNDET
OG SMILEHULLERNE BEGEJSTRER SIG
MEN ER DET SÅDAN UNGDOM SKAL FØLES?

JEG TAGER UD OM LØRDAGEN
FORDI JEG ARBEJDER HVER FREDAG
SÅ JEG STJÆLER GLÆDE FRA SØNDAG
DEN GLÆDE DER NU FINDES
TUNGE ØJENLÅG
TEQUILA
TILTRÆNGT EFEMERISK LYKKE
OG TAKTISK SELVBEDRAGISK LATTER
TILFREDSHEDEN ER DER NÆPPE
MEN ER JEG GOD NOK NU ELLER HVAD?

JEG TAGER HJEM
MEN JEG VENTER FØRST PÅ NATBUSSEN
ELLER ER DET TOGET
ELLER METROEN
FØRST EN SMØG JEG BRÆNDER MIG PÅ FINGEREN
ALTING ER JO SLØRET
FORHELVEDE DET GØR ONDT.

JEG FRYSER OG MINE TÆNDER KLAPRER
JEG VED IKKE ENGANG HVORDAN JEG FÅR STEGET PÅ
VÅGNER DAGEN EFTER
SORTE RANDER UNDER ØJNENE
OG TØMMERMÆND
ER DET HELE DÉT VÆRD?

MED KRØLLEDE PENGESEDLER,
FINTSKÅRET TOBAK FRA KNÆKKEDE CIGARETTER,
OG ET UBRUGT KONDOM I TASKEN
GÅR JEG UD
MEN LÆGGER FOLK OVERHOVEDET MÆRKE TIL AT JEG GÅR?

LUGTEN AF BODEGA SPREDER SIG PÅ GADEN
NÅR JEG BEVÆGER MIG PÅ FORTOVET
JEG FÅR ET TILTRÆNGENDE KNUS FØR *** LUKKER MIG IND MEN LUKKER JEG OVERHOVEDET HENDE ELLER NOGEN IND?

JEG SIDDER VED RADIATOREN
DEN ER VARM OG SYMPATISK
IKKE SOM DE SKØDELØSE KYS
ELLER DEN ANARKISTISKE IDENTITET
MEN ER JEG IKKE OKAY NU?

JEG KVÆLER DEN KOGENDE KOFFEIN
OG KÆFTEN BRÆNDER
KU DET BLIVE MERE KAOTISK
KU DET?
DEN KRUMMEDE VÅDE MEN LUNE CIGARET HÆNGER I MUNDVIGEN
JEG TAGER DEN IMELLEM PEGEFINGEREN OG FUCKFINGEREN INHALERER OG PUSTER UD
HVAD JEG HÅBER PÅ ER TOMHEDEN INDENI
IMENS TÅRERNE UFRIVILLIGT LØBER NED AF KINDERNE HVORNÅR HOLDER DET OP?

ER DET STRÆKMÆRKERNE,
DET RUNDE ANSIGT,
POLLENALLERGIEN,
MANGEL PÅ SYMPATI OG PENGE
ELLER BARE MIN PERSONLIGHED
DÉT DER GØR AT JEG IKKE ER GOD NOK?

I'm done! Overdone! BURNT TO A CRISP!

I am so sick of people looking THROUGH ME!
I spend all day…every single day… attending to the needs of others! Work demands...there's always a fire to put out, 250 people to deal with, each having his/her own special 'need' or demand that must be met, no matter what.

"Nita, I need this information now!"

"Nita, they don't understand, they take advantage of me, I need your support."

"Nita, I realize this isn't much time, but can you pull this together by Friday?"

"Nita, I understand they made a mistake, but can you just correct it?"

"Nita, can you please do 'this' for me, my child is sick, I received some bad news, I just need a favor, you're the 'favorite' - he listens to you....." and on and on and on...

Then home demands...get the kids up, clean the house, do the laundry…and on and on it goes…

After work: dinner, walk and feed the dog, do the dishes…and on and on it goes…

"Mom, can I have some ketchup."

"Mom, can I have some more milk."

"Mom, can you help me find my toothbrush"

"mom, can you...mom, can you...mom, can you..."

Friends need consoling, flowers need watering, dog needs petting, kids need tucked in, husband needs attention...I need a DRINK!

No one ever asks how "Nita" is doing.

No one says, "How was your day, Nita?"

No one says, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Just ignore me, as though I'm no longer here.

Dear husband goes to bed, falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, while I stay up, take ativan after ativan...wash down with a glass or two of wine...just pray for it to END! All of it!

My chest is constricted, my breathing is shallow - I HURT ALL OVER! I'm exhausted but cannot sleep. Does anyone even notice? No...

Last night, took pills, tried to **** the pain, the voices, the hopelessness...I picked up yet another glass of wine, looked at it and a fleeting thought told me that I probably shouldn't drink it - that I had taken too many ativan, that it probably wouldn't be good...but I didn't even care. I just needed PEACE & QUIET!

From the outside world, and the inside turmoil. I woke up at 3am, outside on the swing...did anyone come to check on Nita? No - because no one cares, that's why.

I've known since I was 5 years old that I was born to serve others. My needs don't matter...most days I try to forget that I even have needs. Of course, thank you therapist for reminding me that it's "okay" to feel, and to have needs…because that actually hurts even worse! Actually feeling "needy" for a minute but no one gives a ****!

I want to disappear. I want to cease to exist. I want OUT of this "Contract"...I need to know what the rights of termination are!

Because I'm DONE!

FINISHED!

Je suis fait!

Sono Fatto!

Estoy hecho!

Ich bin fertig!

and...in the white trash language I grew up with:
F$%K IT! I'm finished!

It doesn't even matter anymore…In fact, it never did!

I never mattered, I am worth nothing....that's the way it's always been, that's the way it is now, and how it will always be...if there's nothing to look forward to in the future, but more of the same, I say, why bother?

No one would notice my absence....well, until they needed something.

There's no "life worth living"! It doesn't exist! Face it, Nita, your father f$%ked you up beyond repair! Throw me out with last week's leftovers! I can't do it anymore!

Jeg var så lykkelig, og du var så lykkelig, og vi var så glade og lykkelige i øjeblikket. Vi var så forelskede den aften at byen bare hang som et maleri bag os. Du talte med en lav stemme, der fik højlydte grin ud ad mig, og så råbte vi et par gange at folk så smukke ud. Jeg tror at vi udgjorde et flot par der i mørket ved siden af neonlysene i søerne. Du sagde at du elskede mig fra Alaska og tilbage, og jeg svarede at du var skør. Du kastede dit hovede tilbage og smilte til hvad der lignede himlen, og så tog vi metroen fra Frederiksberg til Nørreport og løb til Marstalsgade med en rosé vi havde lånt af kiosken. Ad den smalle gade kiggede på høje bygninger og lod som om de alle var Eiffeltårnet. Vi kiggede ind ad folks små vinduer, og så de liv som jo foregår bag mure af beton. Et par som skændtes, og vi svor at det aldrig skulle være os. En far der lagde sin datter til at sove i en drømmeseng, som fik tårer frem i mine øjne. Du spurgte hvorfor jeg græd på en fredag aften, og jeg fortalte dig om min far som var forskruet og fanget i en billedramme på en villavej. Så kyssede du mig og sagde at mennesker bliver skøre af at leve i billedrammer. At de før eller siden knækker glasset, fordi at alt ilten forsvinder. Vi ville aldrig leve i en billedramme. Vi var de typer som man ville se på storskærm over Rådhuspladsen. Røde neonlys over alle menneskerne i billedrammer. Vi sov i min lejlighed på gulvet, fordi at sengen var for mennesker i billedrammer og vi var jo neonlys i forhold til de glødepærer. Og da vi vågnede, kiggede du på mig som om alt ilten var forsvundet ud ad rummet. Undskyldende over at have trukket vejret for dybt. Jeg forstod det ikke, men du fortrød mig lidt tror jeg. Du fortalte at du skulle hjem, hvor du derefter kindkyssede mig og forsvandt ud ad entreen. Du var ikke forelsket i mig trods gode kys og neonlys. Jeg var lidt ked af at jeg nåede at forelske mig i løbet af en nat.

Men hey det var jo ikke din skyld. Det er jo hvad der sker, når man drikker hvidvin på tom mave.

You asked me **one time,
why I liked the stars so much,
and I didn't really have an answer for you.
But now I do.
I like the stars because,
we're really seeing the past,
and it seems to me that I liked my past
more than I'm going to like my future.

I'll stay awake tonight
I'll make sure our memory
stays
alive

I'll wrap it up
hold it close
give it warmth
rock it back and forth

I won't let it grow cold
I won't let it's light die out
I

I will hold it in my heart
let it set me on fire
orange burns flaming blue

finality drops like a gavel
resounding
echo
ring

endsclashwithbeginnings
as sunrises and nights do

my stomach tips
tipsy containing all of you
my lips they
burn
from         dragging     you in
I smoke you
and

I

I choke on your
                sickeningly
                         sweet
                               poison
you
fill
my lungs
deflate my kerosine heart

your love
burned me
up
my skyscrapers
down

coldly hollow
winded room
with blown out candle thoughts

lifeless eyes
     c rac ked
window panes
the glass you  
                touched
was frigidly warm
with nocturnal sapphire gleams

my door sits ajar
but you knock          continually
banging
my wooden paneled frames

splinter me through
rapture
my shores of endless sores

I

I am

I am begging
you
to light me on fire
               set me ablaze once more

power hold of gripping electric lies
did it give you some
sick
twisted
satisfaction to break me
          down
to shove my head
underwater
and force me to
         drown?

If he would let me
I’d marvel at your ebony hair
falling weightlessly
down your tired shoulders
Oh, how it kills me with jealousy

If he would let me
I’d run my fingers through them
finding comfort in its thickness
creating paths of discovery

If he would let me
I’d sit for hours marveling
at those hazel eyes, very dark hazel eyes
trying to dissect their histories
stories and even their romances

If he would let me
I’d embrace you
tightly, till my heart speaks with yours
in beats in sync

If he would let me
I’d hold your hand
and feel the rush of a 16 year old
high on butterflies and blushes

If he would let me
I’d kiss those wine red lips
and get drunk off of their toxicity
**** sobriety at this point

If he would let me
I’d lie on the hood of my car
under the stars, with you
listening to you foretelling
a vague future of fame and glory

If he would let me
I’d paint a portrait of ultimate beauty
with my fingertips
on your freckled skin
that’ll drive Aphrodite mad

If he would let me
I’ll stay high of off your laughter
enjoying the lightness of joy
all day, everyday

If he would let me
I’d go forth and give you it
but every time
I reach inside my rib cage
to grab it
it pulls back
and protrudes thorns

Oh dear heart
why have you sedated your being
I do miss me some adrenaline?
Why won’t you let me?

“I have heard many pumps you idiot
but none like mine
you think I like being prozac-ked
by your silly fear?

Oh dear you are a fool indeed”

Fiddling with filing, as she stood by the cabinet.
Smiled discreetly, as both their eyes they met.
He undressed her with his eyes.
While she fiddled with his flies.
Grabbing hard at true perfection.
Knowing,  now there's no rejection.
Fking perfection.

Her lips, they smacked him fiercely.
****** spontaneity.
He responded with passion.
At work, of course, never in fashion.
He slammed shut the door.
As they rolled on the floor.
Hell, he responded.
For he had absconded.
Escaped today's parliamentary debate.

The honourable member of the house.
Fked his secretary.
Never his spouse.
In a rash moment, she wriggled and jiggled attached to the end of his powerful finger.
Waiting expectantly, for manhood to enter.
She did it for free, cos no-one would rent her!
The rolled about on the solid oak floor.
Bumping and ******* with wonderful wails.
Those footsteps came banging  down the hall.
As secretary # two came to call.
She listened to screams of positive pleasure.
Turned her on buckets.
She didn't knock.
Peeped through the keyhole watching his ****.
Wanted to play too.
She really did.
Didn't dare knock.
So she listened some more, for a moment or two.
Thought of his ****.
Then she wandered into the loo.
Gave herself an ******.
Like no other, better than a real lover!
Never played at work before.
The parliamentary freaking *****!
She wriggled and jigged while she fiddled, did she get very wet?
You bet!
(c) Livvi

I don't understand why I feel so dead inside
Why would I set the key aside

If I hadn't lost that key
You wouldn't be in my head right now I just want to be set free

My body is starting to break down
My mind is going in circles being chased around

My head is stirring up dark deep thoughts
How can I make it stop I'm so out of sorts

Why did I let you beat me and choke me
You wouldn't stop until my body went limp I didn't know at the time I was just a trainee

All the while I thought you loved me
All I wanted was to make a family tree

You loved being in power and in control
I lost everything my body,heart, and soul

You was a con straight out of the hood
I was a fish straight out of school

I wasn't living no more just going through the motion day by day
Waiting mostly for the hits that you gave me when I disobeyed

Being careful of where I was hit
So no one could tell I was being extinguished

you didn't want bruised merchandise
You preyed on my mind as I declined

Following every rule you made
Taking every punishment you served

Was I gonna be sold to traffickers
Or was you afraid to let your money maker go to the panthers

Was this the bigger picture all along
You stole my key and sold it to the devil is that why my head was always bashed against the wall

I was under your spell
Only way out was through hell

People see you hitting and beating me
But they just walk around or keep going never saying word to help me get my master key

Why did you not stop and help me
Maybe I would've went back but what if you was the one who set me free

My life was in danger
I was told my family was too which was a game changer

I did as told and when I was told and what I was told
Somewhere in your f--ked up mind you thought I wasn't obeying you was always in control

That's when you used whatever weapon
You had in tow to beat me into submission I reckon

You thought you was a player
You was my soul taker

Earlier I was thinking that I’m losing me…but the reality is it’s already happened.
THERE IS NO ME LEFT...

“I am certain that I cannot fully understand the gravity and turmoil that you face when they consume your mind.”

Really, DT, I hadn’t noticed! All that wasted time I’ve spent trying to get you to UNDERSTAND. I have an idea how to make that happen, a plan to finally make it actually CLICK  in your PhD/MHP brain…so that you’ll finally say, WOW I get it now!

“I/we need to continue to work toward understanding these, even if no resolution is accessible at this time.”

See, here’s the deal…just as you have your limits, I also have limits. I’ve played beat the clock, and hang in there it will get better….guess what? It’s NOT better! And the bad place remains.

“I also want to acknowledge that what you experience and think each night is real for you and that the "choices" that you face are nearly always painful and feel hopeless.”

DT, that’s so sweet of you to say that. I also want to ACKNOWLEDGE  that you also did your best too – in this “process”. It’s just that I still haven’t found what I’m looking for – PEACE INSIDE MY F@%KED UP HEAD! – and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist. So forgive me if I give up the lifetime search for the Holy Grail!

“Nita will work it out, DT, I assure you she will work it out.” She will “deal with it”.

“My words "when and if" were heard and processed in such a manner as to feel rejection/abandonment and because this is your expectation, you will go to great lengths to prove this... at least to whatever extent you can with words/thoughts....which ultimately seem to make you feel worse...which I know you don't want. “

You’re RIGHT! I don’t want to FEEL worse! In fact, I no longer want to FEEL at all!!!!

And, DT, I ask for your “understanding” and “openness” to see my point of view and why I don’t want to do it anymore…no room for “judgment” DT …”we all have our reasons for doing what we do.”

**I’ll  work it out and it won’t be “perfect” DT, just “good enough”.