pale liquid light floats through the slats in the


he tugs and twitches the skin of his eyes as he realizes he’s gone


his legs tangle in the sheets when he finds he cannot


and now the bed is empty; he was never even


If I had self-control…


I would eat like a normal person.

I wouldn’t starve myself.

Or eat mountains of food

And force myself to vomit them up

Over and over and over again.

The notion of health would not disgust me.

Light and warmth and heat would not terrify me.

Human contact would not make me inwardly cringe with fear.

I would be living, not simply existing.


If only.

it was a picture
of a girl,
back to me with no face
and very little hair.
she was not diseased
in her flesh, her body
had not betrayed her with malignancy
and cannibalistic bones.

but she was sick in her soul and
her head, marked by the cloying scent of bile and
the shaking of her hands.
her death, imminent, she prayed
that it would not be late,
because it was such a long
and lonely wait.

we come around the back of the house, pick our way through the knee-high weeds and brush against the bushes, burrs catching in our clothes. it’s summertime; the air thick and heavy from pot and hookah and bonfires; we swat at the flies who’ve decided that today is just perfect for their annual meeting around the carcasses from the kids who like to torture animals and leave them there.

we’re very depressed, and very hungry. mum is in the garage, cooking nothing that’s edible but very incredible. our stomach growls in protest–how long has it been now? a few days, we hazard a guess. marking time has been difficult. without the steadyregular dosage of threebluepills in the morning and threebluepillsplusonewhitetablet at night, our bodily systems have become incrementally fucked up. the boys say it’s from snorting coke, and it’s impossible to muster enough energy to tell them otherwise.

open the kitchen door, and lo! mum is closing the adjacent garage door very quietly. she must have thought we were already in the house.

we say, “hey mum,” or something like it. sometimes our speech is slurred.

mum starts, and drops the bowl she’s carrying. it crashes on the floor like


(you remember that sound you like it you slut bash bash bash your head on the headboard)

her mouth makes an O; a grimace, then (she forces) a smile. she says, “sweetie. i didn’t expect you. have some–” she turns, awkwardly, perhaps having momentarily bounced back to a time when she would have had roasted turkey and sweet potatoes ready instead of dusty white powder that blows your brain to smithereens from the inside out.

mum shakes it off. walks forward, ignores the bowl. she smiles, a real one now; touches our face and says (sings? whispers?), “i’ll be done soon, baby. once we got enough money, we’ll get you healthy again,” her voice catches, she clears her throat, “yeah. much better.”

when we were innocent, we believed her. we used her words to wrap our broken selves in; to cover ourselves in a blanket of hope. piece by piece, bit by bit, that blanket became more threadbare and worn until it fell apart at the seams.

there’s not much point in keeping it together anymore.


I still have to finish the collar and lapels on this baby. It’s a work in progress, but overall I’m very happy with how the pockets turned out.  My Docs are holding up nicely: the paint’s only cracked somewhat, but it reminds me of that O.P.I. nail polish and therefore it is pleasing to me.

Yesterday evening, a very nice, socially awkward young man told me I was pretty. I’m certain it was only because I’d made an effort that day, but at any rate, I was (and continue to be) flattered. Of course, this took place during a cigarette break on my smoke-free campus. It’s the only way to meet people here, unfortunately. Ironically, the laughably loosely-enforced smoking ban at University has reinforced the fact that I simply can’t afford to quit smoking. Were it not for those 5, 7, 10 times a day I can relax and inhale detrimental chemicals, I wouldn’t get that small amount of human contact that I need to get me through a grueling lab or a Pre-Calculus exam.

Besides, even though it’s not accepted? I still think it makes me look cool.

Absolutely taken over by school; however, midterms aren’t for some time yet and as such, I’ll be able to camwhore some more! I’ve got a few projects going:

Studding the rest of my leather jacket
Spraypainting my Doc Martens blue
Making a few patches from old 5th Estates (an Anarchist ‘zine that my dad used to work for)

Expect me! I’ll likely be posting later today, when I’m dressed and camera-ready.

Oh, and my hair is blue.

The sunset doesn’t paint watercolors around here; it’s all the color of spilled coffee after six.

They came out of the desert, their figures a welcome, if brief, change from the unbroken taupe scenery. They couldn’t find their home. They were mercenaries, women of the cloth, wed solely to the sand-roughened wood of their revolvers. Women of their sort had been common, if you were born into the right sort of family; but at this time their numbers were dwindling. And dwindling. The black-clad strong-willed women left and took the green with them.

And when they returned, they brought rain.