on tho(ugh)ts

thoughts can get fucked up sometimes; one moment you could be thinking about cherry blossom trees and the serenity of such a scenery and the other could drive you into a murderous frenzy

thots are more fucked up because they come into your lives as a thing of temporary permanence; an oxymoron that cannot be broken

not all thoughts are beautiful! they don’t need to have sunshine and rainbows with a pot of gold at they end line; they can have blood and bones and smoke and ash and death and despair, too

thots, similarly, need not be beautiful; as a thing of temporary permanence, the general rule is: what happens under the sheets gets burnt along with the sheets- when was the last time i did not feel emotional attachment to one, i wonder?

my thoughts have produced mixed results; they’ve made me who i am today and i think im ok this way

thots have left me the way i am and i resent them from the depth of my black heart

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fragments

I remember 8th grade and her, in fact now that I think about it what was her name? was her hair short or long? what colour were her eyes? I remember loneliness more than I can remember anyone else…

I remember 10th grade and her skinny waist. I remember sneaking around corridors and empty classrooms. I remember the passion and the intensity. why can’t I remember what she looked like?

I remember 12th grade and the pair of glasses that rested on her nose. I remember the way she spoke. I remember what she tasted like. I remember how she fucked with my head. is this suppression?

I don’t remember my life in college because I’ve suppressed it all; I don’t want to recall the times I spent under the pretense of love and affection. I don’t want to hear almost anymore.

I don’t remember anything.

I hate them all.

The Tortured Artist.

Out of all the mentality distorted and beautifully twisted minds that exist in this planet we so affectionately call the Earth, there lived a speck in this pool of immensely talented yet insanely distorted human beings, so to speak.
This speck didn’t have a name. This speck had an interesting past, though. You see, people always have this premonition that an artist’s past is so dark, it would put Edgar Allan Poe to shame. Their state of mind so fragile, it might shatter at the slightest hint of negative criticism. Their thought processes so distorted, a normal man would shriek out of sheer and utter disbelief. But these premonitions were true and more for this particular person.
She’d lost her parents at an early age, to something the papers called “an unfortunate car accident.” She grew up amongst strangers, physical and mental abuse being the only true constants throughout her childhood, the taste of tears more familiar to her than that of water.
When she went to school, her teachers labeled her as that awkward kid who’s never found without her sketch pad. People made fun of her physical appearance, not knowing that she had to fend for herself in her foster house, not knowing that the only way she ever got food was if she stole from the refrigerator, not knowing that the scars that she tried to hide were either from the several beatings she received from her foster parents or from the several other attempts she made at taking her own life.
When she first fell in love, she hadn’t found a feeling more elating and horrific at the same time. The guy was some senior whose name she doesn’t recall now, but what she will always remember is his voice. That soft voice which would whisper words of affection in her ears, the very same voice which spit words of malice at her after he’d grown bored of her. She remembered how lovely his smile was, the very same, crooked smile he had stuck on his face when he hit her for not obeying him. She couldn’t live with him. But she couldn’t possibly exist without him. And when he left, that was the moment she really grew up. She grew to hate the feeling of being in love.
So she escaped to her reality, spending hours mindlessly doodling on her sketchpad. This was a place where no one could intrude. This was her solitude. Her world, where she was the master of what she created and not the malicious Fates which seemed to like playing around with hers. She would showcase her art, post pictures on Instagram, garnering critical appraisal from her peers.
But all the appraisal could never overshadow the horrors of what she had faced. Her suicidal tendencies made her drown in Hennesey and fly off Cali, getting lifted more than she was aware of her surroundings. Being sober made her feel nauseous. Intoxication became her newfound love, it became her reality. And in this alternate reality, the old one was forgotten. Her art had been slaughtered, butchered by the love of poison in her liver. The people she could call friends had left her for reasons her buzzing brain couldn’t fathom. In her loneliness, her kitchen knife became her best friend. And one fateful night, it wrapped itself lovingly around her wrists and dug deep, never to let go- it became a part of her. And as she drowned out from the alcohol so did her screams to the loud music that was blaring from the speakers on the nearby streets. She’d finally lost consciousness once and for all, and all that she could remember were the first couple of lines of that very same song, playing on rewind in her twisted brain.

“Don’t you open up that window,
Don’t you let out that antitode…”