Incompletion.

Well, diary, it's been a while! I recall writing an entry where I stated I would stay committed to this journal and it seems I have neglected that statement. That sounds just like something I would do. I realized the other day that I never really stay committed to anything. I spent my childhood begging my parents to enroll me in all these different classes; tap, jazz, kickboxing, Ukrainian dance, guitar lessons. Each time they would say no and tell me that I wouldn't really stick it out and I would get defensive and tell them "this is different!", but it never was. I'd always end up dropping out. The same thing happens with my writing, my ideas. I always quit (well maybe not quit, but there are definitely long breaks in between my flowing thoughts). My question, why am I a quitter? How do people find their inner motivation? My roommate is always so motivated. On top of all her school work she still manages to blog, knit, make art, etc. I don't understand how people do it. My lethargy takes over me completely. Sometimes I wish I could just hide in my bed all day. Pull the covers over my head and just sleep all day and night; night and day. But I can't do that. I have a life to live. I just need to find motivation, inspiration.

A few poems.

1.

Young teenaged hearts

fumbling to mimic

one anothers heart

beats.

Hers strums slowly, gently

like weeping willows

on humid summer days.

His pulses quickly

boom boom,

like heavy thunder

hiding in grey skies.

All these years it took

to realize,

she thought,

our notes are on different

pages.

Summer turns to fall.

The thunder has stopped.

2.

Car lights from outside

in the crisp winter wind,

taint my faded walls

with shades so dark i cannot tell

where i have placed my tongue.

Shadows win a triumphant battle

against the lying lips i have grown to know.

Alone,

i stand on frozen ice

above me

transparent clouds mock what

they witness.

Plastic stars lead me to false meaning.

A photo of You and i

sitting under lightning struck skies.

Your useless hands upon my shoulder.

i can barely feel your touch.

Your lips part.

Stale words spill from your tongue.

I have studied your script

for too long.

3.

I have spent countless years

holding your hand.

You have me trapped.

I am not me when I am

with or without

you.

I have let my life pass on by,

like watching car lights

zoom past my window.

How did I get here?

I promised myself I would never

let a man take me over.

And then you came along.

So now I am stuck in your web

of empty threats.

Let me go.

Body Language.

Hide in the small of my back
where the world can't see
but I can feel you
always.
Slowly creep up my spine,
sneak up around my neck,
whisper soft words
into my ears.
Crawl into my mind.
Explore my thoughts
where you learn all my secrets
and control my emotions.
Migrate towards my mouth,
cover my lips in you.
I want to feel you
until the moon lights the sky.
Fall down my torso
onto the floor
where you slip under the door
carrying my heart.

Mixtapes.

So I don't really have any one specific topic to talk about today. I figured I should post something because I haven't in quite a few days. And usually when I get out of the habit of doing something I'll just stop altogether. And I don't want that. I'm dedicated (to this blog). And I will write! Yes, I will write.

Do you know what I miss? Mixtapes. When I was younger I used to have a couple penpals and we would make each other mixtapes of all the songs we loved at the time. It was kind of neat to see how similar our taste in music was, considering we were all scattered across North America. Music is a language everyone can understand and relate to and it's just oh-so-beautiful. Some of the girls would cover the tape case in little doodles of hearts and flowers and boys&girls kissing. The boys would always just print really small in black ink pen. Mixtapes can be so personal(ized). That's the fun in it all. I used to try to create themes with mine. Love, heartbreak, dance, nature, adolescence. Mixtapes are like spilling secrets, but in a safe way. So I was thinking about these tapes and how I missed making them and I've decided that I'm going to try to start it up again. A friend told me you could get walkmens at the dollar store (might not be true, but I'm going to check it out). Then I started to think about http://www.postsecret.blogspot.com/ and I read how some people leave postcards on busses and someone in need finds it and it makes a big impact on their life. So I sort of want to put all this love and hope into my mixtapes and buy a couple walkmens and just leave them somewhere. Maybe on a bus, or in a coffee shop, or bookstore. And then maybe someone in need would find it and it might make them smile. Even for just a second in time.

Alright. So I guess I did have a specific subject to talk about.

Untitled.

There is a man pacing
back and forth
mumbling numbers
and dates
of memories unknown
to him.
He watches busses pull up.
Doors open.
Shoes shuffle
off and on.
He looks at them,
sees them.
He is invisible.

A girl stands,
watches a man pace
back and forth.
She wears headphones,
music pulsing in
her ears.
She cannot hear
his mumbles.
Her bus is coming.
She follows the crowd,
takes her place
in line.

The Pacer
steps towards the
edge.
He jumps.
A crash.
A crack.
People are screaming.
A pool of blood begins to
expand,
filling every crease
on the road.

The girl is standing,
Frozen.
Staring.
Her legs will not move.
She feels warm liquid
drip, drip
down her cheek.
Raising her hand to her face
she wipes away
her red tear.
A piece of his flesh
falls from her cheek.

She vomits.

Coffee and My Thoughts.

Dear Diary,

Just kidding. How old were you when you got your first diary/journal? I remember getting one when I was about twelve. It was purple and it came with a lock and key and everything. I rarely wrote in it for fear that someone would break into it. Then my friend gave me one for my fifteenth birthday and I had just fallen in love for the first time so I began to write in it religiously. I still have that journal and every now and then I pull it out and laugh at how naive I was back then. I probably still am, but it's interesting to me to see how my thoughts and attidude has changed over the years. It really is a good way to get to know yourself better. Sometimes I don't even remember writing those words and I have to remind myself that I'm reading about my life, rather than someone else's. And now I have a blog. A journal for everyones eyes to see.

I always despised the word diary. I always felt that it put me into this category with girls who were too emotional. I would always imagine that I would write about a boy I had a crush on and my little brother would steal it and read it to all of his little friends. I didn't want to be a typical girl. And then I realized that I was just a girl. I was talking with my roommate last night and she pointed out how girls are always apologizing for the way they are. If we cry over something, do something wrong or speak our minds we always end up apologizing for it. Since when did it become wrong to feel emotions? It made me realize that 'man' still is the more 'powerful' one of the two sexes. They never have to apologize for the way they are. If they cheat on you it's somehow your fault because you're either sexually neglectful, or too emotional. Argh! Men never have to make excuses for the way they acted, or for what they said. I mean, yes, women have come a long way, but we still have a lot further to go before we are seen as equals. And honestly, I'm pretty sure that will never happen. Anyways. I hope you realize this is all generalized. I don't actually think this about every situation. I'm just getting worked up about this. I'm sorry.

And on another note, I would like to share a poem by Robert Browning which I have been in love with since the tenth grade. Enjoy.


Porphyria's Lover
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me — she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me forever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

An Eventful Evening.

It's Halloween night and I'm dressed like Madonna and sitting on my hardwood floors, drinking vodka and pink lemonade, waiting for my friends to arrive. I'm trying hard not to think about you so I turn my music up louder. I never realized how alone I actually was, but I guess that's why you'll always find me with a drink in my hand.
The buzzer rings.
I jump up and head for the door. I'm happy that my little apartment will soon be filled with laughter.
I let my friends in. They are dressed as an "emo kid", a dead president, red-riding hooh and an Irishman. We share some drinks and some laughs, then call a taxi and we're off for the night.
We arrive at a pub. It's fucking cold outside and there are half naked girls smoking cigarettes and trying to look sexy. They look like idiots.
We walk inside, up the stairs and I head straight to the bar. A couple familiar faces say 'hello'. I smile, hold up a shot and drink it back. Warm liquid falls down my throat and coats my heart with a warm sense of belonging.
More and more people arrive. Everyone is drinking beer, taking shots, and laughing. The boys are flirting with the girls at the bar. A couple of us move to the dance floor and shuffle our feet and sway our hips.
I follow my friends outside where they light a cigarette and even though I'm not a smoker I take a few drags. My head begins to spin as the nicotine runs through my veins. We hop into a cab and make our way to our next destination.
We've made it inside and it's dark and Indie music fills my ears. My heart beats in tune with the bass as I'm standing at the bar. I realize I've lost my friends in the sea of people and the heal on my shoe is broken. I'm stumbling into people, asking if they've seen little red, or Bush. A few of them turn their backs on me. My head is spinning and a song I like comes on so I start dancing with the boy next to me. We end up kissing for a bit, the song ends and I walk away, remembering I'm on a mission to find my friends.
The night is ending. People are clearing out. I've lost my phone, both my shoes are broken and I'm walking around barefoot on broken beer bottles. I'm assuming my friends had left a long time ago and I must be crying because an older guy asks me what's wrong and I start to pour my feelings out. He helps me look for my phone, but we are unsuccessful. He offers me a ride home.
We get to my apartment and I'm not sure if I even invited this guy in, but I find us sitting on the edge of my bathtub washing my feet and he's helping me pull glass out of my feet. We go to the couch and he starts cutting up lines of white powder. I don't even think about what's actually happening. All I know is that I've lost everything and right now coke doesn't seem like such a bad idea.
He takes rolled up dollar bills and snorts up one line.
"You go", and he hands me the bills. I have no idea what I'm doing and I'm more scared how this will feel going up my nose more than anything else.
I snort a line.
It doesn't actually hurt. I just get this weird taste in the back of my throat.
We do a couple more lines and the next thing I know I've told this complete stranger my whole life story and nothing seems to be upsetting me. I'm actually..happy. I glance at the clock and realize three hours have gone by. He's touching my hair and his hands are rubbing my knees and my body is cringing at the thought of him kissing me. I ask him to leave and he does, with no complaints. He wants me to call him and I laugh because I no longer have a phone.
I lock my door behind him and stumble into my dark room. I fall into bed and shut my eyes.
Rest now.

An Incomplete Story.

Have you ever wondered "why me?". I mean, why does stuff happen to you? Bad stuff; stuff you can't get out of your goddamn head? And it starts to rip you a part, poisoning you to the point where you don't even know what to do anymore. I wonder why all this shit happens to me. I mean, with the stuff I've seen and the things I've heard I feel like I should take a gun to my head and end the pain for good. Most people don't realize the world isn't all fun and games. The truth is the world is a really cold and dark place, filled with a shit load of pain. Well, that's all there is to my life, anyway.

It was the first day of winter the day it happened. Coming home from school the snow felt heavier as each snowflake added weight onto my shoulders. My hair looked like a starry night; pitch black with little white stars. My fingers were frozen by the time I got to the subway station. The cement walls were damp and stained with the scent of piss and liquor. I hated the subway station.

The ride home seemed longer than usual, not that I minded. Often I'd stop at the library. Anything to stall from getting home. It pained me to walk in the door, dishes scattered everywhere, curtains drawn with my mother passed out on the couch. An empty bottle of vodka would lie at her fingertips. Sometimes I think it would be easier to choose her path, but somebody has to take care of us. So that's why I did it. I know, I know, you're probably wondering why I just didn't go out and find a job, but you don't understand how easy this all seemed. All I had to do was pick up the dope, deliver it and then I'd get my cut. Well, let me tell you, it doesn't work that easily.

When I got home that night I started to make some Mac and Cheese. The milk had already expired a few days before but that didn't stop me from using it. I left enough for my mother but knew she probably wouldn't wake from her drunken coma. And if she did it would only be to take a piss and pour herself another drink. I quietly crept passed her and into my bedroom. It was pretty damn messy in there with clothes, dishes and papers scattered across the cold floor. Everytime you inhaled you could smell the scent of rotting food. I kicked around some clothes and picked up my torn jean jacket. I swung it over my shoulders and heard a thud as my keys and loose change hit the ground, scrambling across the floor and under the bed. I knelt down and the smell got worse. I turned my head away and stuck my arm under the bed and blindly fumbled my hand around looking for my keys. I felt something cold beneath my fingertips and quickly withdrew my hand as a reflex. I slowly inched my hand back and wrapped my fingers around the cold object. It felt stiff and I could tell there were patches of hair covering it. My heart sunk and a lump formed in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes when I pulled it out. I felt something tickle up my hand and I opened my eyes. I flung a spider off and dropped the object. I brought my hand to my mouth and tried not to vomit. Lying there before me was my cat. My dead, rotting cat. The same one I had grown up with. The same one that provided soft purrs when I would lay in bed and listen to my mother's cries everytime my father's hand crossed her face. I took a better look at my cat. My dear, sweet cat. You could see the outline of her skeleton. Moist burned the rims of my eyes. I knew the cause of her death. There was no doubt in my small mind that she had starved to death. How long ago was it that I last touched her soft her? When was the last time I paid attention to the things I cared about?

I ran for the door, grabbing ahold of that same old door knob I always hated to touch. I quickly walked down the dim-lit hallways, my shoes shuffling against the worn out carpet. I felt so trapped. When I got to the end of the hall I paused for a moment. Why was I always running away from my problems? I shook my head and ran down the stairs, the echo of my footsteps trying to catch up to me. I pushed the doors open and stepped into a colder world. The streets were covered in dark shadows and the moon was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. I started walking down the street, my back against the moon. It wasn't very quiet anymore. You could hear police sirens and men yelling. A guy with blue hair bumped past me.

"Watch where you're going, asshole", I said to him, keeping my head lowered.
"Franny?", he asked. I don't think I answered him aloud because he said my name a second time.
"Hey, Franny! Are you okay? 'Member me, Mark?", he said with a smirk on his face. I looked up at him and nodded and tried to force whatever smile would come out of me. He began to walk with me.
"Hey, so I hear you're working for Billy now. Shit. Why didn't you come see me?" Mark and I had a little bit of history. I knew I could have went to him for help but there was still a part of me that wanted nothing to do with him. There was still a part of me that wanted to prove I could make it on my own.
"So, ya hear Stacey and Clint hadda kid? Apparently she almost died givin' birth. That shit is crazy, hey?" he looked at me and I could tell he was just talking to fill the silence between us.
"No kidding", I replied, trying to sound interested. I really didn't feel like having him around me, but I figured it was better than being alone.
"Where ya headed, Fran?", he asked, "Billy's havin' a party. You wanna come with me?", he was looking directly in my eyes and I felt my cheeks go red and I hoped he just thought I was cold.
"Yeah," I said, "yeah okay, I'll go with you". I followed him down the dim streets. We didn't talk much the rest of the way there, which I was okay with. The thing about Mark is that he's really simple. People don't expect much from him. I mean, when he fucks up people just think, "Oh, that's just good ol' Mark". But you see, if I fuck up then it's a really big production. And that's what happened between us. I fucked up.

When I was a young girl, around six years old, I can remember sitting on rough beige carpeted stairs, peering through the wooden handrails watching my father beat my mom. Some days it wasn't so bad. He'd slap her, marking his territory with his red handprint on her cheek. Other days he'd take kitchen ware, anything that was within his reach; glasses, pots, plates, and he'd throw them at her. I remember one time this blue plate wouldn't break so he smacked it against her shoulder until it shattered into little bits. The next morning my mom was up at dawn cooking eggs and bacon, like she always did. She could barely flip those eggs with her injured arm and when she sat down at the table all she did was smile this weak smile. There was a glaze over her eyes and I knew that was the last time I would ever really see her as my mother.

Tweet.

So I've gone and done it.
I've joined twitter.
I know, I know, I know..
but I couldn't help it! I need to know what's going on in everyones life.

http://twitter.com/jarika_win

In case you are interested in what I'm doing.
Ah.

Beauty is Everything.

Gisele Bundchen was recently ranked as the highest paid model. She earns 25 million per campaign. PER CAMPAIGN! That's ridiculous! Yes, she's gorgeous, and maybe she's really nice and smart, too. But why should she earn that much? I really don't understand how life became this way. How beauty and fashion and popularity is the most important thing. I don't understand why, though. Why?! Why do "average" people have to go through life, struggling, starving, and barely making ends meet when all "beautiful" people have to do is just be? Yes, you can be passionate about modelling. Yes, you can be passionate about acting, or singing, or performing. But we have to draw a line somewhere! It goes the same for sports. Really..WHY are they making so much money? Does it cost that much to make a baseball uniform? I just don't understand. Have I said that enough times?

My rant is useless. And over.

Gisele Bundchen.

I'm bad with titles.

I have wanted to be a rock star for as long as I can remember. I remember locking myself in my room, grabbing my hair brush and belting out songs in my mirror (how cliched). Sometimes I'd dress up and do little dances, other times I'd take my guitar and pretend I actually knew how to play and was singing alongside some cute hippy boy. I'd imagine myself being Karen O, wearing shiny spandex unitards and smudging lipstick across my face, chugging a beer during the guitar solos. I'd have interviews with Nylon magazine and they'd describe me as "shy, but oh-so-lovable" and I'd have little indie girls wishing they were me. I'd never really have any real friends, except for my band mates and eventually we'd grow up and apart and I'd probably end up in some dive serving greasy burgers to greasy men.

I guess it's a good thing I can't sing.

Anyway..
Do you remember Show and Tell? Man, I have seen some really interesting things. In the fourth grade this kid brought in a deer's head (he and his dad were hunters). It was definitely the creepiest item that was ever brought to class. I just remember him poking at its eyeballs and thinking that this really wasn't normal. I could just picture him carrying this black garbage bag down the street, blood dripping out the bottom. I wonder what he is doing now. Hmm. Anyway, so yes, today I was sitting here, remembering my show and tell days and how excited I used to get to share these special items with my friends. And how fun it was to learn about the history of their personal items. I want to put together some sort of Show and Tell night. Maybe at a gallery or something. Anyone could submit a piece and give a little write up about it and then we would all know a little bit of history about our friends, or strangers. I have no idea how to go about setting this up though. It was just a thought.

Now go check out some Mark Ryden.


Mark Ryden (Bunnies and Bees)

Lisa Hannigan.

Lisa Hannigan makes rainy days better. For anyone who hasn't listened to her, go check her out at www.myspace.com/lisahannigan. She's brilliant and simple and she makes me very happy.

I Was Walking With the Ghost.

Friday morning. Going through my same routine. I wish the sun was out. Wait, maybe I don't, because then I would be stuck inside this God forsaken greyish brown building, peering out the window watching everyone enjoy the sun rays. So thank you clouds, you've saved me from partial misery.
Lately I have been daydreaming of living in different cities (I'm not serious about this thought, I just like to imagine my life in different places). If I had to live anywhere in the states I think I would go for Portland, Oregon or Seattle, Washington (but I'd probably end up a bitter, miserable girl seeing as, on average, there are only 58 clear days a year). I definitely realized that I yearn to be a West Coast girl (even though I'm so tragically Prairie). Maybe someday I will have an expensive loft looking out to a body of water and mountains. Oh how I miss you.
I sometimes think I live too much in my own fantasies.
Jarika in New York- with five credit cards, working backstage at fashion shows, spraying cans of hairspray at barely-there models.
Jarika in London- wearing plaid shirts and boyfriend jeans, carrying around a tattered journal and sketching pigeons in the park.
Jarika in Japan- lost in a sea of people speaking with a foreign tongue. Always in a constant daze, never really seen by anyone around me.
Jarika in Winnipeg- just being.
I'm not sure why it is I can't figure out where I want to be, or who it is I want to be. I'm generally pretty content with what's going on around me, but sometimes I actually do get too caught up in my little daydreams and I wonder if there could be more to my life. But then I probably wouldn't be here right now, writing to you. And that would be unfortunate.

The sun is beginning to show itself.

Portland, Oregon.



Seattle, Washington. (Pike's Place Market)

Sleep Don't Weep.

So my roommate (Gill) keeps bugging me to write. Not bugging, motivating. Bugging is negative. I'm trying not to be negative anymore (sometimes I fail, but that's human nature, right?). I actually usually forget that I even have a blog. Blog. Where did that term come from, anyways? I'll probably wikipedia it later. I'm pretty sure Wiki is the best thing that has been created on the interweb (just checked, blog comes from the word weblog so that actually makes a lot of sense).
I don't actually have a specific subject to write about right now. Basically I'm sitting here, bored out of my mind at work, so I figured I should put my brain to good use, rather than just staring at the screen, zoning out into a different a world. A techno-vision world (which really bothers my eyes).
So I have also decided to put my spare time to good use. I am not going to be volunteering with the Spence Neighbourhood Association. I am actually going to meet the Coordinator today, which I must admit, I'm a little nervous about. Specifically, I'll be helping out with the Three Stars and a Wish program, which involves being paired up with a family and the parent shares a story (traditional, familial, or madeup) with their child and me. From there I help the child create a drawing based on the story and then there will be a book launch sometime in July. I find it really important for families to find time to spend with their children, to help find the child's interests and motivate them to pursue their interests. I hope that the child, and their parent(s) take this experience and remember it always. To know that I potentially helped a kid find a way to use their spare time to pursue their interests, rather than get involved in a negative surrounding really makes me feel like I am good for something. Like I'm here for a reason. Not to save children, or anything (I don't think I'm Holden Caulfield), but to just help guide them. Maybe just a little bit.
I sometimes wonder if all the shit my brother went through affected me more than it did him. If it wasn't him who went through all of that, could it have been me? Would I want to help at all?

Madeleine.

I can still remember the night it happened. I was nineteen and incredibly insecure. It was a damp night in April, the streets were glossy like a magazine and the moon gave the city a dim yellow glow. My headphones were plugged into my ears, some indie band was filling the space between my thoughts. I was walking home from my brother's. He caught his boyfriend of two years sucking off some guy so we shared a bottle of wine and cried when Holly Golightly got rid of Cat. There was something about the Mean Reds that always stuck with me.
It was getting late and all the busses had stopped running. I didn't want to waste money on a cab so I decided to walk home. I'm not sure if it was the wine or my tangled thoughts that put me in a daze but I chose to take a short cut home, which was through a dark alley way that led to a quiet path along the river. It all sounds so cliched, I know, but maybe that's just how it always happens. Young girl who thinks she's invincible, dark alley, careless decisions. I was too caught up in myself that I didn't even notice that someone had been following me for three blocks.
It wasn't until I was half way down the alley that I felt like someone was watching me. It's true when they say, "Follow your gut instinct", because that is where I felt it; in the pit of my stomach. Something bad was about to happen.
I was too scared to look behind me so I started to walk a little faster. I didn't want to make it obvious that I knew I was being followed. My heart was racing at this point and even though it was chilly outside I began to feel really hot. My cheeks were burning, my palms sweating. I thought my legs were going to give out on me. Why, why, why had I chosen to go this way?
I wasn't too far from the end of the alley when the footsteps got louder. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a dark figure behind me. I began to run, as did my follower.
He caught up to me quickly, grabbed my arm and pulled me towards him. He was strong, about a foot taller than myself. He smelled like booze and piss and his face was covered in scars and dirt. I struggled to get out of his grasp, which made his grip tighter. I punched and kicked and flailed around like a fish out of water. He flung me against the side of a cold, brick building. I lost my breath and gasped for air as he grabbed at my body. His hands were rough and dry around my neck. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. He grabbed tightly on my breasts and I squirmed and kicked at his legs. It was as if he was made of steel. He slammed me into the wall again, this time bashing my head. All of a sudden I felt nauseous. His fingers made their way to the button on my jeans. He unzipped me, then his own dirty jeans. He shoved his sandpaper hands inside of me and I couldn't hold it in anymore. I started to throw up all over him. All over me. He threw me to the ground and I tried to crawl away. He grabbed my legs and pulled me closer towards him. He shoved my face into the wet ground, dirt water was filling up my mouth as he shoved his dirty, filthy cock into me. This is when I gave up. I didn't move, I didn't scream. I'm not even sure I cried. My face was wet, but I don't know if it was from my tears.
It didn't last long. He was quick and thrustful and he didn't make a sound. When he was finished he cried out, "Why Sarah? Why did you have to leave?" and he started to sob. That was the first and only thing he said. He got up off me and I laid still as he pulled up his pants. He stood above me for a few seconds then started to turn away and walk back into the darkness.
I waited until I couldn't hear his heavy footsteps anymore. I peeled myself off the ground. I was covered in blood, mud, and cum. I threw up again.
I walked what seemed a mile to the end of the alley way. The street lights shone so brightly and I could feel my eyes filling up with tears. As I headed towards the street I heard a loud bang. I looked over my shoulder and no longer saw the dark figure.

"That is all the time we have for today." Dr. Thompson said, looking at me with sympathetic eyes.
"Thank you Dr. Same time next week, right?", I smiled weakly at him as I picked up my purse. Dr. Thompson headed to his desk and opened a drawer full of medication. He handed me a bottle of Xanax.
"You know, Madeleine, none of this is your fault." He looked directly in my eyes as I took the pills out of his hand. I nodded and headed towards the door. As I stepped outside I put on my sunglasses and smiled to myself.
"Fucker", I thought, "he'll believe every story I tell him", and I walked down the street with another free bottle of drugs in my purse.

but the lows are so extreme, that the good seems fucking cheap.

i'm not sure how to even write with my thoughts in proper order. i just know that sometimes when i'm alone in my room my thoughts get the best of me. i am overhelmed with my worries and i begin to lose my breath. i want to scream and cry but nothing comes out. my chest starts to feel heavy, like someone is pressing down on me and i can't get up. i'm beginning to think that everything i thought about life is just a fantasy. finding the perfect job, the perfect man, the perfect life..it's not what it's about at all. it's so much more than that. it almost feels like if this all ended, it wouldn't matter. life would still go on and everything around me would eventually fade away. it's not a bad thought. it's not a scary thought. it's almost a relief. like i'm not afraid to die. i know that this world has so much to offer, but it's like i'll never get the satisfaction of making my life complete. there isn't anything out there that really makes me want to be. i know i will still try to find that, and maybe someday i will, but right now it's like there's something missing and it can't be found. this is all so complicated and i'm not sure if i'm supposed to be upset or content with this.

i really wish i grew up in the late 60's. i wish i hung out with andy warhol and smoked cigarettes in the factory. i wish i protested against the war and had long flowing hair. i would wear a flower behind my ear. i'd meet an activist boy with shaggy brown hair and i'd claim it's love. we'd write poetry in parks and make love in the afternoon under willow trees. he'd tell me i was magical. but then he would break my heart and my free spirit would be shattered. i'd start going to underground punk rock shows and lose myself in liquor. i would go home with every boy because every boy would know who i am. i was the girl with a broken heart. we'd shoot lines on cracked mirrors and eventually that would not be enough. i would find a rock star boyfriend with dark eyes and he would tie an elastic around my arm. he would take that needle and prick it into my arm, my blood captured inside the needle. it would look like red clouds in the desert and i'd fall backwards into his sheets, shut my eyes and dream. i would see myself as a little girl, running in a park with a kite in the sky. my mother would laugh and pick me up and twirl me, her laughter filling every pocket of air around me. i would remember what she smelled like. daisies. my rockstar would probably leave me at a party somewhere and i would find his arm around another girl. a younger girl. i'd smash my glass on the ground and walk off into the night. i would stumble down a dark lane and disappear into the night. i would never be seen again.
only a remembered as a faded memory.