meowmeowmeow9

[meowmeowmeow9]

the cold makes my legs shake; she makes me numb; she makes me vulnerable. it hurts, almost, the most pleasant kind of hurt, a hurt of love, how badly i love her, so much, i love her so much, and there or no words for it. sometimes, i make up my own, just to capture it: that pleasant hurt.

[meowmeowmeow9]

a telegram! i wonder of my sender and her spouse.

i picture us like standing opposite one another in a very crowded room, how two towers in a cluttered city gaze at each other from afar.

old friend, i'll take the tube as my pinky finger's cardinal thread feels the tug.

save your concern. all that is temporary. not me; i am still. still, i am, still, and yet, closer than ever

don't worry. winter is my time to be. i was built this way. my door stills ajar, i think of you while driving. you have taught me many things and with that you'll exist forever

[meowmeowmeow9]

paperback page one

i have been recording diaries on my laptop for a while, so here is today's. maybe i will post more.

it is 12:27am and it has been many hours since i recorded this diary, and the sky is a haze of consuming red as the results of the election slowly come to cap. it is nearly certain now that trump has claimed victory over this election.

i do not pretend to know the long and short of the consequences that may come of his presidency, i do honestly admit that i am starkly uneducated (which is no fault but my own) in comparison to my peers, but i know well enough that if there is one word to describe the man it is this: bad. even beyond that, the simple fact that this is such a pivotal moment in our lives as well as history feels somewhat uncanny. in a way, i almost find myself undermining it, feeling that it's "not a big deal," simply because i myself cannot comprehend the impact that this may -- or will -- have on the future. i am terrified. as many others are. i can't even look at my phone, it's shut off entirely at my side, which, as an admittedly screen loving teenager, is hard to come by, and i want to sleep, to escape the anxiety and just wake up to an answer, but i lay here and sleep does not come.

my darling cat purrs at my feet. she has no idea. she has never heard of taxes, or worried about her own rights, or argued over the reasons a 34 count felon, rapist, racist, fascist, taliban endorsed 78 year old (etc) should not be president. the fact that this is our reality truly rattles the whole of my mind. it is unbelievable. it is tragic.

the country, society, is as divided as ever. i won't act like this division is a new development, nor will i say such about the hatred we have harbored for one another, but whether it is recent or deeply rooted, it is heartbreaking to witness. we run at such opposite extremes. it is no longer a question of opinion, of "which way you swing" -- it is a question of morals. i truly never anticipated growing up to be someone who will turn down friendships over political views. but when you support a cause that hopes to strip the rights of human beings, how could i not?

to conclude, as i do plan on trying to sleep this off again: may the best become of us, even if the smoke rises: when the blade is drawn so is one's guard. there's no escape from hell. the only way out is through. goodnight.

[meowmeowmeow9]

i'm aware the diamond's brassed but i still possess the thought: regardless of your past a shrew, you are not.

i have considered the lilies and the sailors, and the sins i've pondered all the vanities, and the women, and the men the princes, and the brutes, and the cursing uncles tall and the friend who rarely checks in if, that is, at all.

it's frustrating, yes, but irrefutable: there's a warmth in my heart for each and so, i think, in another world i met you on the beach.

and that is where we spend our time laughing, dancing, worrying not drinking liquor lipped with lime and talking quite a lot.

[meowmeowmeow9]

i am the rib of adam

and i feel the turning of the wheel

prey, pet, parasite, regardless

it’s all the same blood when the book closes

let me be in the water: daisy fresh

let purity be where i lay

virgin and washed

and fragile, and small.

when you come into my room

and slip on the crimson

tell my mom it’s not her fault

[meowmeowmeow9]

[meowmeowmeow9]

september. what a spectacle of a month. were she a woman, i can imagine her long and snide, a tone about her that is off-putting, but not deterring. september, she gazes down her nose at you, eyes narrow. pensive maybe? that's the worst of it. you wouldn't know.

"a long year it's been." she'd say, and you'd agree with a silent nod, not daring to voice it. yes, we are all tired by now, and nobody looks forward to september--she's without holidays, unlike her triplet cousins (october, november, december), and without that flair of summer's youth, which is claimed proudly by her brothers and sister (june; july; august). she's a haughty, flaming phoenix of a woman.

september is the woman that men find themselves drawn to. she's damaged, they say. i can fix her. september is the woman that those men are wrong about. they're attracted to her pale skin and to the spider tattoo on her arm. she waits to be asked about it, but never is. even if they did ask, she'd probably answer with "i like spiders."

but september is more than that. she feels the gaze of passers by knowing that they don't think twice of her. on some days, she finds her face twisted in hurt and discontent, but quickly schools her expression, steeling herself before it can be noticed. her fear isn't to be forgotten: it's to be ignored.

she's an awkward shift of weight between summer and autumn, and a quaky pivot by the heel of passage into the ending quarter of the year. an honest answer about the tattoo might be that she has spent her life in the shadow of her cousin, and people seem to enjoy all hallows in her own month, and that the spider is her only sense of identity among the family. you'd consider telling her that the spider belongs to october, as it is in the spirit of october's holiday, but you'd be best not to. september is a girl of icy eyes and vulnerable heart.

yes, i see past the act of the spider-inked. conclusively, i'll say this and leave it to remain here, at the cusp of her sleep, as in 4 days she will rest and her cousin will be greeted with cheers: don't forget about september, and don't ignore her either. she is as lonely as you are.

[meowmeowmeow9]

24 september, 2024

it is late and i lay awake feeling restless, and sad, and strangely all nostalgic-like, so i've decided to write something because what else would a jane like myself do?

today has been different from other days. not majorly. i went about my usual day-schedule for a tuesday: arrive at school, attend class. turn in my chair and talk to my only friend in creative writing, and hope that he also thinks of me as his friend, and hope that he lingers to talk to me a bit after class ends, and watch him walk straight to the elevator not to. this is okay, i take the stairs. walk to my acting class in the locke building (my dreadful, terrible, drawn-out acting class that has no business being 2 hours and 20 minutes long). attend, stay afterward to spend time with my friends. text my mom, drive home, lay in bed. i don't think further explanation is necessary, i've rambled enough. you get the point.

and so i find myself today thinking more. this happens sometimes. it's not my favorite feeling, i wish there was a word for it. it feels tight, and heavy, but loose as well, as if i am clung to a cliff's edge by the pads of my fingers, weighing only feather-light on my own but hanging laden with sandbags by my ankles. if you were to hold your breath and clench your fists very very tightly while watching a leaf fall languid against softly cast sunlight, maybe that would replicate it.

there are moments in which it is almost too much. when the warmth of an anxious flush becomes scorching, and i worry that if i look down at myself i'll be bright red and peeling; when it starts to feel like thorns, blistered and piercing, are lacing themselves along me as if probing for a soft grip of vulnerable flesh. or maybe blooming from the inside out, curling long, clawed fingers at the lining of my heart-space, and after failing to make scraps of it, instead closing itself in a collapse that sends shocks and waves and a terrible caterwaul through taut and torn summer breathing. and god it's like swallowing a thick pill, one that stops on its way down determined against being flushed out with water.

i'm not making any sense. in short: feeling bad.

i have a habit of thinking that if i can find some pretty words to put to my suffering, that it will become interesting. i've quickly learned that "interesting" actually means "worthwhile." i've been out of pretty words for months, and there is nothing interesting about suffering. when you suffer, it is just that. it is not beautiful. it is not romantic. it is suffering. no, i've run out of pretty words. i have regular words. regular words will suffice. and with regular words i'll ask that you imagine me looking you in the eye, sighing between some sentences, and wrinkling my nose a bit awkwardly as i continue.

i took my last breath a year ago in april. spring has always been thick and furtive. think a shrill violin, untuned, beneath the grip of an inexperienced player. that is the so-called "charm" of spring and i have never understood others' favor for its ugly face. i'm distracting myself: april. i was in england, the ephemeral distance of being in a world separate from my own distinctly more apparent with every moment that passed me by. i know that i am still there: on the jubilee line, changing for waterloo and city lines, and national rail services. doors open on the right. this train terminates at stanmore. the train screeches as it takes away. "screech" isn't an exact word. it bellows like a bloated and angry bear. or mother. i am swaying at the movement, watching the lights gutter out over the backsides of blue carpeted seats, and where there are usually people, there is empty space. for a while i let myself believe i was the only person in the car, but that was unrealistic. the point is, that is where i was last seen. i have not moved from that spot since.

i have yet to truly comprehend the tragedy that is my own death. i know as well as anybody that death does nothing but entail birth, which i have accepted--but i understand better now what purgatory is meant to be. purgatory is the train car i cried on at 11:13pm in london, UK, a hard copy of the fifth science in my lap as i stared at my reflection in the dark glass window. purgatory is the shaftesbury bedroom with its back turned to the sun, hunched with arms wrapped over its trinkets, rings and dice and miscellaneous items that it knew i would snatch up for my own keeping. it is the moment in death in which you realize you've stopped breathing, and cannot if you try -- but have no need for it either. does that make sense? purgatory is a land far far away in which a large part of myself lingers, and shall remain.

maybe i do not understand purgatory. the irony of this is the paperback of dante's inferno that i had been gifted by the shaftesbury bedroom, but have not yet read all the way through. maybe i would understand it if i did. i'm getting ahead of myself.

i have felt for over a year that i am in some strange dream. as a child plagued with nightmares, i am capable of waking myself. this is no dream, presumably, this is the real thing. but something that i talk about often, to be fair possibly too much (my apologies if you've fallen victim to my rambling of this), is that i am a wonderer. i have always been, and still am, a wonderer. wondering to me comes easier than blinking and faster than waking. and so, i wonder: why this dream? this dream is no hell. it is no euphoria. i am regular. i go to regular school in a regular car, with regular classes and regular classmates. i know the answer, and it's "regular" that gives it away. this dream is brimmed with beauty, that one must look for. it will not be handed to you -- nothing will be handed to you. it is a plane of wanting and chasing, as the body sways so does desire, and as time balks at easing so does the human condition.

i have refused to pull the leash that life has held the end of, and so i have seen with my own eyes the stagnancy that instills, and i have despised it passionately.

friend, if ever life swings at you, do not submit. i implore you to turn the other cheek. should she swing again, extend your hand. if life is so bold as to land blow upon blow on you, there only one thing to do: smile. this pain is not pointless. life is a fickle fox and will take from you your brass when she is ready to offer gold. she will balter as you cry because she knows your tears will bleed into benefit: she knows you watch her. people only cast their gaze on the fox when she takes from them, and they watch her plainly. study her. life is no enemy. life is no friend. life is your counterpart, and what she wants is simple: to play. the fox favors defiance. raise your fist and life will laugh.

in simple words: to live contently is to accept the give and take. expect nothing. appreciate everything. and enjoy.

[meowmeowmeow9]

2 april, 2024

i thought i’d post a couple bits and pieces from my diary on this day. things i underlined are in italics. might not make much sense but i wanted to post something.

april 2

been a minute. i’m on a train. reminds me of london. it’s green out. with [cure]… and [man]. got a feeling he won’t last long. LOL. sorry [man].

headed to SF. should be interesting. i’m excited for the beach. i love the ocean. it’s like one big mystical creature. i’m best friends with the ocean, in case you didn’t know. you should ask. she’ll tell you all about me.

hung out with [pony]. wasn’t bad. we were (are) going to have a sleepover on wednesday. they wanted to cancel, so they could hang with their friends. that hurt my feelings. am i boring? technically i’m only here with [cure] because she needs me to be. but i feel like me and [cure] are getting pretty close. won’t dwell. i’ll talk to them about it. then go from there.

i miss london. the UK. maybe i could get mom to take me as a grad gift. i miss chinook too, but that’s not grad gift worthy.

—

pigeons break my heart. i saw one limping earlier. so sad. i’m not sure what to do now. maybe i’ll sit by the seals. nobody has dr pepper in the bay.

i feel like in big public spaces we all develop this crazy tunnel vision we don’t even realize is there. and we only think about ourselves. and even though we’re aware of all these people, they don’t exist. they’re just complements to the environment. like, accessories. and sometimes something happens to break the illusion, and suddenly someone is real, and it’s the strangest thing in the world for a time. and then you go and the memory removes itself as insignificant.

when the illusion breaks, the person becomes real, because now you have a relationship with them. earlier, it was you alone, you and nothing. but the interaction changes that — now it’s you and a stranger. for example:

there were a lot of people at the pier. i was alone.

‘a lot of people’ just describes the pier. picture that statement: you don’t think of the people. you think of a crowd.

someone ran into me at the pier. they said sorry.

‘someone.’ a person. ‘they.’ now you have a relationship with the stranger. they’re “the person who ran into you.”

i think that is very cool. i like strangers. and pigeons.

—

5pm now. god it’s cold. and windy as shit.

it’s not half bad, being alone somewhere. i really, really love the ocean. i should write something about that. i don’t know why i feel the need to make everything i write something utterly profound. i guess it’s because i’m afraid it’s not worth reading, if not profound.

i wish i would meet someone. tunnel vision is a curse. am i pretentious? would a pretentious person worry about being pretentious?

i just think that people are so beautiful

good day

[meowmeowmeow9]

i lowered myself in and cut the line

the moon, the sun, and the withered pine

have written you in gold up in my mind

so, what happens next?

is what i’d ask

i prefer the old fashioned ways

the breath, the touch and the way you look

i’ll show you what it is, i’ll show you what it is

and i’ll never ever forsake you

[meowmeowmeow9]

the rain is nothing, it’s you i wanna know

i have worn enough

to know that it is me, to ask the meadow

are you happy there? and can i see you?

in the water, you’re what i look for,

you’re what i look for

in the words, in the pages

“pumpkins for the ages”

and “for the ghosts”

still, come pale, come snowfall

you’re where i last saw you

say it with your chest or don’t say it at all

maybe i’m the fool who loves you too much

[meowmeowmeow9]

carrion

the death hound, he follows me home

i welcome him inside cos he’s got

no place to go

he says, “lady, you saved me,

and i’d like to pay it forward”

with his tail between his legs and a

wrinkle in his nose

“i love you to pieces,”

to the death hound, i said

“stop taking lives and take

my love instead”

so he wore a collar

and swore he was mine

for the rest of my life, and for

the rest of time

[meowmeowmeow9]

little love giver

little delight, whiskers of white,

little happy-life-liver

my best friend ever

with a mind so clever

and a chipper little call

that can make any song better

you’re the love of my life and the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen

i love you

[meowmeowmeow9]

kick it quick, autumn!

you know i’m ready for you

it pitter pattered through my fingers while you sat on my floor this summer.

your shadow caught the wall briefly

“every girl should have a london,” you said

i didn’t answer, you sat with your chin on your thumb.

“closure is a myth,” you said, and, “you already have it in you,” you said, and, “stars don’t shoot, they only die.”

you might be right, one too many into the lotus rain and we may find it to be that the sky has gone black, and all of the stars close enough to see have fizzled out. is that true? maybe they’re gone already.

not all of them, though;

i saw one between the trees burning amber

and i remember, you cupped it in your hands

and held it close to your chest. what a romantic.

i missed you especially during this time of year when you stood with vertigo and waited for the sun to rise.

august is your brother and so you are my uncle, and i suppose the summer has birthed me because i really only live in the holidays.

“taciturn,” you said, smiling, looking up at me from the floor again.

“you come around only when i don’t speak,” i replied.

“is that it?” you asked, which must have been rhetorical, if i know the meaning of the word. you then buried your chin into your arm which rest on your knee.

i don’t know why i said that. i drew a breath as if to say something, but didn’t. that must have been words enough.

you blinked slow. “you say the most when you’re silent. it’s the only time i really hear you. and when you hum to yourself, it’s like your skin is turned to glass, and i can see right into you. you’re full of stars inside.”

“please, that’s pretentious.” i said.

“it’s only pretentious if you’re the one who said it.”

“i am. i wrote it.”

i watched you chuckle. you stood up from where you sat and suddenly it all made sense: when you laughed, i knew for certain that somewhere a leaf turned and fell from its branch. i wanted to kiss you right then. but that wouldn’t make sense, really. i’m not really as poetic as i think i am, i know that much.

“they’re all in love.”

“with who?” i asked.

you passed a window. when you stepped into the sunlight there was a visceral warmth, like out of a dream. it beamed around you, silhouetted, reaching out for you in long outstretched arms, the air smelling of cinnamon and shea.

“with you,” you said.

autumn,

i knew the answer. i was there when it was written

[meowmeowmeow9]

dusted off the frost

leaves in the shape of me

you feel the

leaves off the dust ;

every color in you

my favorite

the music dances in you

i can see

every color

[meowmeowmeow9]

things i am fascinated by

1. pregnancy and motherhood; being responsible for a completely reliant and helpless life; its significance in adulthood

2. the acceptance that people are unchangeable

3. grief

4. the beginning of everything; the “big bang,” and what came before it

5. the way women view men and how men are incapable of truly understanding it; how that will never change

6. catholicism

7. the act of sharing clothes

8. the arts; the most human thing

9. the inherent selfishness every person carries with them; how some overcome it; how some don’t, sometimes even without realizing

10. the ego

11. water

12. the ingenuity of technology

13. the blind trust of loving someone

14. betrayal from the perspective of the betrayer

15. stockholm syndrome

16. loving to be loved; as opposed to just loving

17. cringe culture

18. the way people react to stubbing their toe

19. the concept of talking to someone you once knew very well, to realize you are talking to a different person, to realize that they, too, are talking to a different person; the concept of the everchanging mind

20. the stranger one observes from a distance but never crosses paths with; to watch someone’s life happen right before you, but never to speak to them, never to know if they noticed you back or not; to one day see them for the final time and to wonder about them for the rest of your life

21. to see someone for the final time and to wonder about them for the rest of your life

22. to see someone for the final time

[meowmeowmeow9]

“fear” is a little bedroom

it has no windows, maybe you expected that

it has no bed, no snack drawer, and if you ever thought you knew what it looked like, it’s changed by now.

there’s a scrap of paper on the floor where a mattress should be. it reads:

how does it feel?

like a sunday. a little colder than is comfortable. like standing in a highway, before the sun’s come up.

where will you sleep?

the floor. …

where will you sleep?

the corner. …

where will you sleep?

i won’t, a shut eye doesn’t merit sleep, i am restless.

“fear” is a little bedroom

where the door shuts itself behind you.

your thumb has smeared the ink, and it is too dark now to read the note. but somehow, you know already what it says, you’ve been here before.

where is this from?

i was five, i wanted a kindle fire for christmas. all of the blinds were shut, but it wasn’t dark, it was morning. my dad said santa couldn’t get me a kindle fire. santa couldn’t afford it. i stepped in something wet when he said that and it soaked through my sock.

do you have time?

there is never time. time is a river with no dam.

who taught you?

my mom. …

who taught you?

my childhood friend. …

who taught you?

my baby sitter when i was seven, when i had spent too long alone in my room, and she found me on the floor. all of my stuffed animals’ hair was cut off. a chunk of my own was missing. i begged her not to tell my mom. there must be some kind of metaphor to that, i think. i just wanted to be in control of something.

you forgot the rest. not that it matters. comfort is a blanket you knit for yourself. after some time you’ll hear laughter in the next room. nobody is going to knock for you.

the rest is up to you, get to stitching