compostion blog

I've been caring around a composition book that id likes to call a composition blog. I got the book because I was trying to figure out how to untangle all the thread I push into my pocket. Only to find, I wasn't going crazy, I just turned my mother into a notebook. Processed all the things I wanted to say to her, and ask for her help with. Yet the book never talks back. the book just sits there carrying all of your thoughts and feelings and shows you the ends to all of your loose ties. The book does not wish for you to be better and doesn't take a selfish aspect, or tell you how to live your life. the book just is a book, that you call a blog. 

I made the book the same reason I made the blog, I needed something to figure out everything and if I put enough focus into one thing, maybe everything would just work.

7/5/22: a piece from phoenix

During my time away from myself, I went to the mall. The mall is a beautiful confusing place that can make you fall to your knees in complete submission to all of the glitter and carefully placed threads. But the mall also has the power to make you hate everything about yourself. The beautifully hung emerald green silk dress hangs over your body like moss in the yellow flickering dressing room. Not to say moss is not beautiful- it is. Moss just looks bad because it's on your body, and your body makes silk look rough and patchy. I guess what I'm trying to say is I think I finally understand what people mean when they say they "love me", I think they are calling me a mall. I think they admire me for how I stimulate their needs and entertain their free time. Only to find out I'm just a mall, a building, something to hold an assortment of things. I think everyone's a mall, I just think we carry things differently. I think it's valid for you to hate me. I created a false emotion that only left you with a mirror to look at all your faults

hey maybe if this book wasn't a book but rather a person, maybe they'd be a vintage shop. carrying old memories or whatever is important to you.  The Composition Shop. 

7/7/22: waiting for the water to break

there is no worse version of myself than the summer. When I was much smaller, I spent my time at the lake, I spent my time raising ducks and dogs, and fishing hooks. I spent my time casting dreams and jumping from diving boards, swimming away from the snakes. But as small and faithful as I once was. I prayed for the growing mass above his bed to break, for god to induce a natural phenom- to be a child who was saved. 

7/9/22: The bystanders' drug addiction

the fans are getting too loud. today I broke the bystander's addiction and placed him in my honorable robe. he told me over (I presumed shakey hands that cast banner above my screen). That I- have passed him in my drug intake.  Everything is alright, I made myself crazy, this is something I can claim, there are two types of things. I can't seem to remember it. it became sappy soaked and broken. all poets have fist fought w this type of battle. I wish I could play guitar, id wishes you could sit silently n listen. I wish i didn't need this god damn journal. 

signed, 

                     whatever you need

_______________________________

my credits, no good. I'm, not A drug addict I was just worse in the summer, with nobody to talk to but a book. 

mudpies

 The house is being eaten up by dirt and clothes that burst through the god damn door. And all of a sudden the rooms flip inward-turns sideways and this so-called home has a woman from the past, the self-proclaimed mother who lives under piles of dirt. I know she's not really there, but I still feel her pace around these hallways, pushing crumbs to the side with each shuffling step. I don't feel bad, in this house, I feel like my brother, each time a nat swings around my head and a bird nests in my hair. Crazy to the public but rational by cause. The food molts away on the coffee table and I am reminded of all the ways I was taught to improv nourishment.

 Maybe this house isn't really a house but rather a theater, and the people who come and go are testing the cast. Seeing how far each member can take, see if they break, go off the script, and fold into their true selves.  how shameful it is to be anything but pretend. to be a woman who is claimed battered after months of shoving shit into a splitting closet. how rationalized it is to be so pissed for feeling so used.

--------->

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago, thought id share. kinda reminds me of when your a child and you try to conince yourself mud pies are more then just dirt and water. ironic. 

church vs rehab

I want to go to church, and not in some summer fulfill my fleabag desires.

redhibition always knew how to shapeshift itself into the family. I always knew I wasn’t bad enough to stay but not stubborn enough to believe in something bigger than myself. and so the punch line remains in unholy tap-water I gulped at the rounds ups. filled with Wolfpack-driven parents and the idea that there is loneliness in communion.

I long to hear the metaphoric roars of the wolf pack as their mouth waters over the survival to the next moon. 

to be part of a community that thrives off the idea of existing and living and doesn’t ask me to empty more parts of this decaying body. because there is no metaphoric phrase that sums up the fact that life can be complete shit.

to be a part of the religion of oneself, to be able to create something with all the bad that looks conventionally good in your resume. to be more than just a girl with a mouth wide open begging for the world to fuck me over once again. 

I don’t go to church the same way I don’t go to therapy. there is nothing more theatrical than standing in front of a series of people and begging them to grant you worthy enough. so I began the session with my legs crossed over and my hair brushed behind my ear. and gloss over the idea that all of this made me stronger. and I know what shell says before I speak these words into existence. the same way the priest had told me.

they pick n choice whether I'm crippled with addition to limerence desires the same way I'm crippled with religious beliefs. as if me asking the world to grant me some sort of affection dealt with sex along. as if I got off to religious neglect and relationships altogether.

I sweat orange juice. my father's drug addiction and my mother's need to be smaller each time I enter her house.

each time I think of it, I am only a stranger biting the inside of my cheek. this is no GOD. this is only upbringing, this is only forgetting, this is creating a need for religion to excuse my need to keep running. God is not therapy and therapy is not god. I am only a serious of memories begging to last long enough for u to click. 

I want to go to church. I want to go to rehab. I want to go somewhere where people can dress up as a family and I can finally stop asking strangers for an extra seat at their holiday dinner. Unless I am all wrong. Unless I am the last of my kind, an orphan, an empty soul. 

Song- Every time the sun comes up

church, therapy, family, and conversation are the times I play dress-up and pretend to be a more put-together person than I really am,