unfucktheworld by angel olsen
Wednesday, April 20, 2022
Tuesday, April 19, 2022
change your name
Before the people of the community, judge, cringe, laugh or sour my name with unfiltered words about my desperate attempt to become a person again. I wanted to remind you, my family and friends, that I too was a child.
As much as I hate this blog and its depressing cliche. I am only able to write about my thoughts. I no longer have the ability or freedom to review bands and artists. I am captivated by secretsisty. My location, my friends. my life now is something I cannot completely share with the world. All of the things I once was and loved are now, just out of reach. I am an unknown person, an introduction under allies, with a forever-changing name. every friend I held before also held the risk for my safety. My name will forever be signed to assault. my introduction to potential jobs will hold a warning and pleads for them not to contact my previous employer. My phone will constantly be a reminder of stalking. My childhood will be nostalgic for its inhabited moments.
I do not forgive you.
I"'m not who I am to anyone, no, not me at all
I'm not who I am to anyone these days, not at allThe skyline falls as I try to make sense of it all
I thought I'd uncovered your secrets but turns out there's more"
- good looking by suki waterhouse
As depressing and unrecognizable I have become, this does not mean there is no hope of becoming a person again. I can fake a persona and fill my life with melodramatic relationships to distract myself from the turning in the back of my throat or I can attempt, in needed change and listen to the idea that not all hurricane events can destroy a person completely. There are still cells and atoms in me. there is still a chance for survial. I will wear the stolen yellow bikini top from my mother's vintage collection. I will paint my eyelids will black liner and wait for the hot sun to melt it down my face. I will live in secretisty, but I will still live.
I do not forgive you. Aaron Johnson.
-katbird02
Monday, April 18, 2022
vodka and twisted teas.
You never know how much you miss something you never received.
It is a Friday night and you are gifted an experience of admiration and confusion. A soft pink dress made of aged antique silk holds you back. your feet remember the art of walking. your palms are filled with fresh ombre flowers. You think of this as a metaphor a gift from the beginning of time- a color clashing story of how you had changed yet stayed the same. Tonight you dance outside a roaring bar in the street. tonight your feet are in sync.
I think I had forgotten how to breathe. became a bed brittle version of myself so compliant with others' desires. but how incredibly relieving it is to be able to have all of your thoughts read. your metaphorical thought process doesn't shapeshift into an argument. The mind reader sees your knotted thoughts and listens with wide child-like eyes. the mind reader has taken time to learn the lyrics to songs you swore by. the reader sings them in the car. listens to your poetry, stories, and blogs as you read them aloud. the reader buys you flowers in color clashing palms. and that is enough.
It is so simple to be kind to people, yet the majority of people take until there is nothing left to give.
-katbird02
I had genuine fun. thank you.
Sunday, April 3, 2022
Hiding under a peach
hey so... I'm a sneaky bitch. I stopped writing publicly for the past 6 months cause I switched over to a more personal and underground blog format.. and today I've decided to choose a couple posts and discuss them. Maybe cause I'm bored.. maybe cause I wanna do something for myself.
disclaimer: since it's been a year, I've decided to remind all of you readers.. that I don't do this for you... so my grammar and spelling errors will not be adjusted.. and none of this will make sense.
Okay also.. all of these are very cringe but I'm a person and I'm being open about my views. so whatever..
WELCOME TO PEACH
December 7th 2021 drafted
I haven't written in a while since my fingers froze cold. It's funny how all the things you love can turn up empty. I used to think I was gifted in that way, in which I could shut off myself to existence. shapeshift me into a new person. I use to refer to all of myself in the third person, each experience that was too heavy to deal with got stuck with an old version of myself. But things will continue to happen and there will be less of me than there was in the morning.
I didn't understand the issue at first. when things happened it was all slow, targeted issues. I first forgot my oldest brother and left the smallest version of myself with him. I called it grieving while alive. I left my mother, and my father and signed their names to all the traumatic instances they could have prevented. Yet how do you escape a whole society? everybody surrounding you just sitting and watching you trying to pull yourself out of quicksand, how impossible it is not to blame them.
At first, I thought I was tired, grown out of old friendships, effects of time, and the lack thereof. But no, the truth of the matter was I desperately wanted to want them, yet couldn't forgive them for what they have done.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Okay so I wrote this a while ago, and I think it kinda explains a section of my last entree better.
I mean what I'm trying to say is that after lawn gnome I was in a horrible position and I couldn't separate the people I cared for from the situation (which is an ongoing issue in my persona). And with the mention of the wounded person, I was attempting to describe how it felt personal for leaving everyone. Like I had sabotaged myself and then painted this idea of strength for getting out of that town.
Girl, Interpreted
Today, I have decided to write again.
A poet once said that a wounded person does not crave a bottle, a cigarette, or a pipe full of addiction but rather the need and urge to be hurt again. We become so consumed in the idea of the pain that we ache for the next spill of blood, and I don't particularly think the wounded person is seeking this for the pain itself but for what comes after. or what I like to call a false sense of "freedom", a position of being so far gone there is nothing left to do but live for yourself.
"You think you're free? I'm free! You don't know what freedom is! I'm free! I can breathe! And you... you're gonna choke on your average fucking mediocre life!"-Lisa (girl, interrupted 1999)
Friday, September 3, 2021
college
two hours away.
we use to call every-night when we were only a 5 minute car ride away.
now there is no telephones that reach your lines and the faces of the people I pass in my new town hold no memory for you.
they said leaving was scary, but it wasn't. leaving was the easiest part. I have become so use to goodbyes, I turned my self into a mortician, dancing over empty memories and justifying the reasons they had to go. the scary part, was the realization, that nothing had actually changed. the empty side of your brain that kept you from living kept going. and you were. still just as alone as you were the night before.
try- dear and the headlights
"Thought a change of scenery would make me feel better
Thursday, September 2, 2021
baker
she became tired of picking up the phone. pretended she had answered it and fell asleep with the buzzing noise of the micro bugs living inside of her electronics. He fell asleep. always in loud places. near the train across town, across roads, cities and the bakery that never sliced their bread.
the baker like everything put together. he had gotten so use to everything falling apart he took pride in the things he could keep together. he enjoyed the company of the boy who fell asleep to loud noises because he never split the pieces up, he just sat with his knife and fork waiting for the courage to tear something apart but never could. The girl on the other hand, the one who had bugs living in her phone, tore through each piece, slaughtering the molecules and crumbling the dough that had taken its whole life to rise and form into shape. The baker didn't like this. She was unkempt and unmanaged. she tore things apart unfazed by the art before her.
yet the two customers, the boy and girl, always sat apart. watched each other in solitude. She hated his patience and he despised her gluttony. And in spite, the girl decided to take the boy patiently, allow him to be just who he is, accept the unsliced bread, the art and all the needs that allowed him to rise within the heat of the oven. allowed him to be fazed by the sound of the baker's timer ringing off the walls that made his eyes heavy with sleep.
but the boy took the girl as she took her bread, unmanaged, disoriented, picked up the pieces of her breaded existence and crumbled them in his fist. allowed the flies and insects to snack on the scatter crumbs
and the baker watched. everything come together and fall apart. if only they had stayed, towns, cross roads, cities and bakeries away from each other.
idk what this is, im tired and confused and have been eating alot of bread... hope you enjoy
katbird
Dirty Girl
my computer is creeping onto death, and the files hold untitled documents that eats up my existing space.
I stopped writing or speaking out-loud
I became aware of my existence, and I really cared.
I took pride before, for being unkept, unmanageable, and nothing but my own.
but there are women on the streets, each starting to look a lot like me, or me like them.
and I can't comprehend anything.
I must have been somebody else the day before.
woken up in the same body but confronted with my own self.
changed my name enough times to out run what ever part of me was being dissected by people who swore to love me more then god himself.
but at some point you have to stop.
the joke has gone to far
and there is nothing left to cover up what is already happening
the name has already been used, wrangled, and hung up to dry.
Im not sure what I'm trying to say anymore. my father told me to forget, that its been a month, I should be better, moved on. happy even. yet I can't help tripping over the shoelaces he never taught me how to tie. and now I'm stranded with centuries and story's of knots that eat away at the eroding chord.
not a poem, just notes
Thursday, August 12, 2021
the kindest thing I almost did.
In honor of your life, I will put my stubbornness to bed and write you the final letters.
my almost friend,
you never wrote me that letter, I waited two months after, fumbled through the mail and all the ways I went wrong, searching for any sign of you. but I was too hard headed to ever talk to you first.
The day you died I carried a worry stone around in my pocket, I miscounted the signs of misfortune on another friend and uncontrollably lost myself to what my mother claims to be the effect of the full moon. but my body knew. all of me knew somewhere deep down, stuffed between boxes and mix match socks, you were growing smaller into the shape of a quiet mouse, becoming something within my bones and disappearing completely. and all I hold is the voice echoing the words promising me your forever. if only we knew your forever would be too many years too soon.
The psychic told me your state was calling my name and I planned my future accordingly. I'd like to introduce myself under a new name, something unexpected. I hitchhiked 1,412 miles to that gloomy state. visit the field of flowers you laid to rest in and watch magicians blow bubbles of hot melting glass into the air. or maybe I would have gone to that college, studied art history and opened up my gallery, but I depended on you, or somebody to give me some sort of hope for the future, but you lost yours completely and I hate you for that. so I won't introduce myself with a new name, I will crash all the cars and graffiti all the trains I hop on my way to where you used to be. I will stomp on your beautiful flower field and smash the hot glass on the floor and watch everything I hope for melt into the ground. because you, gifted me an abundance amount of grief that will continue to keep giving and I will give you nothing but a haft ass obituary asking you why you couldn't undo fate.
but my almost friend,
the sweet innocent awaking of everything good in the world, I won't say you were my first, to be taken from a world were you almost had the chance to survive in. only that you will be remembered, over and over again and it will continue to hurt until it becomes nothing but happiness for the moments you allowed me to share with you. so I am sorry, that it will take time and I will blame you for the thing you couldn't control, and I know this final letter is filled with disrespect, yet I am so fucking mad at this universe for only gifting me this gluttony of grief. that will continue to eat until my wrist begins to shake from the weight of the fork I do not want to bear.
Dear Almost Friend,
I promise you forever, if you want it too.Thank you. I'm sorry that I almost got the chance to say goodbye. My failed potential friend.
Your truly,
Hannah-kathryn Whitney
Bianca phipps- almost
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