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, 

Kneecaps

Black mold sneaks into your pruning veins. the chalkboard is splitter and her knees will give out any second. You fold into a box and shift yourself to a new persona. confusing days for previous years and lose yourself to the hands of the man in the mirror.  if you were to ask me, I would tell you the end is near and the fake flowers on my dashboard are inching towards wilting. but you don't ask, you don't even have a tongue to mold words together. 

It's a Thursday, and I am dancing to songs you would definitely hate. but this forbidden cure makes a restless body shake. and soon I will be decorated in white linens and you will claim that's just who I've always been. an outgoing ghost who cant find the remote to turn off the god damn tv.  and now the news is playing in record-breaking frequences, and the music is making the people in the town's ears bleed. and her or i's knees will shatter in their sleep. 

but forgive me, i am only as simple as you have always perceived me.

katbird lost her tongue 

im loving your skin darling

 The world came crashing down at the same time every year.  My small hands broke like glass and I became exactly who I was. I turn 19 in a few days and all I can think about is how I never fully lived through any of it. I taught myself when I was small and fragile how to keep running. I used blades, diets, drugs, cigarettes, and alcohol to call it "living". I avoided everything until it came crashing down, just to ignore it all over again.

I turn 19 in a few days and all I can think about is how it never got better. how I became a cup with a pinprick in the bottom, and every chance I had to become human again slowly slipped out of me. 

We are not only all the years we have to come, but also all the years we were. 

I clenched onto this glass cup. and I can't help but hate myself for never allowing myself to live, to love, to be something other than fucked memories. I signed my name to every assault after lawn gnome and all I became was what had happened. There is nothing left for me than more unconventional times. 

Vienna- Billy Joel 

When I'm Small- Phantogram

Take off your pants - Indigo De Souza 

im gonna be honest, i meant to tell you,. i cant stop 

katbird02 

happy birthday 

 unfucktheworld by angel olsen

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 all

The 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 

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. 

statistical statist

There are ways in which we become a product of our reality, are sponge-like child brains absorb the world around us for inspiration. Leaking segments of our reality and turning them into unique perceptions.  

The first time I was knowable acknowledged for my childhood traumatic endeavors. the south lisped surrounded the idea that he acted the way he did because something bad must have happened to him. And the prosecutor became the symbolic version of a victim. 

Generations of abuse and neglect for acknowledgment made me question if I too would hold the same virtue. Grow up to be the type of person who hurt for the purpose of hurting. There is a type of loneliness and hatred for oneself when you discover that your very hands could be the same hands to hurt someone else. and how do you prevent yourself from being a satistical statist?

to better explain what I'm trying to figure out.... every time you watch a true crime episode they litter the abuser's childhood to help you better connect with them. they make you view the person as not all evil and more so a product of their reality. but how does a person with a similar background not become them?

This would be my biggest fear. I know as a human, I cannot be born all good. there are parts of me id admittedly state as toxic and sinful. There are things I've done for the betterment of myself and the downfall of others.  I've been selfish ad unmanaged. and in these times when I'm completely still, I ponder my thought of life and how I may slip into this statistic. as a child and my many failed attempts to prove to my family about the abuse, I was experiencing and the denial they gave me. I began to view the world as a fictional challenge. something where everything was made up. So id sits quietly, legs crossed until the historical trauma would creep into my feet, and my head would explode with realization. Sobbing to my mother to make the cycle stop.

I cant give you a complete answer on how not to become a statistic, I can only explain that you have willpower. and the only solution I have found is solitude.

katbird02 

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

basically- I was depressed. just joking.. To be honest, even as badly as I treated my body growing up, I had never really experienced ongoing illness or had been so stressed that my body invented one. And I think that this day was the first time I really realized I couldn't keep treating my body like shit. As much of a yoga mom, I sound like... It fucking terrified me to my core. And I think that I had reached a point where I was so tired and exhausted I couldn't get through the day without telling myself it was fake and I was actually having a bad dream. I don't know, as cringe as this post was, I think it was a good observation of what I considered my life at that point. 

This entree is a repetition in all of my writting. the idea of this cycle of grief that keeps giving and how lonely it is to watch yourself lose feeling for things you loved over time and become so unsure of yourself.  I also think this relates a lot to the song "stone" by Born without bones but from the empty person's perspective. idk as a person in a clock-work society, I feared becoming robotic and a southern stereotype as I started losing myself to routines. 

Okay, so this one is my absolute favorite. I remember that even as messy and unmanaged the situation was I still thought it was utterly beautiful. and that's all I have to say. 

thank you for coming out tonight.. I hope you enjoyed the performance. I don't really care though if you didn't. -katbird02

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) 

I remember as a middle schooler this quote had a chokehold on my personality. I looked at my life in front of me and the cursive carved pain and thought- that even as unhinged this character was- and even the irony that shaped this quote. I thought it was the perfect definition of "strength/willpower". and I lived by it, thought my ability to move on as quickly as I built something made me more of a person. I ran through people differently than most and became so close just to disappear completely. I thought I was smart, able to read the person before they even understand themselves. I'm not internally sure if I ever was.

Today, I have decided to write again.

I've decided to write again because I had forgotten about individuality. Became the type of serotype I hated. The type of person too afraid to let go, the uncertainty in their ability to be only their own. and even though I don't believe there is any more freedom in loneliness, I do believe that it allows you to understand that there are bones in your wrist and that those bones have the ability to move and with the motion, you have the ability to live. Not just for your person, your mom, your friends, and your family. But completely for yourself. 

The poet wasn't wrong. And even though it paints a shitty portrait of myself. It got me far enough to build things, even if I left them. It allowed me to dance to old music in a motel. It allowed me to want to break a stereotype. It protected me when I need protection and was done completely for myself. You may call me unfiltered words to comfort you in abandonment or hatred for your loneliness. But I will continue to thank you for the memories you allowed me to take up space in. 

-papercutkneecaps/teddy/chip/hannah

-I always read the title of the movie "Girl, Interrupted" as "Girl, Interpreted" and I think it's more fitting. To be interrupted is to be stopped, to lose motion. To be interpreted is to think about the theory of who we are. The character didn't stop living because her shit hit the wall, she just started realizing why. - 

anyways thank you for reading.. not sure if yall wanted me back... but idc im back. also none of my writting ever makes sense