Hey guys,

it's me, the girl who can't figure out a name. I decided to cut the bullshit today, ridden my riddles..I wanted to come on here and be real about this site, when I first started I was kinda using it in a more personal way. It was my "give all be all", I wrote with curiosity, shame, and excitement and this incompatible amount of genuine belief in myself. Im not sure that's something I'd agree to say anymore, I was 17 then I'm going to be 20. I claim to be a negative romantic- street-smart comedic psychopath, Im witty as I am dumbfounded. But I am extremely stubborn, I never try at anything I can't do right. I am the best GOD DAMN mediocre Artist, writer, server, barista, and cashier that you ever did meet. And this was the time I truly tried. But now writing has become an old hobby I tuck to bed each night and spoon-feed some haft ass chilly too.

This is to say, that I haven't given up on this site, I consistently write and write and pray for the courage to post, but with those 15 unseen drafts, they've become 15 unseen documents of shame. Im not sure how I gathered so much hate but I did and unfortunately it's something I'm going to have to carry around till I learn how to forgive and realize my own faults. I think a lot.

Im just a girl, that you call a blogger. I have so much talent and admiration for justice, I just don't know how to speak anymore, maybe it's because people became more real, maybe it's because I don't stay, maybe it's cause I'm a blogger, and I'm doing this on purpose. Maybe it's cause I'm losing traction. I'll be leaving soon, it feels shitty to take 10 steps back but it's the only option i have.

I'm going to Sedona today. 

can you guess my name? 

female rage

 If I was female rage madonna would hate me.

My mouth would foam green Drano and my nails would curl with yellowing tips. If I was female rage id collapse to melancholy women with guitars. 

I find myself turning inward into this so-called "female rage". I find myself naked in front of self-appointed righteousness. Being female rage is not the act itself- but rather holding yourself back from the urge to be reckless. In my observation of women, I found that the most collected women hold the most resentment from the need to break. They push the brick wall back until there nails are chipped and bitter. The arms feel weightless in numbness. They crack in fragments, they crave female rage. They redo their lipstick. They find themselves turning inward. 

If the female range was my closet, it would be freshly open nylons. press on nails, melted lipstick and a fraying sweater. my female rage would look like a nicotine packet. Yours may look like rehab, church, or your muse. 

ill attach myself to any version I still get from you. 

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, 

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.