Monday, January 31

They want to teach you how to march (I want you to dance on my grave)

This is what they want from me

1. To have a father, a real one. Not a man to whom I refer as father figure and whos bed I sometimes sleep in.
Frank is a tall, beautiful creature who I have known of for a long time, but never really known. But that's never been an obsticle, Ive still been hopelessly and inconveniently in love with him. So has my mother always been. This is the only place where our minds crosses paths. This is only thing that ties us together. He is my father just as she is my mother. But they are not my parents, nor my family.

2. To stop drinking. Alcohol makes young girls age in a tragical way, it dries our skin out and makes us less like those Lolitas they secretly wish for. News flash, dearest men - I am two years to old to be a nymphet. Two years, and one houndred thousand thoughts to old. They want me stop drinking, and do more drugs. Cocaine chic is beautiful, its Vouge. They want me to be like all those pretty anorexics who passes out back stage. I want to pass out on the street, in the middle of Liberty while shopping for Manolos or at Chinawhite while trying to avoid all married men who I sometimes fall in to. On top of.

3. To love.

4. To have friends, call them and cry in the middle of the night when sleeping is out of the question and drinking has become boring. They want me to spend my emotions on friends, but I like the way my emotions create puddles in the pages of my mothers old books. The ink mixes with my inner self. I am one with what ever I read. No one can take that away from me.

This is what I want from you, tell me what people expect and why. Tell me how you feel.
And then, lets all burn their wishes. Lets paint the streets of our own cities with our responsibilities. Let the ashes be you. Lets die, and come back as something stronger.

B. 713

La femme est plus forte par le sentiment que l’homme n’est fort par sa puissance.

-Honoré de Balzac

Sunday, January 30

The death and birth of something beautiful

An hotell cellar, graveyard candles and red roses outside and crosses covering the walls. Miri took my hand and led me into the dark night, into the light. We're all gonna die tonight she whispered and I didn't tell her that a young man, possibly high definetly drunk stopped me on the street. He asked me when I thought I was gonna die and I answered that Im hoping that death isn't to far away. Maybe in the end of the week? I stared at my worn out Manolos and tried to avoid looking in to his eyes. Then he said what Miri later repeated unknowingly. You're going to die tonight. We're all going to die tonight.

The cellar was packed, fashionistas and immortal artists, editors in chief and random bloggers who make their living by wearing cloths and posting pictures of their charade. A man in a black cape gave me a bottle of Moët and I started crying. I emptied my plugged veins in the eternal salvation that is darkness. The absence of light is more merciful than cocaine. The same man later gave me a black envelope with cash. Because you're strange and you're beautiful.

Are you afraid of something she asked and I told her that I can't stand this. If she leaves, much like everyone else has, I will die. Because you see
She grows inside of me by the second, by every step I come to be more dependent on her presence

Wednesday, January 26

Line up, soldiers

Couldn't walk straight, my footsteps created a z-lined pattern on the streets I passed. Bouncing from one building to another, left right left right. Like a soldier. In an army devoted to the greater good. We defend what they condemn. Teenage porn stars and acid? Sir, yes Sir.

She wasn't there. I was so sure that if I called, she'd come. The alley screamed she will never come back, you wont find her
I just wanted to know her name. Ask her who she was before those stockings got ripped.

When I tripped and fell on Bond street an old woman helped me up. Go home she said, sleep it off You'll feel better in the morning.

She lied.

Sunday, January 23


She haunts me when ever I close my curious eyes. She visits me in my bed when I finally go to sleep. She sings to me when I drink to much. The girl from the alley wraps her stick-thin legs covered with ripped stockings around my conscious when ever I let go. Last night when I was sound a sleep thanks to Tramadol and blanc de blances she softly whispered in my ear
You will go down with me

And I believed her. Now, awake and semi-clear minded I still do.

Friday, January 21

It's bedtime for jokers

Father figure Frank and Louis finished a bottle of bourbon, smoked cigarettes and laughed the way only men in their older thirties can. I made my way through the hallway, trying to be easy on the steps, trying to float on their smoke. I didn't want them to know I was listening. They never said anything remotely true then I figured out long before I learned to lie myself.

Louis whispered about the accident. About a shared needle and a positive test result. The laughter stopped that instant.

My hero had fallen, he had been reduced from a life in the warmth of spotlights to nothing but death on a silver platter. I sat down frantically holding on to a copy of 1984 and shaking with anx when Frank found me, picked me up and carried me back to bed. Then he made me take a sip and set my throat on fire. From the hallway Louis steps echoed and set the beat to which Frank sang
It’s bedtime for jokers We’re dead serious this year And here comes April all in blue And good she dresses torned and too They killed our heroes one by one´

My hero had fallen, and the laughter never re-entered.

This one's for you

Tuesday, January 18

An angel bored like hell

Walked through the deep fog in the hallway, made my way to kitchen with a vison so blury I couldn't tell if I was alone or not. Three Tramadol and gin on the rocks is to much. One and some plum wine is to little.

A bottle of what I assumed was champagne was left half filled on the table. I grabbed it, jumped up the window and slowly came back to life. A note on the table, took forever to read. Iris had indeed left. It told me more than that though

Funeral a week from now, noon. You know where.
Black, of course. Wear a bra, do not wear anything with lace.
I wont return until then, get your act together.

Decided to walk the shame off and to not get dressed. A black trench, unbottoned but belted halfway covered my naked body. Cold winds and strangers said bonjour to the freckles on my upper ribs. On a bench close to Liberty I sat down, smoked slowly and wiped away some slow moving tears. Hours passed, evening turned into night.
An alley not so far away, she asked the man infront of me if he wanted some company. He looked back at me, lowered his head and shrugged. Like I would judge you Mr, like I would be pure enough to through a stone. When I passed her I noticed her freckles, similar to mine. Her stockings were ripped, but the dress was a Chloè.

I wonder how she ended up there. Selling what I give away to who ever cares enough.
She could have thought the exact same thing about me. How did I end up there?

Sunday, January 16

suicide solution

Been dying slowly these past couple of days. Been seeing everything I ate in reverse, reliving all nine stages of hell (Yes, Ive been to hell and back before) and sleeping more than Ive ever done before. In sheets stained with sin Ive sweated out all anxiety from my past. Iris gave me four Tramadol and left. That was wednesday so Im doubting she'll be back.

She fears weakness more than anything. More than love.

The fever is slowly dropping to a more suitable temperature (close to Rigor mortis), my back is drying up and I start to regain some sort of consciousness. I light cigarettes although I still have burning ones in the ashtray next to me.
I do not wish to be anywhere else, nor to be anyone else. Not because this miserable existence is what Id choose above all but because I simply cant imagin anything else.

Monday, January 10


Im not interested in letting go
Iris, I just want to leave

Sunday, January 9

A devil meaning well

A phone call. Autumn still, not long after a sunday walk but week had past.

- Im dying darling-belle and so are you.
- We're all dying dear. I might beat you to it old man.
- I hope not he said after a long pause, good night

Audrinne, a tall brunette which I shared room with at boarding school stared at me with sad eyes. She never asked about the nightly phone calls, even though they woke her up. Without a word she lifted her duvet and made room for me. I laid down next to her and she stroke my forehead until I fell asleep. Not a single word was spoken that night. The only light in the room was from her burning cigarette.

When I woke up, Iris passed the news through the principal who called to his office. Louis was dead. I had already dreamt about that exact scene the night before, in the arms of my loving roommate. I mourned him with intensity and passion, and wrote letters I never sent telling him about what he had left behind. Loved him more and deeper than before.

If I had sent them, we might have had those years (lost because of her lie)
What else has she stolen?

Thursday, January 6

My hero

I was ten, maybe nine, and it was the loveliest time of the year. Early octobre, the leafs were blood red and yellow and my mind was filled wonder. We walked slowly, he smoked and I loved the way he smelled. Hyde park was filled with people, horses and dogs. He asked me if I wanted a dog and when I noded he promised me one. Iris ended up sending the puppy I namned Stalin to "a nice family on the country side" after a week. He had destroyed some dress.
I didn't cry.

We used to walk for hours, Louis and I. He never saw the bruises on the outside, but he knew where to find the ones on the inside. I couldn't wrap silk and labels around them. I could never hide a single emotion from his curious eyes. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. He was sick. I was hurt.

That is how I remember him. A tall handsome man in his mid thirties, causal chinos by Brooks brothers and always a lit cigarett between two thin fingers. Much like me, he didnt sleep and the evidence was painted with a dark shade beneath his eyes. We looked like father and daughter.

The sunday walks became less frequent, and his pants seem to increase in size. Years later, he was dead.

Tuesday, January 4

Killed by a blue sky, not beneath it

We are not alone.

I: bleeding finger nails. Contemplating. Desperately holding onto a glass of heated plum wine. Licking my lips. Staring straight forward, only slightly above her head. Focusing on the back of a book. Our Mutual friend, Charles Dickens. An old Brooks Brothers shirt and stay ups. Gorgeous hair.

She: Perfectly polished and french manicured nails. Running her index finger slowly round and round the edge of a high ball cocktail glass, filled to the brim with gin and ice. Fixating her eyes on the table. Tapping her left foot against the carpet. Dior, crisp white dress and pearls. Red hair.

We: Sit across from each other. Library setting. Dimmed lights. Exhaling Benson & Hedge smoke carefully. Not talking. Challenging each other.

No mother, I do not go to school. I do not eat. I do not sleep. I take a lot of pills. There are only two bottles of wine left in the once packed wine cellar. Yes, I drank it all.

Hours pass, not a word is spoken. Then she takes a deep breath, like she tries to push air down to her uterus, a large sip of gin and half a smile. I force myself to look at her (she's beautiful, I hate how perfect her face is) but I cant summon the strength to smile back. Then she slowly separates the two thick lines of Esteé Lauder that is her lips. When she leans over the table I can almost smell the lipstick (old age, or maybe even death)

-Did you know Louis?
-Your brother? Uncle Louis? No, I never met him. I thought he died
-Well, he did. Yesterday.

She told me he died seven years a go. I didnt bother to ask her why she lied, nor did she explain it further. We simply opened another bottle, and let the silence consume us. Ignorance is bliss.

Monday, January 3

Red soles and black coffee

Yesterday morning, I hadnt slept at all. Thoughts moved around in my mind with a speed similar to racing cars. Like club kids on x.They made me dizzy, I couldn't turn their volume down even after three Demerol and half a bottle. All it did was turn the speed up. I screamed into my pillow, threw up in a wine glass placed by my bed. Cried and screamed some more. Needless to say ; when the morning sun hit my window I looked like shit. Like seven years of anxiety and panic had washed over me.

So when the sound of keys turning a lock came from the hallway I rushed to put on a shirt, the housekeeper doesnt need to see my bare chest again (she was horrified the last time) and made my way to meet her with a check. But the steps didnt sound like hers, they had more power, more determination in them. They wore sharp high heels.

-Dear god, when did you last shower?

-Welcome home, mother.