Black eyes. cocaine skin. She is five years old, and Im her mother- in so many ways.

I provide, she injects.

A funeral

I'm on my knees

He said: Belle, stop cutting my wrists

I said: Mine are already trashed

I tried to come back, tried to swim up for air but kept falling down. I thought about you day and night, but couldn't find the words. Went to LA and back, with less words for each air mile.

But I do find myself carrying on conversations with you even though I can't seem to write anything down. I tell you everything, but the words doesn't travel well.

But I know one thing. My wrists can't take anymore, and neither can his. So, can we pick up from where we left off? Can you love me again?

Nothing new

I'll come back soon, lovers

(Tell me why) I don't like Mondays

She is crashing the illusions into reality.

I dont know how to talk to you, if you don't listen. All of the sudden, Im a ten year old little girl again. Mother's drunk and father figure Frank is smoking in the library. He's not there. She's not there. I can't open my mouth. I scream, but the sound waves can't travel through the rivers of wine.

My back has always been exposed. Im yours to keep, yours to break down.

I don't have anything else than this. Like there's anything here at all.

I could tell you about the time I let Mr Sheen pull my hair in an LA bed, I could tell you about how he injected heroin between his toes. I could tell you I did the same. but you wouldn't listen. I could tell you about the time I bit pneumonia white so hard that I tasted her blood, or the time I fell asleep in Pneumonia blacks lap. But none of us would know if it was true or not. I don't know who I am, so how am I supposed to tell you?

The illusion is my reality, so if it crashed - it did so a long time a go.

Eat my flesh, watch me die

Woke up, blinked a couple of times until the nightly blur had disappeared from my eyes. Like dry lenses last nights smoke covers my pupils, it's a fog uneasy to clear. Next to me lays the girl with magic eyes. The one that makes me sleep. Fully dressed unlike me. I shyly cover my bruised chest with crisp white sheets and with much grace (or so it seems, but then again Im still drunk) make my way to the window. I grab the half full champagne bottle and empty it in three gulps. I almost choke trying not to cough. Light a cigarett, slowly inhale, stop, exhale while watching her eyelids vibrate. She sleeps so intensely, I bet she's dreaming.

Five cigarettes later, I still can't stop looking at her. This is what she does for a living. I pay her to do what I now can't stop doing. I watch, and then just before she wakes up I break down in tears.

She stayed with me the entire night. She fell asleep next to me.

She's my Helen of Troy, my Ansgar.

My hero.

What Ive learned

After three days on the floor, it doesn't really hurt anymore.

After four days, the crying stops. But when the fifth day comes and goes, that's when your hearts starts to grow roots into the floor. They grow with such intensity that once you try to break free, the only way how is excrutiatingly painful and ugly.

It's bedtime for jokers

Things I wish she would do

Punch me on the side of my head, make my vision blurry

Lay down next to me and sleep

Drink wine with me and tell me more secrets

Let me hit her

Choke me

Kill me

Trench and blood