Partial lobotomy

The excruciatingly silent morning after, he had slept on his stomach in a pathetic attempt not to get blood on the expensive sheets. I hadnt slept at all. Those nights when I do are rare.

Franks back, dried up drops saying bonjour . The same colour as my nails, signed Chanel.

With the kind of movement that resembled a very old woman, possibly half dead, I stumbled out of bed and sat down in the window. Treating the cigaret like a vail, taking comfort in the fact that white smoke is only half way transparent. As long as I was smoking, I could act as though the silent didnt bother me. He finished a glas of bourbon still half full from last night Belle dear, Im thinking about moving to LA, London is nothing but one of the nine stages of hell without you and your mother. That is when it hit me. The present perfect tense of last nights sentence -It was all going to be okay. He was; still eager to heal me. still in love. I was ; Agonizing. Loving him. Biting my nails until they were bleeding. Mixing it with his. We : No blood connection. Fiction. A bond beyond what meets the eye.

His wound undoubtedly has healed now.

I still cant sleep (Technically speaking, the operation is brain damage, but it's on a par with a night of heavy drinking. Nothing you'll miss)

Ages have passed since I last felt alive

Punch me I yelled, please punch me

His blood freckled my arm. I didnt mean to puncture his pale skin below the shoulders with my brooch,or at least I didnt think I would go that deep.

But he was sleeping so heavily ( heavenly) that I doubted he would even wake up. Unfortunately he did. This surprised me because the needle was so thin.

I just wanted to write my name on your skin I lied.

The look he gave me when those words were spoken is until this day still the gloomiest my eyes ever met. Then he gave me the most sincere embrace, stroke my hair carefully and told me "everything is okay. It will all be okay"

And I closed my eyes for a second, then I focused on la plaie invisible that I had given him, and the suprisingly amounts of blood coming out of it.

Please hurt me I begged

Abandon all hope ye who enters here

Where're you going?

I ran through rows of well dressed people. Chinawhite doesn't even have a sign, its so pretentious I couldnt stand it. I left A there, she handles those situations well but I panic. I always panic.

An hour maybe two before I left, a model offered me some escape and then she peed while I was still in the booth. Models are horrible people. Model citizens. The ones who will all save us someday.

God loves the beautiful ones.

Two drops of blood from my nose landed in the champagne, I drank it all - thirsty for something real. Something human.

Someone knocked and pulled the door handle . We'd been in there for ever. The model and I. When I first kissed her she pulled away, then she laughed - took a deep breath, a snow white inhalation. Then she she said ; Do you know someone, like really know someone? Inside out, get them completely? Cause I dont think we ever really will.

Its just dust.Peter Pan didn't want to grow up. You can even walk on it. Fly above it. It kills every sound around you if you want it to, creates a layer of innocence on top of everything you see. Its a brand new start, it covers the filth. Its snow. And the winter is much like the truth ; cold and awful but beautiful from the outside looking in.

If you cant beat them (join them?)

I was ten, it was four days until christmas and I was in London. Boarding schools does not accept minors to spend the holidays in their premises without parental approval. No matter how much I begged.

Trying to read Rules of attraction, falling in love with Sean Bateman. In the dining hall- laughter climbs the walls, mothers voice clear and oh so loud and then he proposed. Can you imagine. Dear lord, I can not cope. Such a sad old man he is. Ten, or maybe even twelve different laughs joined hers.

Mockery, one of her many talents.

Tea parties, one of her many excuses to avoid me (out of sight, outof mind)

They didnt drink tea, and their gossip wasnt suitable for my sensitive ears. I wasnt allowed to leave my room until they all had left. That didnt spare my soul. I could smell them, hear them far to clearly. Pearls and Chanel dresses. Gin on the rocks served in tea cups, scones and cigarettes.

Air is overrated

A paper bag does not

ASPHYXIATE

you.But when wore for several hours as a mask, you do get slightly lightheaded.

I bet you thought you knew me, F

One month. A little more than a month ago I thought to myself, I'll never write again. Frank called one month ago and yelled I do not wish to be a character in one of your little stories Belle. I do not want to participate in the wordvomit you call blog. You stole my personality, put it on display, and I feel used Belle, I feel used.

And so I stopped. Without a word, without a goodbye.

Im sorry about that. That was rude. But since then I've 1) Slept in his bed twice, numb from cranberryjuice and gin 2) decided he is not the boss off me. He's simply father figure Frank. Triple F. The F man. Fuck him. Fuck me. Fuck the instructions on the back of my sleeping pills "should not be mixed with alcohol"

His breaths into the back of my neck was like a lullaby, his warmth made me feel safe. That night my heart broke all over again, that night I was a little girl whos mother drank to much and whos role modell left for a job in Dubai (or was it France?) That night I cried untill there was nothing left to cry about, nothing left to empty.

Nothing left to put on display

The easiest way to lose something is to want it to badly

Since I came back for London I've been quiet, not by choice but due to the curcomstenses. Who am I supposed to talk to I wonder. By not talking I've realized something : When I have company, I don't really do much talking anyway. So I'm okay with silence. I enjoy it. I listen to my own breathing, adjust it so that it'll match the base in whatever song I might have on. And I think it's gonna be along long time until touchdown brings me around again to find I'm not the man they think I am at home, oh no no no. I sip wine slowly, exhale smoke into my pillow and pretend that the world does not exist. Or maybe that my apartment is the world. My bedroom is France of course, bathroom Spain, kitchen Italy, hallway Germany, library USA and so on. I change what language I think in when I move from room to room.

Maybe Im going insane. Or maybe I've got the whole world in my apartment, and in that case I might just be the luckiest girl alive.


( Amanda, Im terribly sorry but I will not answer my phone until the atarax has left my body. Give it a day or two)

97

Autumn, and right back where I started from. London, rainy and cold london. The city where I was created, where my mother left me and I started to build up my own character. Wore the cloths I thought fit, not the ones she put out on the bed for me. Heartbroken still, but not as living as before and therefore it hurts less.

What do you do when you've lived an entire life during one year?

Fuck a stranger, tell him to hit you hard in the face. Watch The Loved One. Drink five bottles of plumwine and watch the earth spin. Try heroin. Give away your favourit Prada dress to the homeless lady who sleeps on the sidewalk around the corner of your seven bedroom apartment. Listen to Joy division. Call your father and tell him he fucked you up because you loved him to much.

Or let go of the rage. Find some inner peace. That is what Jane Austin would do.

On the road

The longer it takes me to write you all something, to tell you that Im alive and breathing, the harder it gets. So once again, my apologies dearest ones. Are you still here?

Chloè left our apartment about a week a go. Packed her bag and left wonderland in a red coat far to hot for these indiansummer days and a cigarette burning between her lips. A tout a l'heure chèrie! she said and closed the door. I couldn't bare chasing her down the stairs, didn't want to beg. I had begged enough. A woman in the need of fleeing shouldn't be tied down by guilt, and my voice filled with despair must have caused her heartache enough to last for a lifetime. At least I hope so, if the tables were turned I know thats how I would have felt. She kissed the crisp morning air outside and her stilettos said Bonjour to the cobblestone.

I hope she'll be back soon, you see we understand each ohter on other levels of madness than anyone else can on this burning planet. And she made me love her. Now.. I just miss her

Will you take me back?

She insists on wearing sheer white dresses although the parisian nights demands colour. Last night it made me anxious, innoncence shouldn't be announced.
White never stays white, innocence will always be taken from those who posses it and I dont want her to change. She needs to hide her innocence I thought so I pierced her freckled cheek with a nail painted black.

Her blood painted a Pollock on her chest. The smile on her face was the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. All of the sudden my red valentino felt like the biggest chliché ever.