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

CUT IT OFF

Last night, acompanied by the beautiful smoking girl who knowns when to talk and when to shut the fuck up. I dont have to give her any instructions anymore. She knows me. I love her.

There was something missing though, something wasn't quite right so I couldn't get any rest. Sleep felt just as impossible as running in high heels when caught in a haze of plum wine and Tramadol.

- Why wont he come back and explain it all to me?
- Sometimes you have to change before things can go back to what it once was

I gave her a scissor, sat down on the cold hardwood floor and cried. She gently stroke my hair, kissed my neck and grabbed a fist full of hair. When it hit the floor, I knew we were on to something. She made me into something new. She turned my world around.

I stared into the mirror, tried to understand who the girl looking back at me was. She was like a ghost of a complete stranger.

If this doesn't make him come back, I don't know what will.

Retrospective and father figures

Last night was another pitch black picture in which I was left alone, with no help except the bottles of prescribed dreams. No girl in my open window, smoking and watching. Nothing to remind me that I am in fact a person, a human being. I was nothing but a ghost of a stranger to myself, a vision in the mirror that I didn't even recognise after two Demerols and three tramadols. Five pills and I float above my own body. There's nothing magical about it.

Managed to drift of, on the floor with Wallpaper next to me. Bed time stories for fashionistas. Models for company.
Frank spoke to me in a mist of dreams. He told me about the first time he saw me, Ive told you that story once. Outside our town house he came in his black car. Hey kid and so on. But then the dream changed, I was drunk in a bar and he was there. Sitting in the corner watching me, I said something mean not directly to him but meant for his ears and in the next scene I was falling slowly and just as I was about to hit the wooden floor he caught me, lifted me up and held me close to his chest. His heart was beating like a drum. I wanted to sing along but couldn't think of a single song. He kissed my forehead, and I woke up sweaty and with salty drops on my cheeks. I carefully licked my lips, tried to taste the dream but there was only dried up wine left.

I emptied the bottle next to me, washed down another Demerol and tried to haze off but couldn't. Instead I picked up the phone and within minutes I heard that familiar voice again

- Whats shakin', kid?

- I need you