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.

count me in

There is still blood in my veins, music in my ears and macaroons on my plate. Im still here, I've just been looking for the right words. I didn't find them, but I found snow in the middle of a sunny paris. The kind that makes everything silent and calm, and beautiful. Powder.

Chloé is back to her old singin and baking self, but Im not buying it anymore. Im taking her up to the roof tonight, we need a picnic with the stars. This city is for strangers like the sky is for the stars.

Gloomy Sunday

These last couple of days have been a bit like drowning. I've been unable to form words since my lungs have been filled, and my heart stopped beating for a split second (the longest second of my life). Chloé went for a walk, said she needed air from the outside. Didn't want me to come so I stayed, with eyes sparkling by the rejection. The water was coming out, it wasn't just filling me up on the inside anymore. When she returned hours and several bottles of wine later she threw a dead rabbit on the floor I thought we could give this to the crow, death, when he visits tonight

The rabbit must have been dead for days, the blood was dark red, almost black and it smelled like flesh do when its decaying. Eyes opened, I reached forward and gently shut his eyelids closed. Lifeless eyes are judging. Like they're let in on a big secret , like they've seen everything and more. Like they despise us and our ignorance

And now lovers, the water has filled up every part of me, taken an exit through my eyes and started to pour on our hardwood floors. For every step I take, the water splashes around me creating small circles. and when they die out, I feel the need to make more. I'm worried.

his skin was soft as feathers, mine was cold

In black dresses, both touching the dirty parisian streets as we walked, we faced the city where everyone thinks their true love lives. Chloès illnes have gone from bad to worse, but she'll die if she stays inside anymore she said so we put lip stick on our torn lips, covered our bruises from the last time they met.

Plum wine, warm nights and cigarettes made us feel like something from an old movie. I'd say it was pretty perfect. As perfect as something ever gets before one starts analyzing. Starts to really think about whats going on. Why was Chloè wearing the same dress as me (she hates black)and why was here eyes seaking for a man (She hates men) And why did she, later on, walk into my room and kisses the man whose skin my nails were piercing

Nothing was perfect when I started to think, but I didn't untill now. Last night was perfect. But today, last night was awful.

Sin is the only note of vivid colour that persists in the modern world.

When I slowly opened my eyes this morning the first thing I saw might just be the most beautiful sight ever. Chloè in her long white nightgown, sitting in the window smoking a pink cigarette. The wind played with her hair and her lips had the colour of plum wine. I didn't want her to know that I was awake, didn't want to ruin the moment. After ten deep breaths her eyes met mine. A smile spread across a her face and inside of me, then she said the strangest thing

Belle if you were a man, I'd hate you

1.

Father figure Frank called. Men are weak, they always want more than they can have. More than they deserve. I have things to take care of before I can return to LA. If I'll ever return.