Tuesday 23 January 2007

she's lost it

quite often i come back here and read whatever i've last written as though i'm looking at the words for the first time. maybe that's just how often my perspective changes. or something like that. or whatever.

i don't think i ever really realised how poisonous i can be. how my words occasionally have a way of shooting from my mouth to a reluctant ear - somewhat like an arrow from a bow to a big round bullseye, instead of the way they ought to. used to. like delicious wine poured from a crystal glass to an open, ready, waiting mouth.

and what does that mean?

those gorgeous feelings of newness and limpidness. that beautiful ache in my chest. that un-scientific force that held me so close to something that wanted me so much. and all ruined by the very things i thought would only make it stronger, warmer, deeper.

age has made me old and nolonger an idiosyncrasy in a party of 'grown ups'. beauty has cut me off, perhaps pissed off that i neglected to utilise it when it was so raw. and innocence, more cruel now than it has been for 6 years, just can't help but laugh at me now that i'm a slut.

they've all abandoned me in the worst way. i'll never be sixteen again. i'll never be as beautiful as i was then. and i'll never be pure, like i was then.

i can't stand irony.