come, tame me…

An old entry, from an abandoned journal, but it applies right now, right now, right now:

the heat of the day and the loneliness reminds me of my Malice Mizer days, my gothic lolita days, my Tokyo Babylon days…a horrifically beautiful little bubble of a world I grew around myself, how my love for “her” swelled and overflowed, even though I knew she would never feel anything at all for me, whirling in black and lace and heeled mary-janes, an adopted city, a bright light, all that hope…

god, there is no drug worse than hope. none. once you get a taste for that shit, you’re gone. you need it all the time. gimme that dopamine rush, baby. show me a future. show me a tomorrow.

I yearn so much for that feeling. that, and connection. knowing I am beloved to someone. making sure that they know how beloved they are to me. not necessarily romantic, but love. love love LOVE. swelling with love like an overripe strawberry. tender and ferocious. snarling little foxling. always snarling. always wanting, wanting, wanting…

what to do with all this love locked inside a heart bordered with scar tissue and memories?

“But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world…”

in which we thank all the Powers in the world for the word ‘queer’

It amuses me to no end when men try to be passive-aggressive in order to get me to do something. Mostly because nothing makes me more likely to shut down completely faster.

And I’ll be honest; that fact does amuse me. Keep trying, little boy. You think I’ll lower myself to spar with you? Like I don’t have anything better to waste my time on.

Maybe I’m not as Seelie as I’d like the world to believe. Probably not. I’m probably just outright evil and desperately attempting to swallow it out of some internalised shame, or something.

Not right now, though. Right now I feel…nothing. I feel like I’m speeding and floating at the same time. Unhinged. A little feral. A snarling fox. A black hole for a heart. Sucking up all the light I find because I can’t make my own.

Maybe my ex was right all along; maybe I am a dead star.
Or maybe I’m a new kind of light altogether, and only some people can see it. Or want to.

Also, I’m not going to define myself using any other label than “queer” from now on. Not because I’m confused — I’m not. I’m physically attracted to men, but never romantically or sexually (not if they’re not fictional). I’m romantically, physically, and sexually attracted to women. Trans women, cis women, just women. It’s how I’m wired and I’ve known it for a long time, but the world and its insistence on labels just complicates something that is, at the end of the day, very simple.

My Estel will be a woman, or at the very least, not a cis man.
That’s all there is to say about that.

not tragedies

let there be coffee
and someone who wants to kiss me for hours
and will play endlessly with my hair
and won’t mind that I am silent quiet slipaway shy quicksilvery fey
and badly damaged
someone who can see past the smokescreen of okayness
who will not expect me to save them (I am flat-out saving myself)
where are the sparks
where are the fireworks (even one would suffice)
where oh where did the needle in the haystack vanish to
an ocean of fiftythousand
everyone exists except that one sliver of silver
of summerchance
and if I can’t find you;
then you probably don’t exist.

give me wings, city lights, bright things

Breathing in carefully, listening to songs that made my heart sing…during the year that was. And wasn’t.

Ten years ago, now. My body was mine, then it wasn’t, then it was filthy. Chasing cherry-blossom coloured illusions; no one told me that sakura contained cyanide. I found home, but I was locked in a tower again. The key to the door was so very complicated, and the gaolers…

Ah, who really knows. So many thoughts. All of them a mess, because of the headache (72 hrs and counting). Going back, grasping things, becoming a person. But I’m…I’m not afraid, not really. More apprehensive. Is it because I temporarily have to take room in the tower once again? Who knows, who knows.

I don’t know.

Maybe I don’t even know what I’m talking about, right now.

(What kind of introvert sickens when she’s been away from people for too long?)

Song of the Day for the 5th: “Heaven or Las Vegas”, Cocteau Twins

Song of the Day for the 6th: “American Dreaming”, Dead Can Dance

so I can wear honesty like a crown on my head
when I walk into the promised land
(don’t fade away, my brown-eyed girl)

But when I walk out of the tower again, the world is mine. I’m not letting anything less than Death itself tear it from my hands this time around.

Stupid shit I wrote to a girl who doesn’t exist anymore.

No. No. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to decide I was flavour of the fucking month once again. You were meant to stay away. Stay away from me, and I was never supposed to think about you ever again, ever again. Bono’s singing don’t turn around, don’t turn around, don’t turn around…your gypsy heart, and don’t you know, he’s singing to me? Don’t turn around, don’t turn around, and don’t look back — but I do. I was never supposed to, but I DID!

Come on now, love — don’t you look back!

I looked back, I looked back, and again, you’ve torn me into shreds.

You…you goddamn bitch, you heartless…you have no idea, and you don’t care, do you. And here’s me, stupid, gullible little Kirryn-Arwen, foolish, naive, hopeful little me — hope isn’t the thing with feathers, don’t you know, hope is the nasty little bastard that chokes you with your own dreams. Hoping…what I’m hoping would have several people kill me. And you know what? I can’t fucking STOP IT. The little voice in the back of my head, my id, whatever, she’s screaming at me. She knows. Yes, she knows.

Hope has no place in this. None whatsoever. You’re not interested in me as a person. If you were to move here, you wouldn’t give two flying fucks about me. You never did. YOU NEVER DID. You lied to me, and you’ll keep lying to me. You don’t care, you don’t read anything I write, if I was hit by a bus tomorrow you wouldn’t even notice I wasn’t here. You just want another Australian on your flist, now that your obsession has flared up again.

I’m not Australian, I’m Scottish. And I’m not going to live here for much longer, I’m going to Ireland. I’m going to Ireland and I’m going to disappear, forget my own name, to become someone else completely.

You have no idea. You have…you’re ruining me. You ruined me three years ago, you ruined me last November (oh yes, I found out what you did, you and that bitch), you’re destroying me now. And you shouldn’t even…haven’t you read anything? Haven’t you looked around? This shows how much you care: 0%.

And me? Stupid, stupid, stupid little Subaru of this equation?

“I really loved you…Se…i…shi…rou…sa…n…”

Remember what I told you last year? Dreams can’t be. I know this. “Arwen didn’t think that.” You said that to me, didn’t you? You probably don’t remember or care. Yes, you did. But I’m not Arwen anymore. I’m not an Evenstar. You took away every shred of light that was in me and you don’t care. You’re not even going to read this. I don’t even know why I’m typing it all out. Because the tears won’t stop and Bono’s voice is tearing what’s left of my heart out and because I can’t stand it. So I can give my nasty little stalker bitches who hate my guts something to giggle at.

I don’t care. I don’t care.

I can’t stop it. Can’t stop my tears, can’t stop my heart. Can’t stop this goddamn hope, despite knowing how futile and poisonous it is. Can’t stop knowing that even if for one moment, a miracle occured, things looked up, they’d come down. Oh, they would. Crashing spectacularly. I know this. I don’t know it. I can’t stop.

Don’t turn around, your gypsy heart–

You should see what you’ve done, the scars you’ve carved on me. Don’tlovedon’tpushdon’tspeakoutofturndon’trelydon’tfeel. CANNOT LOVE. Cannot fall. Will not fall. Can’t break a heart that’s already broken. Can’t take a heart that was given away long ago.

–your gypsy heart–

My gypsy heart.

And you don’t care. You don’t care one iota; you’ll never even read this. While I sit here, bawling like an idiot, aching, this goddamn song on repeat. Don’t turn around? Too late. This post is going to get me in so much trouble, and I just…I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. This will pass, and so will time, and I’ll move to Ireland and forget. Or convince myself that I’ve forgotten.

I’m pathetic, because despite everything you’ve ever done, every lie you told me, I can’t…I can’t stop…mi ankoraux ami vi.

Seishirou-san…I lost the bet, didn’t I.