A note to remember

I’d like to reiterate that this blog should be considered a work of fiction. Though I use my real name, and some of the experiences are my own or close to my own, it is a different version of myself, a alter ego, a person who has done things I haven’t, seen things I haven’t, slept with people I haven’t, done drugs I do not do. Its a popular device for writers (See Bukowski) and not an unusual one. Please do not consider this as a record of my life. Also, in the future, I’m going to be posting more short stories and less alter-ego based prose. There is only so much you can say about “yourself”.

However, I don’t disavow the things I write about, as these subjects are close to my heart. There is a risk any time you make your writing public that people will use your work as a source for malicious gossip and try to hurt you by throwing it back at you. In the end, It doesn’t matter. It’s part of the process. And in the end, I write for myself, and no matter what people say about it, they can never tarnish the joy that comes with creating something for yourself.

xxxx 

Red Milk

I’m obsessed with my own blood. When the blood fills the dropper I am fascinated, always looking at the different consistency, the color. Sometimes I’ll withdraw a vial of blood, and play with it, making spells and rubbing it into my skin. It is one of the few parts of my “insides” that I have access to, a vital part of my corporal entity, and I revel in the control I have over it. The idea that I can withdraw this liquid that is so vital to my life, to being alive, that I can hold it my hands and taste it - I feel peace, like I am touching myself on the inside, that I am as close to my body as I will ever be. Blood - I rub it on my cigarettes like some faux-morbid art school goth. And when I lower myself into a bath, I know that it is still in the water that surrounds me.

It isn’t a pain thing, or a death thing, in fact it is a happy thing, it reminds me I am alive and that this blood coursing through my veins goes into my heart and my brain and reaches every part of my body and electrifies it. It reminds me to not take myself too seriously, to cherish the people in my life who care about me, to write and hold onto my dreams, because the red liquid, fluid like milk, tells me I am alive, I am alive and I should do something about it.

Anonymous asked: your writings are a little dumb but i kinda like your ignorance

I feed on your condescending comments like candy. SO DELICIOUS.

I know why the caged bird sings

You looked so small,

in the gray jumpsuit they gave you.

Your arms were thin and pale.

I noticed the uniform velcroed up the front,

and I wondered how buttons could be dangerous.

When I hugged you I cried a little,

but you told me everything was okay and I stopped.

We talked about a lot of things,

but mostly how it is.

You’ve made a deal with the food guy to get all the fruit, you said,

the food guy has killed five people,

you didn’t ask for details.

She didn’t mind,

when you asked if you could speak to me, alone.

You held my hands, and turned them over, looking at my scars,

You said “Jesus Avery” in that tone you use, when you are exasperated with me.

I told you I’m trying to get better,

You want me to do more than try.

Even though you keep telling me it’s not,

I still feel sometimes,

Like this is all my fault.

The building was so gray and cold,

like the inside of a tomb.

When we were in Egypt,

and we climbed through those dark tunnels of the pyramid,

down into the final burial chamber,

I remember how claustrophobic it felt.

I imagine,

it feels a lot like that.

When we said goodbye, we both kissed you on the cheek

and we all hugged again,

and we walked past the metal gate,

and down the stairs,

and I could feel you watching us,

the whole time.

I didn’t cry on the bus,

or the train,

or when I got home.

But two days later, coming home on the L,

arms full of lilacs, for spring,

I remembered that at that moment, the exact moment I was standing there,

you were in that gray place,

eating canned peaches,

in gray jumpsuit,

with no buttons.

I started to cry, tears streaming down my face,

and all the other passengers,

pretended not to notice.

a poem about a person and myself, written while me and that person are still talking

My hands and wrists are covered in blood,

I laugh and show you, you half-passed out on my floor,

mimicking to me how a cockroach dies.

“This is very kafkaesque”

My foot is numb. “Give it 20 minutes. Should we set a timer?”

We smoke marbolo reds, we talk about how nice it is

to be here

talking

not in a nightclub.

“I was raised at a catholic school”

Me too, and now look at us

young, punk rock, tattooed,

each with the same cross to bear.

girlgold asked: i love you, don't ever change your face (nose job? that person's fucking their mom and/or dog right now) & I love all the recent writings!!! keep doin you xoxoxo

I LOVE YOU GIRL! Thanks for that. FYI if you have not seen this woman’s tumblr, you are missing out on GENIUS. She is the future of photography. Don’t get left behind.

The Fight

He was stretched out on my couch, arms crossed, head down. “It’s like you don’t even care” he said, looking at me, trying to search in my eyes for the answer. He repeated himself “it’s like you don’t even care.” I thought about the way my ex used to cover his eyes when he was upset, it used to drive me crazy, I would try to pry his hands from his face and scream “look at me, goddammit!” It was so strange, so obviously some sort ingrained childhood coping mechanism. He was like that when we fought, he became a child, covering his eyes and wrapping himself in blankets. I stared up at the man in front of me, my eyes dead. So many men, women, parents, friends, lovers have said those exact words to me. It’s like you don’t even care. I would sit there, calm, unmoving, a iceberg. People are often put off by how calm and contained I am, it unnerves them, because they can also sense within me there is a storm raging, that for what I say there is much more unsaid. “I wish I could know what goes on inside your head” he would say when we first start dating, laying in bed naked after sex. “I just get this feeling you have so much going on inside you, you’re so private, you’re a mystery…” he would trail off and I would stare into the blue of his eyes, his eyes that gave away everything, clear glass windows into his soul. Where I was locked up he was open, where I was secretive he told me everything he thought and felt. It made me feel guilty how earnest he was, it shamed me, I worried I would turn him cynical, that I would harden him when what I loved most about him was his purity of heart. I worry often that I don’t deserve him, this wonderful man, that he deserves someone who won’t hurt him the way I do.

He still stares at me. I am cold, reptilian, a snake in the grass, the only sign that it is alive the blinking of its eyes. My mother used to stare at me as I’d watch her cry, upset over some slight she had imagined. “You’re so cold!” she would say “I don’t understand you. You can’t be my daughter. I would never raise someone like you.” It would make me retreat more into myself, confirming what she thought of me. She never saw that it was shield, a way to keep myself safe from the raging and unpredictable waves of her emotion. Sometimes I would venture so into my mind that I would emerge from my body, floating above, watching myself, a scared, skinny little girl.

I cry and he holds me. “I promise I’ll stop, I will…I just got so lonely without you. I didn’t know what else to do.” He holds me to his chest, his hair matted with sweat, and I bury my head in his armpit and inhale his sweat mixed with the scent of his deodorant. It’s so easy when he holds me like this to believe that I can change myself, my life, that things will eventually get better and stay better. We eventually fall asleep like that, long skinny legs wrapped around each other. He makes me believe that I’m good, that I’m not an evil person like so many of accused me of being. I hope he will help see the good he sees me in, the good he swears is there, the good I never feel.

Anonymous asked: However sad you are: continue writing. You're good at it.You say you lack a purpose in life, that you think you're a failure... You're actually very good at putting it into words. I believe that everyone has a purpose in life, that if you're here, it's for some reason. If you like writing, keep going. Just do it. Sadness is nothing. It just shows you have an inner world that is so rich & sensitive that emotions rise too bloody easily. It's a pretty good sign. Just think about it..

Thank you…this really made my day. I write because I have to, to me it is like breathing…I have a tendency to keep my feelings and thoughts to myself, and if I didn’t write I feel like they’d consume me. I guess because writing feels more like a necessary function of my mind I don’t equate it with purpose, but I think you are right…

And don’t be anon! I’m always happy to chat or open a dialogue with my readers. You can always reach me at averyloved@gmail.com. Drop me a line sometime.