pig tales

little girls never really grow up. 

we're given bigger toys, larger allowances. more expansive wardrobes. tabloids in place of bedtime stories. the princesses we grow to idolize are no longer innocent, but locked away in their ivory towers of fame and money and cocaine.

but I know I'll always be in pigtails.

finally... i'm on my way.

meat market.

I keep trying to remember a time where life was simpler. I keep hearkening back to slight impressions of my childhood; fleeting reminiscences of sunlight or laughter or freedom.

Instead, all I can remember is feeling too small, too powerless. My head wouldn't even reach over counters and my every thought was overlooked.

I still dream of a world where I'd matter -- where my beauty would be celebrated instead of my value being measured by my girth. my mass. my substance. my occupation of space.

beauty should never be empirical.

I wouldn't be a mere sum of my measurements -- like a slab of meat pre-weighed and measured for immediate consumption.

I don't know if finding myself is worth losing myself.

i guess you really wanted something... it just wasn't with me.

A new form of masochism

Focus on the pain.
A dull ache or a deep burn.
Push through the throbbing and concentrate on your next movement.

This has an appealing outcome.
This result is socially acceptable.

The same concept.
A proxy.

We rarely renounce our compulsions.
We simply adapt.

This is new. This is better.
I am new. I am better.

maybe someday.

in a boat, d h lawrence

See the stars, love, 
In the water much clearer and brighter 
Than those above us, and whiter, 
Like nenuphars. 

Star-shadows shine, love,
How many stars in your bowl? 
How many shadows in your soul, 
Only mine, love, mine? 

When I move the oars, love, 
See how the stars are tossed,
Distorted, the brightest lost. 
—So that bright one of yours, love. 

The poor waters spill 
The stars, waters broken, forsaken. 
—The heavens are not shaken, you say, love,
Its stars stand still. 

There, did you see 
That spark fly up at us; even 
Stars are not safe in heaven. 
—What of yours, then, love, yours?

What then, love, if soon 
Your light be tossed over a wave? 
Will you count the darkness a grave, 
And swoon, love, swoon?

narrow as train tracks

i want someone to

look at me
and think
"wow.
she
is
beautiful."



- J