writers

i was the girl writing out across the paper, out across the internet. bleeding on her blog (hahah). all over her pages. i was the teenage dreamer, baby blogger, journal cuddling, diary writing all night, the saccharine syrupy sentences, ugly impromptu paragraphs. and other things. i still am, at heart. somehow it's harder to write in my own voice now i'm older and attach my name to my thoughts. other people call themselves so easily - it took me twenty one years to call myself an artist.

on bulimia

i order a twenty piece chicken nuggets at the mcdonalds drive thru. i order a big mac. a chicken sandwhich. i get fries. a large coke (diet, obviously). i hold the brown paper bag close and feel the warmth and the smell of fried food in my lap and then i place it in the passenger seat. i am already starting to escape. we ride off ten minutes out of the city, until the roads become dirt and the streetlights stop shining on me. eating is one of my favourite things to do. 

it's easier to throw up on the side of the road because you can dispose of the evidence like you never committed the crime against yourself in the first place. i have enough tiny deaths looking at the rising water level in the toilet bowl and wondering how you're going to explain that one. i have enough experience in which containers hold vomit best. to double bag. to never purge down a sink because you'll end up sifting through it with your bare hands. i know the feeling of the reluctance to purge and the inevitability of it all. of crippling embarrassment when you cough too loudly in the public stall you're bent over in. does everyone know? does anyone think about bulimia like i do?

Vitamin D

someday i'll write to you and i'll have a few more scars. i'll have different roads and routes and roundabouts mapped out in my brain. i'll sing songs i've written about things i can only imagine. i'll have had a whole lot of happiness, and hopefully, only a little more sadness. that's always been the plan, that's always been why i write. to paint a path away from pain.

summer is coming. it leaves freckles on my arms and invites vitamin d into my blood stream. it always makes me want to wear amber and smell like jasmine and lighten my curls, play 'santa monica dream', drinking beer and getting high in the garden. makes me wanna lay down in abandoned drained pools from the old houses up in the countryside.

i've been reading and thinking about orange groves and olive trees. i'm going to leave my job soon.

Gold in my veins

i've been trying to write here for months but the words haven't really come. i got myself a job that gives me good hours and a different kind of art project to keep my hands busy in the winter. last week i took a train and sat in a room in a future that i imagined when i was fourteen. the roles were switched and some of the details were off, but i'm growing into the woman i always imaged would be sat in the isle in a yellow sundress.

i have a tendancy to get drunk and search for a party a little while longer than everyone else. but watching all these young women move on with their beautiful, messy lives made me realise that i needed to do that too. and i hadn't moved on for a long while, not since i combed all of that fucking glass out of my hair from two thousand and sixteen.

so i took another train down to holloway road and i auditioned for a big deal. and whatever the outcome, the process was vivid and bright and i'm starting to see my future carved out in little stars ahead of me again. i missed them.

i'll write more soon xo

Fire signs