you’re gonna go far, kid

i don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, until you feel it. the fire licking at my bones; i will not fail again, i will make myself be known.

and the audience feels like it’s miles away, as they clap, and whisper you’re gonna go far, kid–you’re gonna make it big, someday. and when you’re seven years old, living in a storm cloud, i guess that sounds pretty great.

and so my brain grabs onto shit like this, and doesn’t let go. i guess i run with it. take the path of least resistance. i stare my demons straight in the eye. so i work harder, and faster, and stronger, until no one can hurt me, not even you. and now it’s 12:07, and i wander through a graveyard alone, and try to puzzle it out in rhyming lines of poetry.

but i just can’t do it. because there are some things even hot glue and desperation can’t fix. but you said i could do it, you promised and you lied and and now it’s 12:25. and i guess i just can’t help but wonder, if i’d been different, if my brain had been better… would it all have still turned out like this? or would i be high above the clouds you showed me, when i was seven years old. with my castle, and my riches?

but it’s just conjecture. meaningless.


This is the most melodramatic piece ever, and I’m totally gonna be so embarrassed by this in a few years. But whatever, that is a problem for later.

I’ve spent my whole life seeking approval. I don’t think I’m particularly unusual in that. As a kid, I remember learning what I could get praise for, and what I couldn’t. I remember modelling my entire life at the time around figuring out how to get praise out of the adults in my life, mould myself into exactly what they wanted, almost instinctively. Maybe that’s a little weird, I’m not sure.

For me, the thing I got praised for was my achievements. Doing better than everyone else in my class, getting a good grade, you get the drill. I don’t think I’m particularly talented, or gifted or whatever drippy word you want to use–I’m just a very stubborn kid who was placed in an environment, where from a very young age excellence seemed like the only option.

But for most of my life, people have told me how much potential I have, about the career they think I should lead, or the courses I should take, or the university I should go to. Telling me I’m smarter, or I’m better, or whatever–which I know, sounds like a really dumb thing to have a problem with. But learning the only way you can get praise is by being better than other people all the time is, uh, not the best thing to internalize when you’re seven, let’s just say that. Because from that point on, your entire self-worth becomes dependent on constantly outdoing yourself and your peers every second of every day, and if you can’t do that, your entire identity is gone.

It’s just weird, I guess. Because no matter how much other people cheer for me, or praise me, I still feel hollow, and empty, and other people caring about me doesn’t make me feel any better. Which is hard. I don’t know, it’s just something that’s been on my mind a lot of late.

Lots of love,

Lorna

lighter fluid

drown it in whisky. i’m bored of this toxic cycle, of this endless stream of words; love letters addressed to nobody. so bring out the lighter, and worship the growing flame. i hope the ash buries you. i hope the sky turns grey.

i want to watch the cities burn, i want to watch the stars flake off like old paint. because i don’t know, it’s pretty, in a morbid kind of way. and once you start, you just can’t stop, and pretty soon i’m lying awake at 12:32a.m., wondering where the hell i went wrong.

pretty soon, i’m waking up with frost on my fingertips and watching teen rom coms all day, because god, i wish my life could be like that; bursting in colour, with a vibrant cast of characters, and sure we fight sometimes, but in the end we all love each other.

and i try so fucking hard, you know that? to be good, and smart, and strong; your golden little catastrophe. i read the warning signs, and i followed the directions, and i don’t get it. this wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

i thought i was better. i thought i could do this. which is arrogant, and stupid. so watch me douse this whole mess in lighter fluid, and set it ablaze. because it’s a cold december morning, and i have to burn something, okay?

recovery

i think about getting better every thursday, for half an hour. i look at quotes on instagram, and take long, depressing showers, as a headache bores into my skull, with no sign of surrender.

and then… i take french lessons from a computer. i play my guitar, and i answer the phone, and i guess it all just kinda gets lost in the blur, you know?

i lie awake at night, and i entertain the concept of recovery like a fun hobby. and then wonder why my mattress smells like smoke.

i push the blame to yesterday; fall in love with a stranger and cry when they go. melt my heart with pillar candles, and watch the plastic run. just because, i suppose.

i numb my head beneath six feet of melting snow. and ten months later, when the world is dusty and dry, it’ll be better. right? i’ll wash my face, i’ll change my ways, i’ll put on some fresh clothes.

because it’s nice to entertain, you know? a crystalline fantasy, so far and yet so close. and sure my lungs are dusty black, and red, just like you. but i guess if you hurt for long enough, the mind can get accustomed to anything–because this shit is nothing new.

casket

and then, there are the bad days. there is a crystal blue sky, and the wind beneath my wings. i don’t give a shit. i am tired, and apathetic, and cold.

and i don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t do anything at all. just sit there on the sidewalk, watching the rain fall. because my brain is like this sometimes; latching on to a turn of phrase like a dog with a bone, until there’s nothing left to give, and the blood smeared on my palms is always my own.

so paint me like a casket, strong mahogany; rotten on the inside, though. shade me soft, like the ruins of an empire that never could be. like shattered potential and spoiled wine, i’m your perfect little baby.

cast my statue in 24-carat gold, and mount my broken, strangled words on a silver platter if you want to. melt my bones like candles, and throw a party for a girl who doesn’t really exist. and i don’t know how much longer i can take this. but here we fucking go.

bittersweet

fade in: i’m the main character in a teen movie. and i live in a third person paradise, where someone else is always looking out for me. and i’m brave, and pretty, in an effortless kinda way. i stand up for what i believe in. i scream until my lungs bleed out. i make the right decision.

and when i’m lost, i dream of cityscapes, and burning nights, finger on the pulse. reminisce about the good days, when i don’t doubt these hands are mine. and when the world goes silent, sometimes i like to sneak out after dark, and swim across a monotone sky.

i pretend it’s bittersweet; make poetry from this bleak desert wasteland, but no turn of phrase will ever make it pretty. because death is not a friend, it’s not an enemy. it doesn’t give a shit. which is worse, honestly. because i swear, i feel it watching me sometimes like an unpaid debt. i think i’ll bide my time. smell the roses, and get old, or whatever people do.

but my wrists murder me, and the chords ring out fuzzy, the pasta boils over on the stove, and i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry. in my head there’s an angle here, a narrative, and as the world burns a part of me is already sitting at my desk, 1:25am, trying to make the lines fit together, like pieces in a puzzle. remember those?

remember swingsets and naivete, and whole world i can’t control? i don’t miss it. i just wish it was different, you know?