Running in circles

I’m terrified of my own mind.

This mind of mine. She is brilliant.  She is incessant.  She unravels as she weaves.  An intricate matrix of overlapping thoughts.  Dissecting, analysing, birthing contentment, and scripting terrors.

My anxious mind.  Scarred with disease.  Both villain and saviour.

No one understands you like I do.

I’m scared no one will.



Life Heroin

I hadn’t gotten high in months.
Because the last few times I did, I got existentially sad.  Go figure.

But I decided to get high again last night.  No one else was home, it was just me, a joint and my honest thoughts.
Boy did I get honest with myself.

I recorded myself and the resultant emotional breakdown/breakthrough.

I’ve decided I’ll publish some transcripts from those recordings.  Below is the first one.

I am so shit scared that I have imprinted you on my life so much…you…That’s what it is.
You have left such an imprint on me because you were the man I loved when I was living the most reckless, self-indulgent, selfish, exhilarating, caution to the wind, living on the edge of life, leaning into the universe, two years (I think that makes sense, grammatically).  You were the man I loved when I was living that kind of life, which made me fall in love with life.


Holy fuck.  Is that not a poem or something?

I, the, I can’t even think of of our relationship without thinking of the life I led that was just mine, it’s not, you didn’t do those things in my life that i fell in love with.  I just loved you at the same time.   You didn’t cause these things, I caused these things.  I was the one pushing my life to the furthest it had ever been before.  I had started over.  I just picked up my life and moved it half-way across the world.  I was in it, that was mine.  I sat in it.  I sat in it and moved around in it and I engraved myself onto my own life.  

I’m so sad.  And I’m so scared.
That I fell in love with my own life and I can’t, I can’t recreate it.
And I’ll spend my whole life chasing this.

I feel like I did life heroin.  I feel like I did life heroin.  Oh my God.

I’m in so much pain

I feel like I’m imploding.

Oh, Jesus.  I think I’m addicted to the destruction.
I think I am doing life heroin.  Well someone who’s doing life heroin would feel like they were doing life heroin and that’s the fucking paradox.  I don’t think paradox is the right word…

I just keep doing this to myself and I think I’m addicted to it.
Oh, God, I hate myself.

Now I’ve gone an upset the dog



xx K

Rotting from the inside, out.

I feel ugly.

Not in a fleeting, “I need a deep exfoliation and restorative mask” kind of way.
I see the ugliness seeping out of my giant, greasy pores.  Black sludge, oozing out as a move – leaving tar-like smudges in my wake.
My soul is garbage.  It’s been decomposing for months now.  The clawing, wet heat from the rotting core slicks my swarthy skin with condensation.  I feed the weeping wound with alcohol, fries and hazy nights.

I pick at myself.  Literally pick my skin away.  It hardens, trying to protect itself but I pick that off too.  The pad of my thumb is course, hardened and ugly.

My body is giving up on me.  My hangovers are getting worse.  Must still be suffering some side-effects from the concussion I gave myself the other night.  My arms are ballooning into a 50 year old tuck-shop lady’s arms.  Must be bloating from all the salt in my diet.  Or I’m just getting old.

I look at my face everyday.  It’s not getting better.  No matter all the oils, syrups, toners, cleansers, acids, and masks I use.
My skin is turning into the bitumen of a well-travelled road.

I hate myself.  I hate that I am my own worst enemy.  I hate that I still don’t know how to be happy.

I don’t want this life.  I can’t keep doing this.  I don’t have the stamina to keep going.  I hate cardio.

It’s getting harder and harder to contain the infection.  It’s written on my skin, the dullness of my hair and the broken capillaries in my eyes.  I’m sure people can smell it.  The smell of vomit, whiskey, and cigarettes.  The walls of my body are rippling with the strain of holding a increasingly liquefying interior.  There are bulges and rolls I never had before.

I’m losing the battle.
I’m exhausted.



How did I screw up so badly?

I stood here, the light of the street lamp bouncing off your dusty-white Holden turned Toyota your dad had helped patch together.  We debated how best to fit your bike in the backseat.  You may need to roll the rear window down.

The night was young or was it?  I can’t seem to recall now.  3 years is a long time.

I tried to help the best I could but as usual, you managed to do most of the heavy lifting.  You were always good at that.
The door clicked shut, just.  As you turned around to face me I hugged my jacket closer.  Maybe because of the wind.  Maybe because I needed the protection.

You told me you didn’t want me to go to London but you and I both knew it didn’t matter.  You were the reason I was leaving.  I needed to do this, for me.
The unspoken understanding enveloped us.  I think we hugged.  You were good at that too.

I stood right here and said goodbye to the first and maybe the only man who loved me.



The more difficult it was to love the particular man beside us, the more we believed in Love, abstract and total.  We were waiting, always, for the incarnation.  That word, made flesh.

And sometimes it happened, for a time.  That kind of love comes and goes and is hard to remember afterwards, like pain.  You would look at the man one day and you would think, I loved you, and the tense would be past, and you would be filled with a sense of wonder, because it was such an amazing and precarious and dumb thing to have done; and you would know too why your friends had been evasive about it, at the time.

The Handmaid’s Tale – Margaret Atwood