You are mud and seashells, gale and lull, give and take. During ebb, when the world condenses into white-purple flashes and soft euphoria, I can reach down to plant a kiss on your slimy forehead. On other days you remain a secret, a soft glimmer beneath the waves, a statue of sharpened rocks barely concealed by the water’s brim. There are times when I can only see the tip of your fingers, sticking up above the surface under which you wait for me, still I know you’re there, waiting, moaning with the flow. You paint me as your queen – eyes like shipwrecks and with the hands of every drowned swimmer entangled in my hair, and the mire beneath our feet sighs in content as it begins to pull us down.
To those of you who might still remember me – I’m back! Sort of. I know I’ve been completely absent from the community for almost a month. My break has been due to personal reasons as well as dire trouble with my medication. Hopefully I’ll be able to make a comeback and breathe life into this blog again. Been missing you all!
Dear friends, thank you for all the support you’ve given me and your kind words. I have however come to the decision that I need a break from wordpress to sort my life out and finish my novel. You are all dear to me and I will miss you and your wonderful writing, but this is for the best. I don’t know when I will be back. Running this blog is pouring too much stress on me right now, and I can’t have it that way.
MurderTrampBirthday is on hiatus.
Should I return, maybe I’ll do it as someone else.
Let me tell you a secret.
I don’t want to be a writer.
I have a reoccurring fantasy
in which I’m 12 and lying in a hospital bed, tubes stuck to my tiny breasts
faces made of broken glass smiling down at me
and telling me I’m going to be someone successful,
So let me be Sylvia, I plead,
or dear Margaret, they knew how to turn their abuse
but I am not a writer,
I’m just a girl who had a lot of bad luck you see,
writing was not my first resort.
I was going to live an ordinary life,
study medicine and live in a yellow house by the lake
with my loving husband and a dog.
That dream started to shatter when
I realized I was not the doctor
but the patient,
caught in a gown of literary compulsions,
walking like my feet are pincushions,
I don’t want it
I don’t want to be the tailless donkey,
I don’t want to be the girl who runs home and vomits
in fear after someone on town told me they like my writing,
and I used to cherish my suffering
now you have made it ugly
my tea turns salty from tears and my hands are shivering
and I keep writing, keep pushing those words out like stillborn fetuses,
despite the voices telling me
I’m sort of going through a phase right now. I’m seriously thinking of deleting my blog and maybe start anew. I don’t know. I don’t feel content with what I’ve done so far. I have a feeling I want to cleanse myself, but I don’t know of what.
Last night I had a peculiar dream: I was sitting at a desk, a drawing of a pin-up model in front of me. The teacher leaned down before me and asked me how I knew I was a woman.
Of course, in the dream I started rambling about fertility and womb and not having a penis, but the question sort of stuck with me. Such an odd thing to ask. How do I know I’m a woman?
Or, more precisely, when did I know I was a woman?
I’ve always been quite oblivious of my own sex. I grew up with two younger brothers and throughout the early days of my childhood, I basked in the illusion that I was their equal, maybe even their superior. (I was the oldest, after all.)
Then I began school and older boys would stalk me, yell at me, touch me against my will and trying to herd me into corners of the schoolyard where the teachers couldn’t see us, getting me “all to themselves”. Did I know I was a woman, or a woman-to-be? Hardly. I just thought they must be extremely stupid.
Did I know I was a woman when I received my first whistles on the streets, my first unwanted advances by older men, my first offer to jump into their car on the street? Nah. I was still a girl, fiddling around, being a – what is it they call it? Cock-tease?
I convinced myself that I was going to be a woman. I bought push-up bra’s and strings, I colored my eyelashes pitch black, I got powdered and pinned down, and I said yes, covering myself in the illusion like a perfume. I learnt womanly sentences by heart – yes, yes, I don’t mind, no really, thank you for the compliment Sir, that’s so sweet of you. I was seventeen.
I am now twenty-three. Have I earned the right to call myself a woman yet? Have I gone trough enough bullshit, enough degradation and strife? How do I know? Woman seems threatening, a responsibility to assume or a price cup to keep locked in your closet forever.
Am I a woman because I tear easily, like waxed paper, barely making a noise as I fall apart, because I’m simply fragile? Or because I get up each time, dry my nose and re-assume fighting position? Am I a woman because I create, the papillae on my tongue melting into words that seem starved once they reach my fingertips? Because I endure the laughs and threats and gazes, pats on my shoulder and “It’ll be fine, sweetheart”s? Because I persist?
Or is woman a lifelong process starting with monthly blood cascades, erupting into hot steaming lava and eventually stiffening into merciless, cold rock?
I know this. There isn’t one second in which I find myself the same person as the last. I’m pushing forward.
I never wanted your understanding
All I need is a mouth
Something to eat gluttonously at my pride
something to lick the wounds later.
straddled atop of his tongue,
teeth caging me like prison bars
and penetrating when they feel like,
like soldiers stacking bullets around their necks,
counting just how many friends they shot down
I distance myself from anything real.
I don’t love people anymore,
only the wounds they leave behind
“I think he’s getting more violent,”
you said, as we stood comparing our scars
in the school corridors,
and shivered in terror and ecstasy
at the thought of getting torn apart
at the dinner table that night
I scoffed to myself;
I too, have loved someone like that
My skin has become a topographic map of wars
that were never recorded in history
my anxious fingers wander up to his jawline
and starts deciphering
where the next impact will strike,
dissolving me into bruises,
and hysterical laughs
weaving promises that
Another one of my old works re-fashioned into a new shape.
is when I took all the disdain people gave me
and made myself a dress
a Teflon-clad wear-and-fear-article
In which I can stand tall
amidst the roaring crowd
tiptoeing all over the sharp stones of existence
and showcasing just how normal, stuck-up and
indifferent I am.
They come up to me
with faces like a Swiss cheese weeping ichor
in maggot-shaped strings
and mouths wailing
Have you seen?
The poor people are getting poorer!
Have you heard?
The world doesn’t give a damn about your struggles.
In between, there’s that sound
buzzing, like static
I didn’t notice the bleeding
tear in the fabric
until some kid pointed at my stomach and laughed: “Look! She’s naked! She’s naked!”
his mother hushed him, dragging him away from me
“We need to be grateful for all we have,” she said.
I scurried home,
tears pouring down my cheeks
I locked myself in my bedroom and spent the rest of the day
wrapping myself up in linens
layer after woven layer,
would cover the fanged hole in me
and stop it from leaking
“Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, “tomorrow I’ll be prepared.”
It all started out well
I was gliding trough the polished city streets
earning compliments on my exterior.
and gracefully repelling threats thrown at me
trough the windows of the clothing factories
Someone told me they wanted to take me home
slit my throat and fuck my corpse.
what do words mean anyway?
An old woman came up to me and asked
just how I’d managed to become
so admirably ignorant
and was about to start explaining the basics of apathy
when I felt the fabric around my hips starting to melt
and the familiar scent of smoke
rising from underneath my skin
Everything I put on dissolves like tendrils
like hot wax,
clogging my veins
with nothing to cover my shame
I try out another shirt,
clothe myself in layer after layer,
each one adapting the shape of the previous
There’s no escape
cotton walls are like a bomb ticking around my waist,
reminding me of how much time I have left.
How thick would you like your armor today, Sir?
Make it wool,
make it silk,
or glimmering marble,
so I can be a statue,
a work of art
to be stared at
by critics who claim to understand
So I’m currently in the process of reworking and re-publishing some of my old works. Here’s one of them!