Cover my Eyes

ancient messages of lives past

supple flesh turned to bible page skin

softened slide show of dead cells

cotton sheets and bar soap

whispered truths

unanswered prayers

comforted psyche

medicated soul

muted conscience

are the whispers in the darkness messages from the divine

To have and to hold down...

Song of the Day:: Amy Winehouse - Back to Black

Quote of the Day:: "Murder is born of love, and love attains the greatest intensity of murder."--Octave Mirbeau

" "No 'pretty white' dresses for me thanks,"

"Well, you're getting one."

"fuck."

"It will be your day" they all tell me. Now I just need to find a dress that tastefully shows off my cleavage and can hide a Desert Eagle strapped to my thigh. Weddings.

Ok lets go down the checklist:

Something old- My vintage Lincoln Town Car convertible Check.

Something new - The passport in my purse Check.

Something borrowed - The one hundred and twenty eight million in my safety deposit box in Switzerland I swear I'll give it back,Check.

Something blue - The body of my fiance's mistress in the trunk of my car Definite Check.

Ah yes the life of the Business Man's Wife, who would have thought it would come to this. And to think, a year ago life was just so...nice. I guess I spoke too soon.

William Borden is my fiance, and Im in love. Yay me. What more could any girl want? Oh thats right, fidelity. I'd like to think i was smarter than that, but I wasn't. I enjoyed every second with William, the quick wit, the intelligent meaningful conversation, and that oh so dirty Rhett Butler dirty grin that made even the strongest of wills strongest of skirts go crawling up your thighs. He was a delightful change of pace from the average guy who either was so polite he never touched you or gnawed at your bra straps every time you were halfway through a glass of cabernet.

for you.

A supple discourse

A clouded blossom

An unblemished apology

Candy coated lust

The sumptuous taste

of kisses and lies

anything for you.

Love, Lust, and Lolli-pops

I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. He held me, held me close, and ever so delicately kissed me on the lips. It felt like someone stomping on my heart. The tears in my eyes just kept coming. Down my temples they burned as he kissed me in that dark cool room. Why is it always fear intermingled with love? Why couldn't I kiss him and believe that he wanted me, believe that I would be the only one to have him this way, well, at least the last anyway.

I let a sob slip. So much for fucking composure.

Even in the darkness I knew he was looking at me like I was from another planet. The last time I cried in front of someone their response was "I didn't even know you could cry."

What is it about a supportive embrace that makes the strongest of people break down and cry like lost children? I cried, and cried. And cried. Silent, ashamed of his understanding. And then, it wouldn't stop. I cried for hours, my face sore and hot. The room smelled of understanding and fresh laundry. Something that just seemed to comfortable to last. He just held me. Told me "maybe you just need a good cry."

I love you sweetness.

What if, out there, there is a pill version of love. Would there be worse side affects then what they call "real love?" The palpitations, shortness of breath, blushing of the cheeks, dilation of pupils, those are all natural. Right?

Or maybe, do you think people can just run out of love for someone? Is it possible, not really get bored of someone, but just have nothing left to give? There is always something, be it kindness, or courtesy, tenderness or comfort, there are ways to give without loving right?

Maybe if I say it over and over again to you I can believe it again.

Maybe I'm not the problem. Maybe Ive just heard it so many times from you that Its lost all meaning. Its the rumor everyone has already heard. The secret spilled into sunlight. The shooting star that no one saw.

Memories can be a bitch.

"Do you ever miss it?" she asked me.
It was like i couldn't breathe.
"I mean do you?" she asked again
"Well, *sigh* when you give your heart to someone, you always think its the only thing you've ever wanted to do." I feel the tears well up in my eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said, "maybe Santa will bring you a new one."
"Ok baby, lets hope you're right, maybe Santa will bring me a new one." Something about the optimism of a child can tear down the last bit of hope you have left while at the same time almost make you believe in Santa again. There was a hollow tragedy to the fact that it was only April.


I think God put pheromones on this planet just to punish me.

I didn't really miss the love. I said I did, but, I didn't. In a lot of ways I really didn't want him to love me, I missed the lust. The passion. The sweaty maddening passion that left you exhausted, bruised, sore, and satisfied. I missed his hands on me. Pulling at me, ripping my clothes, the squeezes, the slaps, everything that would or could make me blush.

All of the things I was willing to burn for. All of the things All of the things I couldn't tell anyone. All of the things that my body fiended for. The raw, rough, animal nature of it all, gone. Faded like a tattoo, still there in spots, not quite the same vibrancy or sharpness. I missed the bruises on my inner thighs and hips, the bite marks on my neck, the taste of blood when he kissed me hard.

The bare truth stood naked unashamed.

I wrapped my lips around the hard candy, exploring its surface with my tongue. The sticky sweetness on my lips, the glassy feel of the candy. The way it clacked against my teeth. I sat, staring out the window, from behind my dark glasses watching you.

Wondering how you would kiss me, would it be sweet, would it be hard and hot. Would you suck the candy from my lips? A hand upon my thigh, a hand wound in my hair, the sudden lust for submission. The savage claiming of my mouth.

I feel the all too familiar ache slither up my spine, heating my blood to a boil, your words dissolved into my skin, sugary sweet and numbing.

Is it a crime?

Faith

((http://e-merl.com/index.php))

faith /feɪθ/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[feyth] Pronunciation Key –noun

1.	confidence or trust in a person or thing: faith in another's ability.

2.	belief that is not based on proof: He had faith that the hypothesis would be substantiated by fact.

3.	belief in God or in the doctrines or teachings of religion: the firm faith of the Pilgrims.

4.	belief in anything, as a code of ethics, standards of merit, etc.: to be of the same faith with someone concerning honesty.

5.	a system of religious belief: the Christian faith; the Jewish faith.

6.	the obligation of loyalty or fidelity to a person, promise, engagement, etc.: Failure to appear would be breaking faith.

7.	the observance of this obligation; fidelity to one's promise, oath, allegiance, etc.: He was the only one who proved his faith during our recent troubles.

8.	Christian Theology. the trust in God and in His promises as made through Christ and the Scriptures by which humans are justified or saved.

—Idiom

9.	in faith, in truth; indeed: In faith, he is a fine lad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did you ever wonder if it hurt? If it was a truly painful experience, the fall I mean. Or was it like when your parents ground you. If you think about it that had to be the ultimate parental grounding of all existence.

Tastes of strawberries

Temptation is something you have to take with a grain of salt. Otherwise there is no reluctance to give in, no conscience, no threat of perdition. There are the lives we wanted. The lives we lead. The lives that will be torn to paper dolls if all you do is say yes. Its acceptance that gets you in the end. What Saint Peter will tell you at the gates after he says your home is no longer here.

Temptation tastes of strawberries, did you know that? That soft passivity, the luscious yielding of delicate flesh, only sins can taste this good.

Is it an option

Song of the Day:: Muse - Feelin Good

Quote of the Day:: "For you to ask advice on the rules of love is no better than to ask advice on the rules of madness"

Its not that simple. Is it ever?

Just another random thought.

"I felt the cool buckle dig into my back as I tried to adjust my arms for the thousandth time that hour. The tears ran hot down my face making the room blurry. That gray washed out room, so small, so quiet. Quiet enough to hear the ringing in my ears of his last words to me.

"I love you," he said, " I think you know that this is best option."

When the love of your life commits you to an insane asylum the last thing on your mind is that THIS is the best option. The straight jacket they put me in smelled of moth balls and canvas. My face ached from a days worth of silent sobs. Trying to maintain wasn't even a possibility at this point. From now until I was "well" there will be pills, leather straps on my bed, and the room when I act up. I know for certain that their next route is electro shock therapy. "I love you" he says. I fear what he would have done had he not loved me.

I placed my cheek against the padded wall and tried to wipe my tears away. I knew I could only do this three more times before I made my cheek bleed.

They called it purification. No drugs, not yet anyway.

Any tea that I wanted, a steady diet of green anything, and freakish amount of water. The detox process is different with everyone. At this point Ive hit the manic phase. There is no hope. I want to disappear. My skin will never be the right shade of me. The usual manic depressive thoughts run through my head as plain as greeting cards."

Sanctuary

Song of the Day:: Run Lola Run Soundtrack - Tykwer/Klimek/Heil - Running Two
Quote of the Day:: " Experience is this sinking feeling that you have made this mistake before."
Sometimes all you want is something that isn't yours.

"Its always been about surroundings. Call me shallow, call me spoiled, but one glimpse of my home and you will hate the tragic hovel you go home to. You know the one, the one with the institution white walls that will never see artwork other than a child's painting, and the stall shower you have to yoga your way through a leg shave in. The kitchen with the formica counters from an expired decade and cabinet decor that the landlord will raise your rent to rip out and modernize. But not me, there isn't a power left on the planet that will drag me back into that setting.
Floor to ceiling windows, $1200 duchess satin drapes, imported Italian leather couches, and a bathtub large enough to drown a queen sized bed. Keeping a loft in Hollywood was somewhat of a hobby for me. Mostly because no one ever saw it. Anyone who knew me knew of an apartment I kept deep in the heart of Studio City. Outfitted in the that kind of furniture you saw in porno flicks, a fridge full of alcohol and no food, and a bedroom that had the same sheets on the bed from the day I bought it. Don't get me wrong I'm always open for a social gathering, but I never felt to comfortable with the idea of leaving my unconscious body somewhere I didn't know was absolutely safe. Call it paranoia, call it what you will, I call it Californian. And yes, if you're wondering, I am that girl. I'm perfect on your arm, always a delight to be with, I'm the kind of girl who shows you an amazing time and makes you feel like you are the center of the universe when, quite frankly, its your wealth of possibilities that's really the object of my affections. I'm that girl that pretends to be sleeping. I'm that girl that sneaks out at 2 am strapping on my shoes outside by my car.
I'm that girl that businessmen fear, the one they want to love but cant afford the prenup. I maintain company until I get that all too familiar urge to flee. The worst escapes are those in Beverly Hills. I adore the amazing mansions in Beverly hills, I mean really, who doesn't. But there is nothing more annoying than attempting an escape with a security guard at the front gate that logs your arrival and departure times. Nothing says "I love you" like a 2 am departure. Anyone who asked questions immediately became a threat to my comfort of living and therefore was never heard from again. No not in the way you're thinking, they just suddenly had reason to leave town and never come back. A call to the wife was easiest, arrange a time and a place and a lack of clothing and no one wants to stay. There were the few tips to the IRS, and once the FBI, those were interesting to say the least, but lets not get ahead of ourselves too quickly. I'm not a sadist, merely a survivalist. To my knowledge, no one ever knew where I really slept; the insomnia helped, that and the random amount of coke i shoved up my nose on a daily basis.
The only place in the greater Los Angeles area that had a doorman who would kill at the drop of a bill. Dexter had to be my favorite man. He once cut the fingers off one man who broke my wrist when   I told him I wasn't for sale. He also drugged and phototgraphed the FBI rooting through the trash of his 4 million dollar estate. Dexter, needless to say, was a beautiful man, though he had amazing moments of boyish glances and upon opening the main floor door kept a warm hand on the small of my back that felt like home. He was six three with that Russian animal look about him, skin taut against the amazingly structured bones of his face; his smiles always curled the corners of his mouth like he had a secret. With the body structure of an Olympic diver, that I only caught a glance of once when I ran into him changing shifts with Murry, who i will get to later. I walked around the corner of blank and blank and saw him, just outside the front door, bend slightly to light his cigarette, sheltering his cheap Bic lighter from the wind of blank avenue. I stopped and began looting through my purse, pretending to look for anything while I watched him through my Chanel sunglasses. He wore a suit the entire time I knew him. He tossed his hat into the backseat of a convertible GTO that sat in front of the building, stopping to take a drag from his cigarette he pulled at the double knotted black $300 tie I demand he wear, tossed it aside the hat and began to work the brooks brothers jacket from his shoulders. Color me voyeur. I watched him work off each button while he let small trails of smoke slip from his nostrils. It was like watching Adonis. I saw his shoulders first as he pulled off his shirt, sun kissed to perfection, with a muscle tone that even made me blush. The white tank top he work clung to his skin a bit showing off his washboard abs, the kind that they airbrush onto Calvin Klein models."

Thats all for now.

Georgia Peach

Sotd: Filter - Trip Like I Do
Qotd: "Anything that feels that good couldn't possibly be bad. There's something about death that is comforting, the thought that you could die tomorrow frees you to appreciate your life now"- Angelina Jolie

Ok so here is the latest story I scribbled out over my lunch break on napkins and business cards ::

"

Common accident they say. Road debris is everywhere. Somehow as commuters we accept that. Cal-trans does what they can to keep freeways free of anything that could be turned into a projectile when a big rig going 85’s tires grip and release at monumental speed. That plus my newfound penchant for speeding on the new BMW bike, someone was stupid enough to buy for me, equals the current state of my face.

I worked the bandage off slowly feeling the glue stick to my skin, at times pulling my skin away with it. I looked down at the pristine white gauze peeling away layer upon layer of the square bandage to reveal the rust colored spots of blood that clung to the soft cotton fibers, I turned and looked in the mirror and saw it; the skin a mannequin shade of pink; the stitches looked like fine dark hairs caught in candle wax. I ran my finger over it. Feeling the bumps of each stitch sent chills up my forearms and down my spine.

The cut, that graced my once perfect face, in all its glory, was a full four and a half inches across. Starting just above my, well what used to be my expensively manicured eye brows, now half shaved after the surgery leaving me resembling a caricature of myself, trailing across diagonally, pausing for a moment at the top of my left eye starting again at the corner of my eye where once my eyelashes would flip naturally formerly gave shame to the doctored Chanel mascara adds, now snipped and clipped to allow my surgeon to reattach muscles a, b, and c that allow me to blink. With the swelling down as much as it would be before the stitches come out I had to realign my perceptions on life.

No one ever expects a Georgia licence plate to change their life.

The Fifteen freeway is monumental to begin with; littered with the tears of those who Las Vegas had their way with and the laughs of those who had their way with Las Vegas. I was headed home. The stink of Las Vegas and other things still lingered on my skin. My visit to Sin City consisted of talking my ex boyfriend out of marrying sweet Becca Jane, among other things but Ill get to that later. Her name was Rebecca Foster, a sweet girl, one of the few nice girls left in Southern California. Well, was a nice girl from So Cal, but after catching me fuck her fiancé on the hood of her princess white Mercedes wedding limousine I'm sure she’s not as nice anymore. I never did care for girls from the Valley."

Parlez-vous I lurrve you?

Song of the Day:: Dance Hall Crashers - The Truth About Me
Quote of the Day:: " 'We all must attend the Sexual Harrassment Seminar.' 'Alright, but before that, could you bend over and pick up that pen for me?' "

Ok I've Got It

Song of the day:: Muse - New Born
Quote of the day:: "Why does pomegranate sound sexy?"

Another day of wine and roses.

That being another day of Peppermint Green Tea Boba and microwave Mini Pizzas. Im sure this is what they call "funemployment." Atleast it was, the first month. This officially makes it day 102. I don't yet know how I feel about that. I don't have the will to follow politics, I don't have the cashflow to follow fashion, and I don't have the motivation for school. In short:: I need a job. I keep getting that same question on interviews::

"What are you doing right now?"

"Hangin out..."

People keep telling me that I should tell my "possible employers" that Ive been focusing on my writing. One hundred and two days and the closest things I get are quips and querps of possible things that I could quite possibly mold into something publishable.

For instance::

"My twin sister slit her wrists the day before our thirteenth birthday. I stitched her up with fishing line. I guess you could say that was the day I started making other peoples problems my own.

I found her sitting on our porch swing drinking from the remains of a yoohoo bottle. Eyes calm and collected. Auburn hair frazzled by the summer stench of Los Angeles. Her fingertips were glazed with blood that was turning black from the heat of the Santa Annas that drahgged a blanket of hot across Southern California that summer. She said she tripped; her Chuck Taylor laces the color of newspaper that hung lopsided from her shoes were caked with blotches of blood, those same laces that were tied only on major holidays till we were twenty two.

She said she tripped. How many times had we all stumbled up those stairs? Her hands hit the warped flakey painted wood first, leaving hot scrapes across her palms, followed by her knees on the steps leaving dirt skids on her jeans, the chocolate milk bottle was sent kidding across the porch hitting a potted plant that sent a crack through the neck of the bottle.

Our mother used to press cold milk bottles against our bumps and bruises when we were younger children. This is where the bottle shattered between her palms as she pressed her hands against the cool glass.

My stomach lurched. It wasnt the blood that got me, it was the smell. The hot metal smell that made you feel like you were sucking on a mouthful of lose change. I could hear children playing in the backyard next door. The clank of Tonka Trucks, the kitter of jacks, and the subtle swish of hoola hoops.

She turned and looked at me.

"I tripped." She said.

For a second I thought I was watching myself bleeding there on the porch swing.

"Okay." I said.

I swallowed hard, turned and walked into the house. I walked calmly through the house, out the back door to the garage. It smelled of wood rot and decomposing old clothes. Like the dressing room of a thrift store. I knelt down and pulled our mothers sewing kit and our fathers tackle box, and for a second I could have laughed. For the first time our parents hobbies, that equally annoyed the eachother, were actually something that could share a common ground. Though I knew they wouldnt find the nervous humor in it that I did. I grabbed a slim needle and a length of fishing line. I felt my shirt stick to me as I stood and turned to the garage door. The sweat winding its way down the part between my braided pigtails. The winds kicked up as I closed the garage door, sparking the animal urge inside me to bolt. The last thing I needed to do was alert anyone.

I walked back through the house, the smell of dinner being cooked by our mother wafting through the livingroom, the sizzle of the black cast iron pan as she poured in some kind of sauce. I opened the closet door looking for anything to clean up the blood. Had I taken a towel from the linen closet we would both be caught for sure. Somehow mothers have an odd catalogue of things like that. I found an old baby blanket, some pinesol, and a book of matches. I walked back outside to find the porch swing empty. Panic dropped in my stomach like hot rocks.

I followed the trail of blood and yoohoo she left to a crawl space under the porch where we used to hide as children. I poured the pinesol onto the bloodied porch swing leaving everything in a pink flakey wash. The baby blanket didnt help, the pinesol seemed to disolve its fibers leaving everything covered in a purple pine scented fuzz, it would have to do."

I don't know where this one came from. For one I don't have a twin sister, nor was I raised in a house with a porchswing.

I think I should have had a twin though, it would have been nice.

First and foremost

I have absolutely nothing to say. Isn't that just the way. Finally get some room to speak your mind and now Ive got nothing to say. Give me a minute.