Saturday, February 25, 2012


   Remember when you were in Maths class and had to calculate something, but the number you got in the end was just too weird or too perfect?

   Confusion is a thing that many of us feel. It is there without us knowing of it, but it makes sure it appears right when we have nothing else to do. When we have nothing to think about. When we are empty.

   How do I know if I have an eating disorder if I have never been diagnosed, but have an unhealthy behavior towards food for almost a year now? What if I am eating normally and taking laxatives, 9 at a time? What if, one day, I feel good and eat much, but then throw up until there is nothing left? What if I can binge as if I had never eaten before, but also eat nothing for five days? What if I used to spend three or four days a week only drinking liquids? Is it disordered eating? Is it an eating disorder? Or when I used to exercise until I could not breathe anymore, almost crying, muscles dying? Or, perhaps, when I feel paranoid whenever I go to bathroom during the night? When I never go to the same pharmacy twice?
   How do I know if I am depressed if I am angry and hateful in the morning, happy until evening, and suicidal before going to sleep? What was it, when I wrote a "Goodbye" note? What was it, when I sat right in the middle of the house for minutes, laughing as hard as I could, and half an hour later slicing my body with a broken glass? What was it, when I sat on the ledge of the window, not knowing if I should jump or not; but forgot the episode the next week? What about, when I have to see a psychiatrist for my changing moods (or the "nothing" feeling) which cause me to self-harm?

   What can I think about myself when I remember having visual and auditory hallucinations? "But, Dad, I swear Mom was right there, reading her e-mails on her blackberry," or "Wait.. I hear something ringing. What? You can't hear it? But it is here!" Or when I almost start crying because of the "bang, bang, bang" sound in my head? Or on some Saturdays, when I used to lie in bed and didn't want to get out because I wanted to avoid my grandparents, who I could swear were downstairs talking to my parents.

   How do I know if I have an eating disorder or not, am depressed or not, am insane or not; how do I know if I am okay or not?

Sunday, February 19, 2012

Emilie Autumn - Willow

I only write love songs to those whom I don't love,
I only reach for him who's tied to someone else's glove..

Picture taken by Chanelle.

Friday, February 17, 2012

My last poem to you

I told you to stop and to go away
To leave me alone and stop calling me sweet
You do not listen, whatever I say
You still dream of the day when we'll meet.

Daily, you remind me how much you will miss
The days coming after the day when we'll kiss
"Take me as a friend or don't take me at all"
You still think, someday for you I'll fall.

So I tell you what you want to hear
You come closer, I feel fear
I feel anger and despair
Nothing that you do is fair.

You don't know me, dear young man
Come and catch me if you can...

"Do you love me that much?" you say
"Look, I'd tell you to go away
I don't love you and never will
How can you imagine that love I will feel?"

"Okay, I got it.
Have a nice life."
It's you who was stupid.
I'd kill you with a knife.

Now you try to make me sad
So I could tell you how sorry I am
No way, "dear," you got me mad.
You made me hate every single man.

I never wanted to be hot
You think I'm something I'm not
And you say that I look pretty
Your words, my dear, are very creepy.

This is a poem without any meaning
Like our relationship – without any feeling
This is a poem to describe my goodbye
I won't say "hi" again for the rest of my life.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Love poem to someone I don't love

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Not enough I've bled
It's not enough for you.

The sky is black
The rain is cold
You wanna kiss my neck
You don't think you're too old.

And still I write a poem of love
That is not returned, never shared
It's a dead, stinky dove
I admit you got me scared.

I feel abused, I do feel raped
But I'm not allowed to tell
That's why you'll never be ashamed
It feels like fucking hell.

Your words are like a hand
It hits me furtively
It's okay, I understand
It's not done... abusively.

I'm a little girl
You just wanna fuck me
So you're not a criminal
Any more innocent, I doubt you could be.

I'm drowning, can't breathe anymore
It's not enough, you still want more
"Give me my heart back"
You just come and kiss my neck.

Can't you hear me, criminal?
Give the heart back to the girl
Or else she'll make you bleed
Just they way you did.

Pun very intended there,
You sliced my body, but don't care
You sharpened your sword
Without hearing a word.

Didn't hear me crying
Didn't see me dying
The smell of death, you didn't smell
I'll make you know the taste of hell.

I'm just 'nother Lolita Haze
Lost in this dark, fucking maze
Ruled by men with kindness filled
They make sure lil' girls get killed…

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

- Chapter 1 - Part FOUR.

   This is the fourth and last part of the first chapter. I can't believe I have finished editing the first chapter. This needs to be celebrated somehow. Or, whatever. Who cares. Anyways, here is the previous part, if you haven't read it yet. Below is the last part. Enjoy!

            Little did I know of what that would turn into. The kid inside me is dead, I know it because I've killed her. I've murdered her and left her alone. The body is soon going to die, and the mind is already filled with thoughts and plans and ideas, all swarming through my brain like millions of flies – "Get out! Get out!" – So why should I be alive? Why should I live a life that is led by strife and madness? Life is a nuisance..
            That's when my mind gave birth to my new self: Chanelle. It took me long enough to come up with this name. It is noble, or so I believe, and makes me think of a pale girl with long, dark hair, who has never seen the sunlight. This name would give anyone the obviously wrong idea that the girl seems to strong to be weak, too happy to be suicidal, to ordinary to be mad.. Too okay to be anything wrong with her.
            One night I was talking to a girl. She was my best friend at the time, I could swear on heaven that she would be my best friend forever. So, on that night, I said to her:
            "I feel as if the old me has died. The kid inside me died."
            "You killed her," she said. "You grew up."
            Wrong. Yes, I did grow up, but that doesn't turn you into a totally different person. Or maybe it does, never mind. But I know I'm not who I used to be anymore, and I miss that person. I miss the innocent kid who believed in Santa, who would pray every night, who would say "I love you, Mum," and so, so many other sides of my childhood.. though the black and cold memories will never be forgotten. Still, I will miss them.
            In my opinion, the kid died too soon. I have murdered her too soon, they have murdered her too soon. They've murdered me. She was so beautiful, so innocent. She was laughing, she had friends, everyone loved her. They said she was a happy kid, a smart kid, and they had reasons to believe that. I mean, why would a child not be happy? There are no reasons for a child to be sad, right? Children do not think... feel... or so they say. As for being smart, all (sane) parents call their kids "smart, beautiful, intelligent," because they want something, someone to be proud of. They need to have something to brag about, as if said kids belonged to them. As if we're their properties...
            Her hair was gorgeous, so were the eyes, which were a shade of nut-brown, an undefined color between brown and caramel. They always looked like they were laughing, in their own, subtle way. And the body was not thin, not chubby (until the age of eight), not too tall and not too short (again, until she grew up). She was a sweet kid. She was smart, she loved learning new things, because this is what little kids do. They are curious and want to now everything, hoping that, someday, they will be "someone." And guess who taught them that? No need to mention it, you can answer it for yourself.
            She loved her parents and her brother and her whole family. She would hug them and love them, despite them yelling and shouting and her. Despite them telling her that she was not good enough, never good enough. Despite everything they put her through, crying, strangling, sadness and later, cutting and all the "extra features." She showed them she cared. She would not disappoint them, she was almost perfect. They always praised her and were proud of her, and that's why all the kids wanted to be like her. She didn't know anything of life, but that's why she was happy. There was nothing to hurt her, nothing to make her cry. Or that's what she thought, at least. Regardless of the pain and the tears, she was happy, she had no clue about the cruelty of the people surrounding her. And even more, she had a future. She was fine and that could be seen. If you cared, you could have seen her. She had hope in her eyes. Warmth in her smile. Love in her heart. But most importantly, she was alive.