Porcelain

Loved up on powdered ambition,
my heart has collapsed.
Look at the faces i've aquired,
you kissed me.
Sparks fly when were together,
sounds like slow suicide.
This addiction is effortless,
my emotions are disabled.
Form a straight line,
credit card at the ready.
Inhale desperacy,
exhale regret.
Time is 4.34am.
Plutôt mourir qu'être grosse

le petit piaf

My intention was to frequently post blogs but alas, procrastination set in. Even though it was a click away, my gaze firmly remained, just like the rest of the social netowrking mongers, on facebook, wearing out the F5 button.

Come on Milord, sit down at my table. It's cold outside. I know you very well but you never saw me. I'm just a girl of the harbour, a shadow in the street.

Edith Piaf, my heart melts. Her voice is truely phenomenal.

Stigma

Illuminated but very feint,
This spoiled identity seems to manage itself.
Disqualified from the normal’s,
This mask is beginning to crack,
Such an unruly audience.
Who wants to be socially adept anyway?
Bones wrapped in skin,
She’s dying to be thin.
Her finger ridden mouth,
Is stuck on repeat.

Concrete Jungle

A smile graciously sits on my face,
out of respect.
Happiness is so overrated.
The sun is flickering as trees fly past it.
Or is this flickering sun just my stability
dwindling away?
The clouds paint the sky a disconcerting grey
and the remains of my stability have become
an iridescent smear of goldenrod,
barely able to stay positioned.
One drink, two drinks, then the drink takes me.
The knife sits on the plate,
complimented by the fork.
His stomach rumbles at the emptiness.
Metal skeletons graze the streets,
dimly lit and statuesque.

Caucasian Powder

Straight lines and unopened doors,
Someone pass me the key.
Let’s assure ourselves
With verbal skills,
As we crawl into the dark..
Some habits just leave a scar.
I’ve peeled off my eyes,
As my pupils dilate,
Before the mirror blinds me.
The cracks under my skin,
Emerge and my skin tone is
A withered corpse.
Minutes blister into hours,
My heart has become a clot.
In the end I became,
A moral panic.
My mother’s weight,
1 gram.

Diaries of an Everyday Model.

One: Nicotine smiles and television eyes set to black and white. Bathed in klieg lights and Robert Smith on repeat. Smile with your ketamine teeth, sounds like smeared lipstick. The world feels like a funeral. Today I’ve eaten nothing other than my recycled image and the most over used sentence 'I’m ok'

Two: There’s a skeleton in the basement, his hearts as brittle as glass. My mother’s expression is static and the radio is playing Joy Division. The weather outside is a customary grey and the air is a diluted sense of despair. The question is, “what kind of mask shall I wear today?”



Three: The media have become infection. Glamour was in a metal shell, like elevator music to an atrophied girl. Her mouth had become a vacant cut. 


Four: This world seems foreign, I have become alien.

Five: There's a hole where my heart should be and I’m driving at 100 mph to a destination commonly known as failure. One hand holds a barely lit cigarette and the other clutching a gun aimed at my head with absolute precision. 



Six: This misery machine is about to break down. The weather is condescendingly warm and I feel nothing but frostbitten and lifeless. The streets are lined with dull-witted mongers with a paralysed grin with any thoughts of difference being completely exotic. Music has become the only breathable atmosphere, inhale.



Seven: The world has become a dead celebrity circus.