Like a baby harp seal, I’m all white. My forearms are thickly bandaged, heavy as clubs. My thighs are wrapped tightly, too; white gauze peeks out from the shorts Nurse Ava pulled from the lost and found box behind the nurses’ station.
Like an orphan, I came here with no clothes. Like an orphan, I was wrapped in a bedsheet and left on the lawn of Regions Hospital in the freezing sleet and snow, blood seeping through the flowered sheet.
The security guard who found me was bathed in menthol cigarettes and the flat stink of machine coffee. There was a curly forest of white hair inside his nostrils.
He said, “Holy Mother of God, girl, what’s been done to you?”
My mother didn’t come to claim me.
But: I remember the stars at night. They were like salt against the sky, like someone spilled the shaker against very dark cloth.
That mattered to me, their accidental beauty. The last thing I thought I might see before I died on the cold, wet grass.
-Girl in Pieces
Taking it easy this evening. I plan on taking a really nice bath. I want to light candles, make chamomile tea and put on my playlist to listen to. I want to do a little light reading. I reverted back to the pages of this really dark tale from inside a psych-ward. A book I received at Christmas. I don’t ordinarily listen to music while reading (as I generally read in silence), but after the volume is adjusted it seems wonderful. Afterwards, I plan on watching horror films until I pass out.
I promise. I have a bunch of creepy book reviews in the works just specifically for the blog. ♡
I find that I have always been attracted to dark things, not blood and gore, per se, but morbid fantasies and all of the deepest places that the mind will lead you, if you follow it. I like forests with abandoned cottages; windows shattered, moss and wildflowers growing in all of the nooks and crannies, an abandoned locket with a grainy, black and white photograph cut unevenly into a heart. Or decadent horror, where everyone is done up in lace and jewels, but there is a woman floating face down in the lake, while everyone else is at the ball. Or a banquet where, beneath the covering of the main course, there is a disembodied head, eyes and mouth wide open. Of course, suburbia can be eerie, as well. I have always thought of it that way, anyway. Kids on their bikes after dark searching for ghouls. Girls sitting cross-legged in a dimly lit bedroom that smells like frankincense, bony hands hovering over a Ouija board. Then there are fairies, monsters, vampires. The glimmer of wings in the dark. The girl that you thought that you saw in the forest, all flesh and disheveled hair. Crawling through a broom closet and finding your way into the lair of the beast, be it animal or man. I find that dark things can be dark, but they can also be clever, thrilling, beautiful and insightful. That is what I like most about them.
So I find my photographs constantly changing → my inner artist battling a civil war → I have so many different styles. It feels like an identity crisis sometimes.
Whenever I read about people struggling to describe or identify themselves, it often makes me think about myself and my own difficulties with this issue. Sometimes, I feel as though I have such a firm grasp on who I am, what I like, the experiences that I am composed of and the people that I am connected to. And other times, with a frightening sort of clarity, I feel very disconnected from myself and everyone around me. I start to wonder if these things are really who I am or if this is merely a sort of shell that I have fabricated for the sake of other people viewing me positively. I often wonder if, beyond this shell, I am much worse, much less interesting and much more hollow.
But then I have wonderful friends to remind me that not everything is so simply defined. We are allowed to have multiple interests. Individuality isn’t a myth. It’s a real live thing.
And being a artist means evolving. Constantly.
So maybe it’s more like my life is an art exhibit → there is always something bizarre and beautiful and new in the works.