Mumbling

So as to be a compleat conundrum of myself, wild-haired, brawny backed.
What about the time and the sequins it took?
A hand to a mouth, a hen to a cage to a fox's teeth in the snow.
The bloodsnow. The bloodmoss.
Dried it all up, disappeared with the spring abloom with chrism flowers.
White flesh seasoned with the salt left over from evaporation.
This is all as it was heard post-mortem.

Age of Loneliness

I just need a place to write, well away from the watching eyes of everyone I know. Safe & anonymous where no one can judge me.

I've become wretched. As I knew I would. It really isn't a surprise. I knew it was coming to this as soon as I accepted the offer to come home. I may not know the details, but I almost always know what is coming. I get these feelings of dread.

Today I looked through a box of things my mother and I had saved from when I was between ten and thirteen, I think. Countless letters to a band I don't care to mention, lots of stories and poetry (none of it particularly good, but okay for a child of that age, I suppose.) What struck me most was the horrible sense of loneliness even then. I had quite a few imaginary friends. Even an imaginary boyfriend. I was very awkward at the time. I was a desperate soul even so young.

This sense of otherness, otherworldliness; this feeling of being different and not fitting in, not belonging to this world has haunted me for as long as I can remember. I have always been lonely. I can remember playing alone for hours, making up my songs, talking to my dolls and stuffed animals. It's no wonder I am so solitary and keep to myself. It's how my whole life has been.