confessions full of jack

i have no problems with destroying my history if it will help me build a better future.

confessions full of jack

i love hooded capes; i own many hoodies. once i have proven my worth to myself (i don't have high expectations as you might assume, i merely want to be a functional, decent, consistent human being) i will acquire a hooded cape and use it as my winter coat. it will have a secret pocket for my personal stash of lollipops.

confessions full of jack

if i ever did commit suicide i certainly wouldn't leave a note;
i wouldn't kill myself if i had anything left to say.

i was busy writing stories in my palms; i was busy and the word distraction was unknown to me. "one for stories, stories for one."

he was one of those boys who refused to remain within his skin. he wanted to cover the whole of existence; reality had to be covered in him. he couldn't have known what he was doing when he came to me and dipped my hands in his belly; -my palms need to be kept clean for stories, and to write is the only thing i truly like- he never asked.

the stories are having a hard time sticking to my palms now,and i do not like the stench of bile and blood beneath my nails. "my jaguar will lick me clean."

confessions full of jack

i do not want my memory to be erased;
i simply want to be erased from the memories of others.

confessions full of jack

i'd rather struggle with the weight of reality than be comforted by temporary illusions.

confessions full of jack

i have forgotten how it is to keep a truthful journal. my honesty flares up and burns out between the letters of a single word. i am ever consistent in my reluctance to any kind of commitment; no story is totally mine, some are always borrowed. i got so used to hiding my truth from prying eyes that i became hidden from myself during the process. 

it was like a cry for help; last night deep in dreams i heard a woman say "i know you, i feel you; i don't understand why i can't see you."