my manic and I.

the thing is, you’ll never be better, but you’re good enough for me.

wickedfemale — Sat, 18 May 2013 18:05:17 -0400

the thing is, you’ll never be better, but you’re good enough for me.

how to run away and never get caught

wickedfemale — Sat, 04 May 2013 11:13:00 -0400

stop caring about everyone. try to forget what your mother’s voice sounds like. don’t leave a note. don’t miss a single soul. after all, they are the reason you’re leaving.
remember that you can’t run away from your loneliness any more than you can run away from your skeleton. it lives inside your bones, and it’s coming with you.
belong. belong, finally, somewhere, wherever you wind up. adopt the local accent when you’re buying gum as gas stations and slur your speech (already drunk, 8am) in colloquial slang at the woman slinging burgers at the only diner in eighty miles.
hide only in plain site.
tuck words of reassurance in your back pocket. reread the creased, coffee-stained paper under suburban streetlights at dusk and remember why you are there.
find a good partner in crime. hold their hand tightly, and don’t let go. together you are invisible, invincible; too broken for anyone to call back home.

i’ve been trying to write you a love letter for years, but i’m afraid i’m not good...

wickedfemale — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 17:52:00 -0400

i’ve been trying to write you a love letter for years, but i’m afraid i’m not good enough.

dear *****,

look, i would love to be in love with you. i’m pretty sure i am, when we’re on the phone and night and i can hear you smile when i call you beautiful. you’re so fucking beautiful. the words “i’m so in love with you” are so fucking beautiful and they slide off my tongue and into your ears so easily. god, i love you so much. there i go again. here we go again. i’m so in love with you is only half of the truth. i’m so in love with you, but you’ve always loved me more. and listen, i’m so fucking broken. the truth is, you’d be so much better off without me, because no matter how in love with you i am, i’ll always be just a little more in love with myself and her and my bio teacher when she wears her hair down and that squeaky-voiced gummy bear girl and alison brie and anybody with blue eyes. the truth is, i’m so in love with you, but i’m afraid it’s not enough. look, i’m sorry, but probably not as sorry as i ought to be.

half truths, II

wickedfemale — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 17:15:21 -0400

i don’t know how to write love letters, at least not to you, but i’m afraid that’s what this is.

dear *****,
look, i think you’re beautiful. sometimes i think about what it would be like if i could call you something more than mine and it makes me cry and hide under my blankets. listen, people used to fall in love with me, but i didn’t care about those people, i cared about you. the truth is, your name ends in lie and isn’t short for anything. the truth is, you’re my least favourite spelling, and i’m sorry. that beautiful pregnant spanish teacher i used to always talk about has the same name as you only hers is only three letters. i used to think about her at night before i fell asleep sometimes and the only difference is i knew she’d never love me back. i used to cry myself to sleep. i don’t remember the first time i wanted to kiss you but i remember wanting to swallow knives every single time you told me you’d never feel the same. i don’t remember falling in love with you, but i remember falling in love with her, and i’m sorry. look, i told you this was a poem and i was lying, but so were you.

half truths

wickedfemale — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 16:05:00 -0400

this isn’t a love letter. i don’t know how to write those, at least not to you.

dear *****,
look, even if i don’t write your name everyone will know who this is for. look, i don’t care. i met you a long time ago and i never meant to care about anything, then. i wasn’t alone yet. people used to fall in love with me. that sounds like a lie, but listen, when i first met you i didn’t have to babysit my own ego. i had other people to do that for me. the truth is, your name ends with lie and i don’t know why i ever expected anything else. the truth is, i never meant to care about anything but i did. i don’t remember falling in love with you but i remember being jealous of every boy you told me about, and even more of the girls. i don’t remember when everyone else left me but i remember the first time i wanted to swallow knives when you told me about your wild friday nights. look, this isn’t a love letter and it isn’t beautiful, but neither are you.

What's the best book you've ever read?

wickedfemale — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 22:30:00 -0400

daniel handler’s the basic eight (although i could make a case for any of his books). -n

oryx and crake by margaret atwood is one of the best books I have ever read. -a

Is this blog over too? :/

wickedfemale — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 12:00:04 -0400

nothing is over. we are working very hard to keep it that way.

my body is in ruinsmy body is held back with yellow caution tapeand separated from the curiousby a...

teensweetheart — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 22:28:00 -0400

my body is in ruins
my body is held back with yellow caution tape
and separated from the curious
by a shroud-laid rope

they all come rushing,
come touching, come looking
for pieces big enough to salvage
and take under their shirts
with them to show their friends
back home

they don’t whisper about
the girls who are whole because
they want to know about
the ruins of Rome

they want to know what ruined
her, they want to know how
to survive it

they actually think that they
could survive you.

dear v, i have always wanted you. yours, k i sleep with this note under my pillow. someday, i think,...

wickedfemale — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 20:44:00 -0400

dear v,

i have always wanted you.

yours, k

i sleep with this note under my pillow. someday, i think, these words will seep into my brain and i will no longer doubt them. i know this two-step by heart, the way i have memorized the curve of each of your purple-inked letters, your purple-bruised hips.
i do not want you wrapped around my finger; only around my waist.

dear k,

i have always wanted you, but never like this.

tangentially yours, v

this is the sound a heart makes when it splits in half. i want to lock myself in my room but it’s too full of you, the pillowcase, the records, the glow-in-the-dark stars. you’re not dying, my mother reminds me. i wish i could believe her.

dear v,

i know about her. it’s okay. i don’t see how anyone could not be in love with you.

still yours, e

nothing about anything is fair but least of all this. i want you to still love me but it’d almost be easier if you didn’t. i’ll keep breaking you. i don’t want you to keep being broken.

dear e,

i’m sorry.

yours for as long as you want me, v

i’ll want you forever. it’s my fatal flaw, or maybe yours. i’m your hamartia and you’re mine and we’ll drag each other down all the way to the bottom of the ocean. we could finally rest there. i want to die by your hand.

dear v,

i don’t want to be the ghost that haunts you forever.

chimerically yours, k

i don’t want that, either, but no one has ever paid attention to what i wanted. you, for instance, and her. but you’re everywhere. in the letters tacked up on my wall, my favorite shirt, roughly half of the stuffed animals on my bed. all my monsters taste like you.

dear k & e,

i can’t keep pretending i deserve you. this is something like good-bye.

someones, v

all names have been changed to protect the innocent and, more importantly, the guilty.

I can’t keep pretending that you don’t engulf me in flamesI can’t keep pretending...

teensweetheart — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 17:08:00 -0400

I can’t keep pretending that you don’t engulf me in flames
I can’t keep pretending that I wouldn’t gladly be consumed
I can’t keep pretending that you wouldn’t gladly consume

I’m sorry for being more of the fire than the aloe vera.

teensweetheart — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 22:17:00 -0400

I’m sorry for being more of the fire than the aloe vera.

i can’t write you anything worth reading. i hope if i killed myself it would break you.

wickedfemale — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 01:30:51 -0400

i can’t write you anything worth reading. i hope if i killed myself it would break you.

When you're old and what not and you start making a will, what are you going to leave/give to people who you care for in your life and why? Sorry if this is odd.

teensweetheart — Tue, 26 Mar 2013 01:47:00 -0400

I’ve saved this in our drafts for a long time and I very much wish I knew the answer to that but I don’t. How could I? I am a seventeen-year-old kid and the future is absolutely terrifying to me. Sure, there are people who I would do anything to keep in my life up to the point where I would actually have to make a choice about what and who go on my will, but I can’t guarantee they’ll still be apart of my life then. (Which is fucking terrifying.) And speaking to the fact that i’m only seventeen, I haven’t acquired nearly as many things as I hope to so I don’t even know what would go on it! Hypothetically, I would give my lovers and friends and children (if that happens. again, i have no idea what’s going to happen..) old journals, and photographs, and jewelry. Pieces of mine that they explicitly said that they wanted, and things that I could be remembered by. -a

i’m banking on outliving my parents. i love them a lot, but i’m not ready to die and i don’t want to watch their descent into dementia. i’ll leave all of my journals and pictures to my girlfriend, who i assume will be my wife sometime before i perish, and all my jewelry to our children. if i have any money, my family can split it with the charity of my choice. the scientific community will probably inherit my organs, should they be intact at the time of my death. -n

hey uh this blog has 400 followers and that’s really cool because it was never supposed to be...

wickedfemale — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 23:03:56 -0400

hey uh

this blog has 400 followers

and that’s really cool because it was never supposed to be anything more than allie & i whispering at each other

so thank you for listening in

it terrifies me when i tell you you’re beautiful and you can’t bring yourself to believe...

wickedfemale — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 21:59:11 -0500

it terrifies me when i tell you you’re beautiful and you can’t bring yourself to believe me.

hi, i'm icarus, i'm falling

wickedfemale — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 20:50:00 -0500

every since i was little, i wanted to fly. i used to have these dreams about being a bird, and i would wake up on the floor next to my bed with bruises covering my arms.

ever since i was little, i wanted to escape.

when i turned fifteen, i asked my father for a pair of wings.

the wings were constructed, twice my length in width and half of it in height, of feathers. cemented in wax. colors that would make you feel like you were already flying. i could feel them on my skin from across the room.

he instructed me to pray over the feathers. to the gods of Anemoi, for an alliance with the wind, so that i should never be forced into a storm.

he instructed me to avoid the sun, to avoid the sea. “stay away from anything that glitters. it’s a trick.”

what it feels like to soar:

breath
butterflies colonizing your stomach
freedom
power
orgasm
everything i’d ever wanted
eternal
ethereal
rebellion wrapped around your ankles

sensation overpowered warning. the sun felt warm on my back, warm on the wings that were so much a part of my body i could feel with them as well as i could with the skin on my arms. the ocean shimmered, beckoned me from down below. helios winked at me, asked me to come closer.

by the end of it all, i guess i considered myself a god, too succeeded to heed caution. i flirted back while he sent flames sadistically down my back. me, too struck by power to notice the feathers falling into the sea. one by one like little birds, they chirped. like little sirens. follow me, they chanted. follow me. to the sea, to the sea.

so i did. i flew up, said hello to the sky, thanked him for having me. up, up, up. until i lost my balance. i was sailing, ascending, it felt too good to stop. falling, even, tasted magnificent.

you forget everything when you’re falling. take that as metaphorically as you please. i forgot that i was alive. i forgot that i could die. in retrospect, i should have seen it coming.

i mean, i did, literally. the waves rushing up towards me. i could smell the salt. i could feel the waves, rocking me, away, away, away. i knew what was coming, really. i knew how the ocean would feel on my skin, how my feathers would look, circled around me like a halo for my whole body. i just didn’t account for the water in my lungs, that’s all. i forgot the suffocation.

it didn’t feel much like dying, but then again, i’ve only died once.

does anyone want to collab on a series of modern retellings of greek myths?

wickedfemale — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 18:56:18 -0500

finally you are both posting again srt of that was beautiful i miss both of you

wickedfemale — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 22:15:12 -0500

it was time to come back -n

(& thank you, darling)

symphonic [alternate]

wickedfemale — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 22:03:00 -0500

i. opening sonata

when i met you, you were grinning and your knees were bleeding. your teeth and your crimson-stained skin made my stomach dip, sent something inside my ribcage careening into something else. when i met you, it was september and the leaves hadn’t turned yet and i never stood a chance.

ii. slow movement (adagio)

you kissed me the day the first leaves started to fall. your tongue weaved between my teeth with a languid laziness, more confident than anything i’d ever tasted.

iii. minuet

it snowed exactly four times that year.
one, on halloween. our first public appearance together, some party your friends were throwing. i didn’t want to be there, particularly, but i did want to be wherever you were, clinging to the perpetual warmth of your skin, aimlessly chasing the butterflies you placed behind my knees, at the back of my neck, beneath my ribcage, in the tips of my fingers. everything was bright and loud and alcohol-stained. when you noticed the first flakes falling, you screeched with the jubilance of a small child on christmas eve, grabbed my hand and dragged me outside. you radiated heat, still, somehow, half naked in the snow. you caught snowflakes on your tongue and introduced them to mine. you were so beautiful, then. i loved you so much.
two, the middle of an uneventful november. you took me skiing and you spent the night. i woke up with more bruises than i could count.
three, thanksgiving. your family never liked me, and everyone was grateful for the distraction. (you took your little cousins sledding in the middle of the night. the way they looked at you made me love you more than i thought was possible.)
four, the hazy middle of december, or maybe it was february. i never drove you anywhere. i was always your passenger, your sidekick. something dutiful, persistent.* i never would’ve left, you know. i could’ve stayed forever, like that, by your side.

iv. closing sonata

it didn’t snow again for the rest of the winter, and everything melted by march. the ground was bare when you bared your teeth at me for the last time, darted out of a toothy kiss. i can’t, anymore, you told me, and i still haven’t figured out what you meant.

* the phrase “something dutiful. persistent” is borrowed from marty mcconnell’s “miniature bridges, your mouth.”

** original here. **

symphonic

wickedfemale — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 22:03:00 -0500

i. opening sonata

ii. slow movement (adagio)

you kissed me the day the first leaves started to fall. your tongue weaved between my teeth with a languid laziness, more confident than anything i’d ever tasted.

iii. minuet

it snowed exactly four times that year.
one, on halloween. our first public appearance together, some party your friends were throwing. i didn’t want to be there, particularly, but i did want to be wherever you were, clinging to the perpetual warmth of your skin, aimlessly chasing the butterflies you placed behind my knees, at the back of my neck, beneath my ribcage, in the tips of my fingers. everything was bright and loud and alcohol-stained. when you noticed the first flakes falling, you screeched with the jubilance of a small child on christmas eve, grabbed my hand and dragged me outside. you radiated heat, still, somehow, half naked in the snow. you caught snowflakes on your tongue and introduced them to mine. you were so beautiful, then. i loved you so much.
two, the middle of an uneventful november. you took me skiing and you spent the night. i woke up with more bruises than i could count.
three, thanksgiving. your family never liked me, and everyone was grateful for the distraction. (you took your little cousins sledding in the middle of the night. the way they looked at you made me love you more than i thought was possible.)
four, december 14th. a date i still choke on. it wasn’t even snowing when we left the bar. you weren’t even blurry. you were dizzyingly sober, you promised, and put your mouth on mine with the steady clarity of our first kiss. i’m not drunk. if i were, could i do this? you got behind the wheel, and it wasn’t even snowing. it wasn’t even snowing, so why should we have looked for black ice clinging to the road? it wasn’t snowing, we were careening, you were bleeding but not grinning.

iv. closing sonata

at the funeral, i stood awkwardly off to the side from your nuclear family’s atomic cluster. they never liked me, and your mother was convinced it was my fault. i wore all black, even though you’d always shunned tradition. you would have scoffed at me. you always rejected convention, you took your little cousins sledding at midnight on thanksgiving, you kissed me with your whole body and with snowflakes on your tongue, you bled carelessly while grinning. you were, you did. you’re dead.

** alternate ending here. **