beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

30.12.06

i dont want anybody to read this entry please.

so then.
why is everyone's heart set on making me feel even worse today.
so go on then, kiss me even if i just want to cry.
show me a picture of your ex's tits it's totally fine.
tell me off for wanting to get fucked.
call me a slut.
make fun of me.
hurt my throat.

i have realised im unhappy. i dont know i dont know. i just dont feel in control of myself anymore i feel like i am going through the motions in every aspect of my life. i feel like i felt when i was on so much codeine. just disconnected. something's stopping from doing everything i want to do.
an OH OH OH OH OH MY god.
what am i even doing to myself?
oh. i have fucked my whole life up havent i. for the sake of a few quid some drugs some rain some lies some dirty dancefloors.
i just fucking, i dont want to speak to you if ALL YOU CAN DO IS BE OK. I JUST WANT TO FUCKING DIE TODAY I WISH MY DREAM HAD SWALLOED ME UP AND SPIT ME OUT THE OTHER SIDE OF CONCIOUSNESS. I JUST WISH I DIDNT EVEN KNOW ANYBODY I DIDNT KNOW LOVE I DIDNT KNOW BOYS THESE BOYS WHO WERE ARE WILL BE IN LOVE WITH ME I JUST WANT THEM ALL TO FUCK OFF. IM SO ANGRY. IM SO SAD. I AM SO FUCKING FED UP OF HOW PATHETIC I AM HE IS THE OTHER HE IS. WHY IS EVERY SUBJECT IN MY LIFE SO FUCKING TRIVIAL. I MEAN, FUCK YOU NIETZSCHE - ITS UNAVOIDABLE because things do matter in relativity its just fucking boring.
FUCKING BORING MAN. all of everything bores me. i just want my own life back again. i dont want to have to traipse everywhere looking at dead squirrels and drinking coffee or riding buses or going out at night and pretending to be happy. i just want you all to leave me alone and let me do the things which make me feel sad if i dont do them.
like work and art and just OH I JUST AM SO TERRIBLE. what terrible hands terrible stomach terrible eyes i live inside. i say all this but i know i wont do it. i dont have the drive. i want drive more than anything more than even happiness or love or anything.
i want my ginger hair back. i want the summer back where all i did was draw and the pencil became my hand my hand became the paper my love was the lines i drew.
why now am i the one always being upset and stuff when usually i am the listener.

it is raining. and dark. oh pathetic fallacy.

i hate that smell of stew. it reminds me of the time i was sick.

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28.12.06

last night

i had a dream.
in my dream there were losses. in a bowling alley, a shop i think we were- i dont know. my mother lost her things and was inconsolable.
outside we huddled, jack my dad my mother and i, with me under a yellow knitted blanket. the buildings in the street were made from those pretend red bricks, everything was dusty everyone wore coats. there were loads of couples around, older balding men with black or grey hair, beige coats.
the next bit is patchy - i remember strong manly arms reaching around me reaching around my legs around between my legs and me trying to push them away.
i remember a film called the black window the we were going to see.
the man who reached around me marched us off to a plateau in the street behind some gates, i could hear crying and screaming. on the plateau there was a man with a shaved head torturing my friend. to the side 3 of my other friends were sitting on wooden benches screaming and crying; they had bruises, swollen eyes, bloody mouths, cuts from their arms. one friend was screaming. the other friend was covering her eyes with film negatives, sometimes trying to fit them like monicles between her dark brows and cold cheeks, sheilding her eyes from the torture. the next friend had the worst injuries and was shouting to the torturer what do to next. this was the torture - they had to give instructions or they themselves would be hurt, or the current victim would be killed.
the current victim has thin needles in their face, were being sliced. the instructions shouted were vile and i had to watch.
an african man appeared and screamed at the torturer. the victim was forced suddenly all the way through a fine grid of blades and i saw their faceas they disappeared below the dark wooden stage.
soon after this i was in a tiny cinema with roxanne - an advert came up about using a condom. the advety was baby pink and mint green. the audience laughed; it was ironic in some way.
i shouted about how shit films were getting, how i always expected them to be good and they werent. i felt sick at what i had just seen but i didnt know if it was real or cinema.

then i woke up next to jack and everything was ok.

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17.12.06

crossed and kept me safe.

anyway so here is a poem i wrote a long long time ago which i never liked. but i just found it and i think i like it. i never write poems anymore.

Tonight
Is the first night
In so long
That I have turned the light off and not thought
Of any of you.

I would lie
Arms crossed around myself
Arms crossed and kept me safe.
Imagining the sound of the
Door-swings-open
Or the TV-left-on
And fall asleep smiling.

But instead I lie
Eyes open
Forcing objects to make themselves known
Remembering books I never finished
Feeling regret
At a stack of yellow paper.

Tonight
The false glow of the lights outside
Make it all so real
And I cant contain how much I hate it.

I would lie
Being awoken by the abruptness of my sleep.
I would think
Of my eyes as shells,
Filled with fluid,
Lined with lines,
And let them get dry.

Tonight is now older,
So much so it becomes the day.
The sounds I hear now are:
The door slams shut
The TVs broken
And the beep of you on a tape.

I dont listen.

And I am finding it so hard to sleep.

I listen to the footsteps made by a clock
Walking through my wall
And the stone of my house.
Like the street outside, the open hallway
Like the cold wooden stage
And like your watch -
I give up trying.

i am getting ready to write something so big. so big i just, i just cant even think of the shape or the size or the colour of it in my head i just know it's filled with lines upon lines upon thousands of lines of pure utter and unadulterated genius that it'll be like a cold cold cold blue wind blowing men in ties and creased trousers and business suits until their grey-an-black hair is gone and all that's left is my green sofa and the comfortable recognition of being fucking beautiful.

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14.12.06

company calls epilogue.

i have just stumbled upon a terrible realisation.
what if, one day, i myself become the guy in that deathcab song? and i instead am the one regretting a hugehugehuge mistake later on in life. oh, oh no.
i always thought it would be someone else. i suppose it must happen with every wedding - someone thinking "oh, shoot."

i dont know why but that song has always seemed very real to me. (i know it's just a song.)

honest-y.

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30.12.06

i dont want anybody to read this entry please.

28.12.06

last night

17.12.06

crossed and kept me safe.

14.12.06

company calls epilogue.