Craving murdering oneself is excruciating. Pondering until the sun comes up, planning the right moment and place, crying while harming oneself. It’s a disease, a repugnant virus I’ve been ashamed of for as long as I can remember.

Weakness is the quickest and the most undemanding path. Showing to be strong, bulletproof, requires an imparalleled effort. I cannot give up, that’s my true ending.

Wanting to murder oneself is still murdering oneself. Of course, besides my several flaws, I’ve got plenty of good qualities and I’m talentous. I can feel the Revolution flowing within me, I’m aware of my value and this rarely comes off my mind. I’ve got boundless plans and I find amusement in shaping my future, just as if then I’m not going to change my mind or as if life will follow my instructions.

When I carved my body, when I saw bruises on my legs, when my tears ran down ’til my breasts, a part of me was to die.

I’ll never get over my grief, it’s a part of who I am.

I’m alone. I’m alone with myself and that’s horrific. I think of shocking thoughts, I imagine ridiculous pictures. They’re scandalous and I’m freezed and I think: have I really just given birth to this abomination?

My scream for help is quiet, it’s a monitored cry which I believe I can always sigh out.

The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote ‘hopelessness’ or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e. the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.

– David Foster Wallace

I’ve never felt so alive.

@layalke 🐍


Night friend

▶ Do I wanna know? – Arctic Monkeys

Words might help when communicating, but music is in a whole new level.

It’s a torture. I can’t even drag on to the bathroom or to the kitchen to drink a little water, with one eye open and the other closed, that I know I won’t be able to just lay my wavy head on my two soft pillows, close my eyes and fall asleep again. I just physically won’t be able to. I’ll turn to the left side of my lonely warm bed, then to its right side; then my mind will tease me, resting for a couple lucky minutes, and eventually it’ll turn itself on. My mind is a switch I don’t have any power over.

The thing is that I’m not either completely woken up or sleepy, I stand in an eternal hellish limbo for at least the following two hours. So, at this point, I can’t delay his call any longer. Not anymore. I’d be quite cheeky and impolite, otherwise. Plus… what would be my other options? Staying still in my scrawny bed, looking up to the cieling? Carefully listening to the extremely loud clicking sound of my room clock?

Oh, no. I put on a sweater and I go barefoot downstairs, to my garden. As I’m living it, I get dream vibes all the time because everything around me is blurred and opaque.

Here he is. He is so handsomly beautiful without even trying, someone I’ve fallen for multiple times and whom I wouldn’t hesitate a single moment to take a step forward with, if he asked me to. 

While nearly everything my eyes lay on is confused and chaotic, he’s a beacon in a black night. He truly can enlighten my late times; when I look at him, he’s well-defined and neat.

As he lightens up a cigarette, I go and sit next to him on a green hostile bench.

Dwindling, I rest my heavy ached head on his left shoulder, while he caresses the latter of mine. My knees are touching my breast and my feet are mild, just as the arm he’s touching.

He places his cigarette on my lips, I try to inspire as much as the taste of his breath stays within me. My hands are still in my sweater pockets, so he takes off that long blue cilinder from my mouth.

He kisses me. The smell of his smoke pervades my entire rib cage. As he pushes aside a lock of my hair behind my ear, I lean forward. I want more. I want that next step. 

Just like every other night, I won’t get it. Within minutes, I fall asleep in his arms. I feel like a baby, while he strokes my rosy cheeks, my curved lips, my refined nose, my dark hair, with his hands. That feeling, that relaxing regenerative feeling of being loved and cared for, that’s my heaven. It almost fades away the worry I’ll get tomorrow morning, because I won’t remember any of this and still get the memory that something happened. Something had to.

If we could talk, I’d ask him why he’s so afraid of killing me.

Magic sleeping pill

▶ Happy little pill – Troye Sivan

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

In front of my little round bluish bathroom mirror, the dark circles under my eyes seem to be covered in the bluest veins. My eyes are a broke artist’s palette; a bit red, a bit orange, a bit brown. There’s a single small section of them which is yellow. It’s disgusting. Doing this makes me a snake.

I shake my head as if I want to scroll away the gross glance I’ve just given myself, I untie my hair from a ponytail. I quickly take off my knickers and a chemise I’ve been wearing for a few days, not really sure.

I check my wrists and ribs and groin, no open and infected cuts so far. I may not die this time, relieving. Abstinence makes me depressed.

My bathtub is now filled up with the coldest water. I know it because I’m leaving my left arm loose inside of it. Not on purpose, nor do I find it pleasing. It’s quicksand, even dark, filthy. I can’t see or feel my hand.

I won’t waste time, or my grip cracking-bones feelings will come back and haunt me, forcing my stay on that smelly matress over there, and right then I’ll be fucked. I’ll be in a sweat bath for hours, days even and every second passing, my pain will rise.
I take the syringe and put it on the mirror shelf,  lay the magic dust on the spoon basin. Lighter turnt on, my hand shakes while I put its flame under the steel. My right one, that was inside the tub, is black. I actually see everything black every now and then. Soon everything will get its colour back.

I can feel it warming up more and even more and when it’s fluid enough to be absorbed, I take a medium-sized cotton ball and sponge it.

I can already feel. And it’s good, I haven’t been able to feel anything for days. Running through my veins, cutting pieces of my bones and making them shapeless and majestically cracked, all of my blood inside of my head first, inside of my legs then, two separate body parts from my torso.

This won’t be the last time. I didn’t even inject and it’s already making me experience this connection to my soul. Oh no, you can bet it won’t be the last time.

I take off the plastic cap from the needle of my syringe and imbibe the potion through that white candid, still, with bits of dirt, ball.

I took off my ponytail before. Where’s my elastic band? On the side of the tub, which is now overflowed by water. I lean slantwise and forward to stop the tap and I almost fall. I could’ve died, not sober though. I don’t deserve to die sober.
I roll all the way up that blue elastic band to my upper forearm, just a few inches up away from that greenish vein.

It’s time, I’ve wanted to do so, so bad. I almost forgot to push the air out of my syringe. 

I clench a fist and, as I feel it coming and warming me up, it spreads out.

Better than any orgasms in the world. That warmth and strength which sew every cuts, repair those busted bones, lighten that darkening hand. It starts from my throat, like a soft punch and, as a long arm, it goes way down to my guts. I wouldn’t be able to talk neither if I wanted to.

I’m the queen of the world and nobody can fucking stop me now. I’ll take advantage of the power and energy I’m feeling now and get into the bathtub. I may fall asleep.

Everybody wants to be a poet

▶ Everybody wants to be a cat – The Aristocats

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Poems save my soul and writing them lift the weight of it I have to carry everyday. They’re my touchstone, my benchmark, my compass. Having written almost 20 poems in less than 16 years of life probably doesn’t make me a poet, I’m too young and inexperienced. Maybe one day I will, but who knows… this competition is ruthless. Everybody wants to be a poet and thinks they actually are. So, that begs the question: what makes you a poet and, above all, what makes you better than another one?
I guess it depends on the readers. What can make someone feel something, isn’t sure to be making another person feel the same. People are so changeable and fickle, different.

Well, of course, you can base your criteria to judge who’s the best in this area by analyzing the form, the external appearance of their poems: but, big news for the ones who loves to write prose and their idea of poem isn’t stuck in the 14th century with Chaucer, poets stopped caring about how a poem is formally written since last century. You can literally say “The sun is shining and the sky is blue” and, if you give it a title and decide that’s a poem, it is. Isn’t that terrific? 

Well, not really. At least, not in my opinion. I take the view that poems are made for those who are truly willing to understand them, not for those who need to learn them because their English teacher told them to. The world of poetry is a world apart and, call me selective, for the chosen few only. You don’t need Jesus from the Heavens to be told that you’re one of them, you just need to attend to it the majority of your time. It needs to be your passion, what makes you truly feel, what you live for and of, basically. I don’t think I’m being too exaggerated because that’s what I do on a regular basis.

Poetry is silent, something which involves your mind, your soul, your heart, and only eventually your fingers (to hold your pen). Poetry doesn’t need advertising. Poetry is innate, but needs to be understood and supported by whom believes in its power.

In conclusion… okay, write a few verses and fill your Instagram bio with terms such as poet , living for poetry, etcera… But don’t expect to be taken seriously.

@layalke 🐍

The singing butler

“It’s so simple, my dear friend! Read her eyes and look into her soul: she wants you to belong to her and she wants to belong to you!”

Those words got stuck in John’s head, and they had been doing so since their speaker, Mr V, pronounced them. And now, as he proceeded to dance with her and had to search for her face because she kept her eyes down, John realised he did agree with Mr V. Mr V was completely right and he understood that when it was too late. 

“Please Annie… Look at me.” He begged in vain.

Graceful and elegant, she continued to dance on the top of her bare feet, careful not to step onto the incredibly clear puddle next to her. 

“Mrs Annie… You may desire an umbrella to hold!” Her old servant said.

“Why should have I? It isn’t raining.” She whispered. Or maybe she screamed. John couldn’t really tell: when you’re in love, everything sounds like a harmless and soft whispering.

“Annie, I implore you… Look at me. One last time.” John’s voice was just like a broken record player. 

Her breasts against his, her velvet glove on his shoulders, her face turned around, her hair wrapped up, her bare back and her shapely backside. She was the most genuine and charming creature John’s eyes had ever had the pleasure to see.

“My friend… I’m willing to lend you my umbrella! Just, for the Queen’s sake, stop it! You’re going to get ill, believe me.”

“Sir, what are you talking about?”. John was quite perplexed: before Annie’s governant, now Mr V… What did it all mean?

Mr V said something that John couldn’t hear because Annie dragged him away. Finally, but still keeping her face distant, she told him: “Now they won’t disturb us”.

They were far enough to be kissing and not be seen, so John seized that moment and decided to stop their dance and lend towards the woman’s lips. He had been telling himself: “Okay, now I’m stopping… now I am…” when he realised he couldn’t, he just wasn’t able to. His mind didn’t control anymore his legs, they were moving by themselves and this paralysed John’s features. 

“Do not try to stop, you won’t”. Annie said effortlessly.

The last thing John’s eyes saw were her, the woman he had always loved and cared for. He couldn’t move; Annie was his mastermind, John was her puppet. At the end, he really did belong to her.

@layalke 🐍

I can’t write

▶ Writing’s on the wall – Sam Smith

Words might help when communicating, but music is on a whole new level.

Being told once I’d got a bad writing was not a big deal. Being told twice started to get on my nerves; then the third, fourth, fifth and so on were a little bit of a bitter pill to swallow, especially because I know that the world of writing is my world, the world I belong to. The logic and reasonable part of my brain has always told me not to focus on the people who send me such bad vibes, but you’ll understand it when I say that it’s really hard.

A short time ago, one of my teachers told me: “If you didn’t write interesting texts, I wouldn’t even read your essays”. Well, ok, thank you?! What am I supposed to say?

Lately this has effected my creativity in a way I didn’t think was possible. I consider myself to be quite a calm and sensible person, therefore that logic and reasonable part of my brain I quoted before is the one I trust and use the most; but, as childish as it is, I cannot avoid to take this personally. 

I’m trying my best, believe me, mostly because I know that my writing could affect the mark of my essays, but I don’t feel motivated at all. I like my tiny and uptight writing, and you know me, I’m not going to change something I don’t mind about myself just because a few people do

At the end of the day, I am the one who stays alone with my words only, with those words that are apparently so hard-criticized but save me, in a way; when the words you write are what helps you go through the day without a mental breakdown, you get so attached to them that you consider them to be a part of yourself, part of who you are and who you will ever be. Now you understand how important this blog is to me; it represents my freedom when it comes to writing.

Let me write what I want, let me write as I want; I’m not asking for anything else. And, if you won’t, I will anyway. 

@layalke 🐍