There are younger versions of me still alive in me because they're not done crying and dealing with the pain of stuff that happened to them and I don't know yet, or still, how to give them peace.

At somes points in my life
(and when I say points, it could be seconds, months or many years)
all that was left of me was the part of me that could lose all sense of self
steeped in the shame, the guilt, the disgust, the contempt, the revulse it couldn't help
but hold itself into
for losing it all over again
that sense of self,
that self...
Every word, behavior, thought
felt wrong, inadequate
I would try different ones, many different ones
like you try grabbing for all kind of things until one of them holds to stop your fall
but not one
not one of them ever did not crumble under my fingers.
Nightmares
unending nightmare where not ONE thing about me and my experience
felt right
and I could only call myself a worm, less-than-a-worm-for-at-least-a-worm-was-being-what-it-was-supposed-to-be-without-all-this-unending-mediocre-uncertainty, a waste of air
the only words that ever felt accurate to describe myself
to my despair and anger and utter confusion
I can remember the panic
and the urge to scream and cry
kept inside...
my brain will do that from time to time
grab me by the hand with a strong, forceful hold
and take me back
"Remember! That is what it used to be like for us! Feel it! In your flesh!"
Like a distress call, an alarm
if you're not careful
if you forget
it could happen again
you could lose the things that are holding yourself together
and you could lose yourself again
you could fall again into that deep, dark, unending pit
and I wouldn't know what to do, I wouldn't know what to do, I wouldn't know what to do

one of the things about Robin Hobb's Farseer Trilogy
that made it such an important book in my life
was her depiction of Fitz losing his self in the flow of Art
scattered
completely scattered in an immense, unending flow
trying to find back all the tiny pieces of him whose quantity was infinite
putting that thing so foreign and dreadful that had been happening to me
time and again
into words...

It feels like an ongoing "work" in my life
to go back there
to pinpoint it, to name it, put words on it
always more precise and closer to the truth
so it won't blur and fade and become something I cannot locate anymore
that could dawn on me again without me recognizing it for what it is
and I would not know what to do

"I cannot be helpless again in the face of this threat
I cannot
I cannot"
Says I
inside of my head
the part that just feels
that is not trying to be anything else than the most accurate it can be about what it is.

I am on a mission
to shape it with clay
clay all over it
drying on it
to trap it there
forever


the garden inside my head
with the statues
that cannot be allowed to degrade
always restore and try to improve
that one must thread with
with the utmost care
that can never be let completely
out of one's sight

I was…
not in a hole but the hole itself
not falling but the fall itself

You could say…
I was luckier than most,
with a home, my own room, a middle-class family, friends, okay grades ,
yes
but what use a hole, a fall,
have of these?

You could say that I was, at least, luckier than other holes and falls in that respect but
most of these had the more precious gift of
not being self-aware

But me
I was screams, an endless spiral of idiotic, raging fears
never peace
I was mental anguish
I couldn’t turn it off
just sometimes, when hopeless enough, replace it with a terrifyingly heavy…. grey… thing….

I had a home, my own room, a middle-class family, friends and okay grades
but not a self
not matter how I exhausted myself, seconds after seconds, days after days,
forever waking up to the same fight
to try to catch and retain bits
enough of it to call myself a person
but failing over and over again

Yet on top of that I had to drown in shame and guilt
because I had a home, my own room, a middle-class family, okay grades
and was still this tortured, panicked, desperate and miserable
thing
too busy mourning its lack of personhood

You had claws ripping it out of me
whatever bit could have been a seed or the beginning of foundations
torn away from my core
examined it from every angle - and it had nowhere to hide and nothing of itself to keep private -
and discarded as unfit, not good enough, never
and my core was left to be just flesh and sensations and datas and emotions
all in a rotating mess,
with nothing strong and coherent enough
to bind them into a I

And you said I was a difficult teenager
a rebellious one
Yet I didn’t even do drugs or make trouble at school or ever run away
(I was too afraid : I was fear)
I was in this much pain yet it was all about you and how I was making it hard on you
how defiant and disrespectful I was
how unable I was to question myself
me who had trouble even becoming enough of an I that it could possibly be something to be questioned

and to this day I still yearn for this to be acknowledged and for this hollow wound to be nursed
I finally built myself
but my years of experience that makes me, finally, an I, are standing on top of a gaping hole

And I am alone with it and yearning for a filling/a remedy so my footing stop being so tiringly unbalanced

writing this with a fantasy in mind of someone reading it and at the end of it looking back at me again
with eyes that see, really see, me, that takes in everything, even the invisible
of who and what I am
and I become a self
understood, embraced,
a self
loved, taken care of,
a self 
made welcome.

Cosmos

Although size should probably not be the most defining factor of someone/something’s worth, the immensity of the universe and of the biggest objects inside it, as a scale, characterizes us as very frail, very small, very passing, very vulnerable, very unmeaningful, a tiny little spark in time and space that would escape any more significant conscience’s notice. Only the telling of our history can make us matter in any way in the midst of such vastness but it seems likely there will be no one/nothing to tell ours, to hear from ours, to read ours, once humanity is done.
So in that perspective, what of matters remain?
Apparently Baudelaire used to despise people’s fantasy of some sort of “absolute”, he thought this yearning was the source of much evil. So maybe our measuring rod for what matters should not be the skies.
Maybe we should not try to matter at all to the universe, to the Milky Way or even the Sun.
Maybe we should embrace our tiny specks of stardust-sized significance, and the beauty of its fleeting ways.

In one long split second
I made the choice to share crystals 

collected from some inner place of mine
with you

Granted, it was probably not gem material
sugar at most
but it was
undiluted

Actually, this is where it hurts
the nature of these crystals
revealed to the eyes of another
did turn out
disappointing.

I am so close to nothingness.

I am a dreamer.
I cannot deal with reality (only tiny drops of it, distillated).
But one day,
one day I will wake up and will not be able to go to sleep again.
When that happens will I chose life?

A lover’s farewell song

What is blood to the moon but an alien wetness ?

What are the fading of your senses to Saturne’s rings?
How does the sun feel about your increasingly irregular heartbeat? About the flutter of your eyes?

The softness of your skin, your breathtaking beauty: they do not matter to the stars.

And Mars has no business with your pained breath that I watch so closely.

Your fear, your anguish, your unfaltering devotion to me. They truly mean nothing, not a single thing

to the universe.

My love,

You are but the product of a hazard, dissipating.

There have been countless of you before you, and a few more at the same time, a futile event lost in a sea of futility.

Why does love exist?
Is it a desperate attempt from our brains to give meaning to things, to make sense of this life?

Why does love exist? And if it must exist,

 Why do you have to die?

A polite individual is half-erased

They spend all your early years sanding your rough patches, your asperities
toning you down
doing their best to enhance whatever seemed to go in the right direction with the least turbulences

You are a successful adult, well-adjusted to society
when you are as smooth as a pebble
Polished. Polite.
I wish my growth had knocked over hearts
turned buildings upside down
ripped open oceans
But I didn't make a single ripple
I swallowed back anything that was about to overflow
time and again
and it crushed my insides little by little
leaving me in the end
forever imploding
as soft and inocuous on the outside
as a tiny glass marble

yet as on the verge of deafening you with mad roars of pain on the inside
as just about any other girl.

Rotten Lemon

I keep squeezing and squeezing wounds but nothing precious, nothing quite quintessential ever comes out
Nothing revelatory
I keep spraying blank pages with tomato sauce or drops of my sticky lymph
it is like nothing run down my veins but the premisses of blood

The only season there is

I can't accept this loneliness. Sometimes the urge to share is overwhelming. To save time, might as well throw myself into a wall. If nothing can't ever be conveyed in all its purity, then what is the point of anything?
We need our illusions
Lucidity is a trap. You're wasting your time trying to look at things as they really are.
Run.
Drown yourself in your fantasies.
Learn to breath underwater. 

Forget there ever was a surface.
There is no relief in truth:
we are much too random.

If I love you enough I'll make up a God for you
I'll make you up stories with heroes bound by destiny and fate
If I love you enough
I'll swear to you you were made for big things
and that your wishes will be fulfilled eventually
that we transcend each other
"I thought it wasn't possible
but look at us"

I'll weave you the most beautiful lies
to keep us warm
Keep us warm and safe
at all of Winter's nights

Puzzle pieces

Like some codes seem to make more sense before they are broken, you meant something to me as long you were wrapped in queerness and mistery. Now that you lay here, bare, revealed, milk-white skin covered in sweat, you turn out to be as absurd as everything else. Like an image beautiful and magic, torn down to puzzle pieces to reveal it's intrinsic nature - which is what? A handful of atoms thrown down at the stars
that landed here, close to me,

could have landed somewhere else, could have taken any other shape.

I'm not home outside

I'm not home outside. Being home, really home, means being relaxed. I'm not relaxed outside. I'm on guard and ready to snap; ready to fight. You can't take me by surprise. I won't lay comfortably here with soft limbs.

I'll bite. This is what the outside calls for: a certain amount of stiffness; a readiness to bite.