i am full of peace.

sometimes i get terrified for no particular reason. my heart pounds and my chest feels tight and i can't breathe right and adrenaline courses through my veins. and whenever this happens, i get this feeling in my gut that tells me to scream. something tells me that i should scream hard and loud, that i should rip my vocal chords apart with this scream. my gut says it will help. my mind says that it won't, though. so i don't. instead i bite my tongue and concentrate on my breathing and work. i write or draw or sing or clean or fold or organize or recite poetry from memory until i feel calm enough to stop. i spent the past two hours folding and singing to myself. it's 3:10 in the morning. i'm writing because it feels like there are words banging around in my body, bouncing off of my bones and circling my ribcage, and if i don't get them out, all they will do is give me bad dreams. i can't find the words though. they are there, but i just can't make them out.

i have recently gotten into a band called Perfect Pussy. they have a song called "I" and near the endo of it, the lead singer just keeps on repeating

i am full of light.
i am full of light. 
i am full of light. 
i am full of light. 
i am filled with joy. 
i am filled with joy. 
i am filled with joy.
i am filled with joy. 
i am full of peace. 
i am full of peace. 
i am full of peace.
i am full of peace.
i am full of peace.
i had this dream that i forgave my enemies.

i find that if i repeat this to myself before i sleep, my dreams are not so grim. 

it was very warm today in California. 

xoxo

all in a week's work.

my feet are covered in bandages
my knees are mottled purple and yellow and green from bruises new and old
my thighs ache from over use

there are deep circles under my eyes that are purple around the edges
the nail polish i applied the other day in a fit of boredom is pink and sparkly and chipped
my knuckles look strange in this light
scarred and bruised and knobbly

what remains of my eyeliner is smudged up to all hell
my stomach hurts
it's so fucking quiet tonight

earlier i got angry
i swilled coca cola like whiskey
paced a divot into my carpet
and drew until ink and graphite stained my fingertips
and my heart felt like it would burst.

and now i want to be angry
like i so often am
but i just don't have the energy to feel much at all

i am fucking sick of the world we live in. i am sick of this fucking 50's mentality of what womanhood should be, i am sick of the people who surround me, i am fucking sick of it all. i am fucking sick of the fact that because of my genitals, anything i say can be written off as the ravings of a mad woman. i am sick of being helpless, being pushed down, muted, put on hold. i fucking hate that no matter what i do or what i say on here, i'm just screaming into the faceless void of the internet and hoping that what i hear is something more than the echo of my own voice. i hate that i don't change anything, i hate that the world is not on my side, and i hate that all the same i will scream until my voice is hoarse and my lungs give out and i will bang my fists against the table until they bruise and bleed to try and be heard. i fucking hate that i will die before i quit because there is an optimist inside of me that refuses to give up hope that maybe one day, someone will scream back.