Monday, June 22, 2015

lucifer was a lover

I've had the humbling experience of meeting and working with some talented singer/songwriters in the Huntsville area. We play at coffee shops, bars around town (although I'm not really up to par on that yet), house shows, and other intimate settings. Having these experiences have really helped me to channel my energy into something. My stage fright has decreased dramatically, I feel good about myself, and I can see improvement. I'm not where I want to be, but it's nice to create something and build towards getting there.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015


This is something small that I wrote and wanted to post here; hopefully it reads well!


I imagined my body decaying and melting into the carpet. My mind recalled the phenomenon after death when the deceased’s blood settles, a patchy mottling of skin, causing a horrifying yet beautiful discoloration.  Death’s kiss-- bruised purples and pinks, a farewell firing sunset fanning out on corpse. I pictured my flesh speckled and unfashionably pale

My own romantic tendencies had me barring the more grotesque aspects of decay. There’d be no bloating, no stench. I’d be a body, sprawled perhaps, but in a slumbered position. For an instant, I imagined the gore, my skin flayed and cackled, peeling and dehydrated, rotten and raw, but the ugliness of it was searing.

I visualized my face. Muscles relax after death, and eyeballs tend to sink back into sockets. Eyelids creep open. Would my eyes would be open, looking without seeing as they so often did in life? I thought of a dead fish floating in the river, washing up on shore. I could see its glassy eyes, receding and decaying slowly. Eyes, which were never a window to anything, but rather a clump of very useful cells, open as though aware.

Would someone lay coins on my eyelids? I imagined stitches sewing my eyes in a grotesque manner perhaps more suited for a horror film.

I told myself to shut up and I smoked a cigarette. I went to bed that night, and visions of fish and decay and death’s kiss haunted me.


Hello to any humans, aliens, or internet robots that may have stumbled across this page.

I used to blog at Laughing With Broken Eyes. I started this blog in high school and maintained it up through college, though my posts became infrequent. While I won't say I'm ashamed of the blog, a lot of the posts are very melodramatic, annoying, and somewhat embarrassing. I look at it and don't see an accurate depiction of who I am presently. I was too swept up in the notion of being a ~lovely blogger and became too fixated on cultivating an image of myself. This carried in to my life and made me very unhappy; after a very difficult time, mentally, last February, I stepped away from social media for a while and took some time to work on myself.

I don't plan on deleting too many of my old posts (unless something pops up that just makes me cringe) because this is a digital journal of who I was and how I became who I am, but on that same note, I'm not planning on posting every single day or blogging how I used to. Granted, I started this blog when I was seventeen, and I'm now twenty-three, so of course it's different (hell, I know I am).

I drink, smoke, curse, etc. I'm extremely flawed and won't act as though I'm not. 

Anyhow, I miss some aspects of the blogging community and figured I will throw my hat back in there to see if it's still something I enjoy.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

all the world's a stage we are going through

"Only once, and very late at night, did I run downstairs and out into the street with my pajamas on, gasping and watering, waiting for something-- a car? an angel?-- to come rescue or kill me, but there was nothing, only streetlights and a cat."      
-Lorrie Moore, Anagrams

I was tired in more ways than could be scribbled down-- bone-tired in a way that couldn't be written, could only be felt. But as that destitute burned away, I felt it in its entirety. Feeling the consuming fire of anger and frustration rise like flames, my own disgust fueling the fire, I realize now I've been burning all along. In my immediate past, I scared myself with the things I was able to do. I could go from watching a sunset and bouts of inspiration to wanting to claw into myself, tear into my skin-- to the desperation that wrecks and weeps and ruins. The pain began to taste sweet where it once tasted bitter. I began harming myself.

For me, I became wrapped up in the "poetry" of the darkness. But that's the thing-- there is no poetry in pain. It's painful. Nobody cares, I would wail. It was just that people didn't notice. Everyone has their own reality; self-awareness is a feat in itself; who a person is, who I was, was relative. It mattered only who I was to them. For this, I put myself in a box, torn between wanting a rescue and wanting to slam the door. The perfume, the lipstick, the crisp dresses were all just wallpaper over rotting walls, flimsy barricades against the shame and disgust that I harbored for myself. Each day, each weary morning, I carried this weight around, this burden, waiting for the stains to, I don't know, seep through, for everyone to see and be horrified. The anticipation of that moment coiled deep inside, whispering fear and regret and grief. So I harmed myself further.

In my mind, I felt like I was destined to carry sadness. I still think that, in some ways, I am. I'll always be a little bit sadder than my friends. I feel deeply, but I think that acknowledging these emotions helps me better myself, evolve. I think it's the reason that I love writing in the ways that I do. Still, I carried it and felt that no matter how many times I let myself re-imagine this scenario, it was always going to lead me to here. It was always going to end with me in a room, sad for small reasons and unable to step outside of that veil. I was just going to struggle.

"There must be things that can save us!" I wanted to shout. "But they are just not here."

I am still working through my demons, but I am working on it in ways that I didn't let myself before.
listening to: angel of small death and the codeine scene, hozier