msjessica's Diaryland Diary

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One Year Ago

I don't really have anything to say but after some recent emails I've received in regards to my "poetry" I've been reading through my stuff and I found this, which I thought I would copy to here because I really like it,

and I miss writing like that and sometimes, stupid as i is, I miss feeling like that, or at least feeling so much.

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I pre empt it.

Thinking about it all day-
last night i had to shower with glad wrap and duct tape around my arms
couldn't help but feel slightly gangrenous for some reason.

There was run off from my material bracelets, my ribbons
so that i had blood stained bandages at work
on the train

The glad wrap didn't help so much,
they still got damp and then left big wet patches on the knees of my favourite dirty jeans
i longed for a blow dryer but i live in a house of girls who refuse to use such things.

To remove them i will have to
cut
them off, there is tape that is holding them to me.
In my experience bandages are usually fastened with a kind of elastic staple
I wonder if they opted for the tape because i am not allowed near sharp objects.
My experience is limited.
Perhaps the tape is just standard procedure.

I had to sleep in the observation room,
first room in the emergency ward-
I was top priority
(quiet night in the RPA i guess)

I awoke to an audience,
and to a man with a pastel shirt, warm smile and all the right questions.
he was followed by a man wearing
BRIGHT ORANGE
with procedure
and impersonal written all over his bored and ugly face.
he had a skin disease,
wanted to talk about my childhood
my alchoholism,
signed me up for the kind of group therapy i don't think i need.

I am scared to remove them, these bandages, this cover up.
This exclamation to anyone who see's me without my faithful hoodie that
i fucked up.
i'm a bit of a mess and i want desperately for somebody to help me.

I am scared because i know the unravelling will bring with it disappointment, disillusionment
another unravelling all of it's own.

They should be much bigger.
That would make them so much better.

Forty stitches they said.
Forty little blue stitches.

The man who did them for me told me about
four night shifts in a row,
his ten week old baby girl,
his beautiful but very exhausted wife.

The ambulance officers talked to me about raindogs.
Us girls all quoted lady macbeth.

I am procrastinating.
Those forty little blue stitched can hold together my skin,
make it heal a little cleaner but do nothing good
for my head.

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it was from portraits.diaryland if anyones interested.

1:29 p.m. - 2008-05-14

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