Goddess Gave Me Love (And She Turned Out To Be Toxic)

[QueenThera]

I hate myself.

I only write shitty  stream of consciousness poetry.

I use many many boxes to hold the emptiness that is myself, and pretend they all hide a soul inside them. The paper I wrap around it is so pretty. I don't want anyone to open it (I want everyone to open it). It's so fucking cliché how empty I am.

I am autistic, I am transgender, I am Discordian, I am a fan of Oz, I am a fan of Wonderland, I am in love with Anywhere But Here, I am an escapist, I am passive, I am a fuckup.

I'm not real. How the fuck do you become a real person? Is it by obeying the right authorities like Pinocchio promised?

Is it by laughing at authority, like Tove Jansson promised?

Is it by making friends along the way, like The Marvelous Land of Oz promised?

Or is it all nonsense, like the Blue Caterpillar and Alice concluded?

Fuck it.

[QueenThera]

I want to write but I have nothing to say.
Or rather, I have a dozen things to say all at once
   (If things can be just shapes and forms and not actual messages)
          (Shouldn't I stop thinking about messages to convey?)
               (Shouldn't I stop thinking)
                       (Shouldn't I stop)

Fuck it. Continue anyway. Be anyway. Do anyway.
Go through the motions. Build up sandcastles and maybe your passion can flare out to turn them to revelatory glass.

Or let the tide sweep in and wash me away.

This is just clinical depression and/or anxiety and/or dysphoria talking. Why even bother with metaphors?
(Because my unconscious mind doesn't understand big words)

[QueenThera]

Chaos means being yourself at all costs.  When applied on the individual level, that is, to yourself. (Whatever a self fucking is)

I choose to be chaotic (ha I didn't try very hard (I'm a fraud)) to overcome my passivity. I should do things.

Chaos is also change and transmutation and---
It's being a fucking asshole. You shithead. You fuck. You just want an excuse to abandon your family and masturbate for the rest of your life. Parasite. Leech. (You're better off dead)

My brain doesn't work right, I'd like a new one.

[QueenThera]

Fuck you

Fuck you

Fuck you

Except not in the Oedipus way (so tragic!) but in the violent way. The way sex has to be

Penetration that disrupts bodies and undoes what they used to be

I'm rambling anyway I hate my mom

Reasons to hate her: she isn't proud of me, she berates me, she is smothering me in a small room, and she screams

Reasons to love her: food shelter she's better than fucking daddy was

(I have daddy issues but please let's move on)

I can't hate her because she has cancer. I can't love her because she says I'm someone I am NOT

So escape? Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahaaha

I laugh bitterly because that's my fucking life

A bitter laugh after the punchline's been pronounced.

Wow that's edgy hit post on THAT SHIT

(Hi I'm back)

[QueenThera]

I hate myself.

I only write shitty  stream of consciousness poetry.

I use many many boxes to hold the emptiness that is myself, and pretend they all hide a soul inside them. The paper I wrap around it is so pretty. I don't want anyone to open it (I want everyone to open it). It's so fucking cliché how empty I am.

I am autistic, I am transgender, I am Discordian, I am a fan of Oz, I am a fan of Wonderland, I am in love with Anywhere But Here, I am an escapist, I am passive, I am a fuckup.

I'm not real. How the fuck do you become a real person? Is it by obeying the right authorities like Pinocchio promised?

Is it by laughing at authority, like Tove Jansson promised?

Is it by making friends along the way, like The Marvelous Land of Oz promised?

Or is it all nonsense, like the Blue Caterpillar and Alice concluded?

Fuck it.

Hello, my past self! It’s so good to see you!

How are things? You still frozen in spasms of angst? Good!

I found a soul in the bottom of the last box. It looks like a seed. So I ate a lot of dirt, dropped that seed inside me (it looks like a pill too), and then ate a lot of shit.

The pill (it looks like a heart) is changing me. It’s giving me something strong and sturdy inside me. A core I can strike with a fist and make it thrum. Make it hum.

It’s my name. It’s my gender. It’s my goal. It’s my hope and desire and fuck the whole damn universe if it gets in my way. I’m not standing still by a principle. I’m running forward to smash what opposes me. I am progress, BITCH, and I decide what that means.

(Also I got the phone number of a tattooed cutie, bitten by a dog, and worship three more goddesses than I did before)

So I’m doing good. I’m doing better than you. Keep going.