haunt me

the next time you see her, i want you to think of me.

i want you to tremble at the thought of being without me.

the next time you kiss her i want you to secretly pretend its me.

the next time you try to say her name, i want you to say mine instead.

i want you to in-vision me like a mirage when she walks through the door.

i want my scent to penetrate your senses when you lay in bed at night.

when you propose to her, i want you to buy my ring size and not hers.

when she kisses you on the neck i want you to quietly whisper my name.

and when she giggles I want you to hear my laugh instead.

when you turn on the radio in your car, i want you to hear me sing along.

and when you lay down your head at the end of the day, i want you to tell me about your day at the office in your head.

i want you to break down crying in the shower because you know i won't be there to get you the towel you forgot in the dryer.

i want you to forever feel the empty space by your side.

i want you to rapidly turn around when you hear my name.

i want you to be miserably haunted by my existence.

because you haunt mine.

Odile

Black has always suited me.

It is void of color that can either fade you out or put you in the spotlight.

When put into a strapless black gown, it contrast by bleached white skin and shows off my collar bone.

Instantly, I become a temptress.

I can bring men to their knees, begging for mercy in the manner of walking.

I become their ruler.

Their ultimate demise.

Their undoing.

I can tear them apart with no problem.

The only problem is, I don't want to.

I don't want to be the girl every woman despises at the ball.

I want to be the kind, soft beauty.

I want to be Odette.

The one chance I get to be her, I can't even truly be the person she is.

I may look like her, but I can never truly be her.

Even in her disquise I have to harm.

I have to be a sex object, and not an object of affection.

The Prince is a true, beautiful man.

But even he cannot withstand the impulse I provide.

I guess this is who I am, and who I will forever remain.

The bad girl wrapped in feathers.

The Black Swan.

no.10

I wish I could say I wasn't thinking about you.
I wish I could say I've moved on and that I think your new lover is great.
I wish I could say that your new haircut sucks.
I wish I could say that I hated that day at the lookout.
I wish I could say that I wasn't looking forward to February.

I wish I could say that I don't pull out your sweater to smell your cologne.
I wish I could say that your new lovers jeans look awesome.
I wish I could say that I hate your ugly laugh.
I wish I could say the opera is better without you.
I wish I could say that you have great taste in lovers.

I wish you weren't a cad.
I wish you never treated me like a mistress.
I wish my existence caused you pain and agony.
I wish you never asked me what my name was.
I wish I could just kiss you at least seven more times.

I wish I could say I wasn't thinking about you.

But I can't.

I'm sorry.



Forgive me,
Charles Darnell

A Random Page Found in Genevieve's Diary

Hi, it's me again.

Mom said something weird to me today.

She said, "you're turning into a woman."

What does that even mean?

Like, my period started seven years ago. 

And I've been a C-cup since 7th grade.

I look like a woman I guess, but I'm not a size 2 or anything.

Is that what she meant?

Or did she mean I'm getting more mature? Like in my brain?

I've been more mature than the kids in my grade forever,so that's not different.

I mean most of them don't even know what the word "fickle" means.

But that's beside the point.

Does turning into a woman mean I have applied for college?

Or that I finally got up the courage to ask a guy out?

Or that I started taking a makeup bag to school?

I don't know.

All I know is that I don't want to be called a "woman" yet because I feel like I've had to be one my whole life.

I've had to act grown up.

I've had to pretend things are alright when they're not.

I just want to be a kid for once.

I just want to play with my Barbies in nothing but my panties.
I just want to sleep on my stomach and not wake up in aching pain the next morning.

I just want to not care about anything or anyone but myself for the first time.

Remind me to burn you in seventeen years.

-Geni

no.9

Things to do by yourself.

• movie marathons
• fancy dinners
• shopping
• attending dances
• bubble baths 
• staying a night in a hotel room
• walks in the park
• crying
• dessert for dinner
• writing in a diary
• petting a cat
• knitting
• taxes
• checking emails
• checking twitter
• checking facebook
• checking tumblr
• repeating the previous four several times over
• creating a secret shrine
• watching star trek reruns
• getting a drink and pastry at your local cafe
• writing poetry
•  
•  
•  
• writing lists

l'Humanité

Je ne comprends pas l'humanité.
Je doute que je ne le fera jamais.
Le monde se sent si distant
Je tend la main et ne peux pas le toucher

Verre m'entoure au quotidien
Ceux que j'amais entourent
Ils ne voient pas le verre et se demandent
Pourquoi ils ne peuvent pas toucher ni m'entendre

Je ne pense pas que je puisse briser le verre
Mais je ne pense pas que je veux
J'aime le monde qu'il fournit
Et je ne veux pas jamais quitter

Je ne comprend pas l'humanite
Je dout que je ne le fera jamais
Mais je doute que vous allez compendre cela
Surtout parce que vous ne pouvez pa lire le francais

no.8

Sanity.

What is it in the first place?

san-i-ty: the condition of having a healthy mind : the condition of being sane

What is considered a healthy mind?

Is a healthy mind just a brain that functions a human to live?

Or is a healthy mind a brain that can process social ques and propriety?

And if it is the later, who is to say what is socially acceptable?

What if someone said it was socially acceptable to wear shoes that look like fish?

Would you do it?

Or would you want to continue wearing tan loafers and have others make fun of you and say your mad?

What if a man likes to write very creative stories about evil queens and pastries that change your size, but the world says hes crazy for writing about such mad notions when he could be writing about government and grammar?

Well I'm sure Lewis Carroll thought the same thing.

Who is to say what is sane?

Whoever said that looking at the moon too long would make you insane?

Because I stare at the moon in awe quite frequently.

Whoever said that is the mad one.

They are missing out on the beautiful glow the moon provides.

You raging lunatic,
Charles Darnell

untitled

Do you ever make mistakes or say things that make you inevitably regret everything you have ever done that lead you up to the moment you screwed up?

Yeah, me too.

Until recently, I assumed that art should be created one way (see post no.2). Until recently, I thought that only deep, symbolic, wordy art was the only true art there was. In how I create art, that may be the case, but it is not the case for everyone else. I was only seeing art through my eyes, and not through the eyes of the artist themselves.

Basically what I'm saying is that I thought I was a Parisian native walking through the Louvre, knowing all the pieces and the history behind them all when in all actuality.... I was a Canadian tourist wearing white sneakers and just waiting to see the Mona Lisa.

As I sit here and watch Hugo for the thousandth time, I finally see now that we are not to judge or understand art if we don't even know who the artist is. We can not fully know how to interpret it if we do not know the history that came before the art. All we can do is appreciate it for what we see in it as an outsider, because all art deserves praise. All art deserves to be accepted.

My humblest apologies,
Charles Darnell

no.7

You want to know what my space jam is?
Fine.
I guess I'll just say it.

My space jam would be to be put on the damn Hall of Fame.

I just want my work to be appreciated and recognized.
But you know what the worst part of all this is?
I can't fully be recognized because none of you even know who I am.
You don't see me in the halls.
You don't see that I'm sitting right next to you in class.
You don't pay attention to my comments and inputs.
You wouldn't even care if I dropped out of school because I am invisible to you.
You only notice me when I comment on your own posts that are filled with hipster angst and gifs.

Even then you only see me as Charles.

I guess I just want someone to say "(my real name) did a great job. Did you see their post? The symbolism in it was incredible! And the realness of it?! Man, you guys really need to read it."

That's all I want.



I just want you to like me.



I hate you all,
Charles Darnell

Vronsky

He stands with tired eyes.
The wet redness underneath them tell it all.
He holds a gun up to it.
He aims the pistol at all the things that brought him here.
He aims it at the life he has now.
So tired.
Lord please let him be, he's had enough.
He thought that love would be enough,
but It's not enough if its with the wrong person.
But maybe she was the right person.
Maybe she was just with the wrong person.
He didn't know.
All he knew was that he had lost.
That the only option was to give up.
He couldn't give in anymore.
He looked like a weeping angel all in white.
The frayed silver knots outlined his exhausted physique.
The blond curls could no longer feel her touch.
He  was covered in light and love,
But all he could see was blinding light.
All he could make out was the sun.
The golden rays that engulfed her many nights ago.
That gorgeous luminosity that wrapped itself around the beauty.
The single star in his world of darkness.
The glowing moon that would be his ultimate demise.
In the midst of all the darkness surrounding them, all he could see was her.
He would always see her.
His eyes would forever find her in everything.
They were so tired.
They were so blue.
Oh Lord, please let his eyes close.
Please be merciful and let him go blind.
Save him from the darkness before him now.
Let the darkness become oblivion to him.
Let him rest.
Let him lay the weapon down.
Ease his mind.
Let the sun go down forever.

"He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking."
-Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

no.6

Honestly, I have no idea how to write about death.

Have I experienced the death of family and friends?

Yes.
I have.
Many times.

Too many times actually.

But my experiences with it will probably mean absolutely nothing to you.

Because in reality, death is different to every single person.

To some it may be a relief.

To others is may be the heaviest burden of all.

And to few, it may even be a joyous experience.

I don't know what you know.

I can't feel what you have felt.

I cannot possibly understand how it is for you.

So how can I in good conscious persuade you to think one way about death if you won't understand what I'm trying to provoke in you?

I have no right to shove my thoughts about this subject down your throat when its so personal.

Maybe in a sense I'm not ready to talk about it yet.

It's still too personal for me.

I guess I don't want to talk about having my second parents dragged out of my front door at all hours on stretchers by strangers.

I guess I don't want to talk about how the girl who saved my life had her's taken away, in what felt like seconds.

I guess I'm not ready to talk about how I faced being killed everyday for two years, and having to have an FBI agent teach me how to check my tail and hide in my basement if shots were fired.

I guess I'm not ready to talk about digging graves for my cats yet.

I guess I just don't want to show you that side of me yet because frankly, I don't trust you.

Yet here I am.

Your untrusting therapy patient,
Charles Darnell