Plastic flowers never fade, but we all turn to grey.

The interrogator's beard hasn't been shaved, a few days at the most. His eye bags droop, layered skin pulled downwards. The white of his eyes yellowed with age, the nerves are like red rivers which stretch into nothing. He asks me different questions, absurd ones. I have no idea what he's talking about.

We know you did it, your fingerprints were all over the scene, all we want to know is why. So let's cut the crap and get it out, shall we?

I deny any knowledge of the situation, the guy get's mad. A vein throbs on his forehead, purple and pulsating. It bothers me.

What exactly did I "do"?

I think you know well enough, mister. Why don't you admit it, ey? Just spill it. Tell us how you murdered that innocent, pregnant woman. Tell us how you slaughtered her daughter and mutilated her husband, go on. Entertain us.

I would never do that.

At least, I don't remember it. The fingerprints match mine, or so they say. But i don't remember anything. Nothing at all. I can't be a murderer. I'm not crazy, I'm not tormented, not a broken soul. It's not possible. I had a good upbringing. Well, okay, a few mishaps here and there. But an abusive, murderous father and a sick, twisted sister shouldn't affect me. They're the ones who should be interrogated, not I.

They've kept me in here for a while, it's hard to keep track of time when you're confined in the same space, it's as if there is no time. It's like the world outside has frozen, and all that exists is this little room, with the big mirror, steel furniture, this man and I.

_________________

I awake from slumber, such spare moments taste so sweet. My body aches, as if I have undergone a tedious activity. I can't lift myself up to see my surroundings. But I know I haven't left the steel room. The interrogator is no longer pacing around the room or pounding his fists, no longer threatening me, no longer accusing me. He is lying on the floor beside me. Stretched out in a pool of blood. He looks peaceful, as if it's the first rest he's had in years. The blood seeps through his clothing, I notice his face is bruised, so are his hands. He must have struggled to the death.

I wonder how that happened.

If I'm not back this time tomorrow, Carry on, Carry on.

The following passage is a true story, it's not a call for pity, it's just how I release my emotions. These are the thoughts that raced through my mind, these are the words I felt.

The nurses hands were a shade lighter on the colour scale. The sun could not reach them where she was, they were hidden beneath rubber gloves, a necessity to keep blood and other unwanted substances off her skin; they were foreign, they were dirty.

Was that why they were lacking colour? Or was it possibly because of nights spent scrubbing her hands in her kitchen sink, bottle of bleach turned over beside her, rag in her hands; scrubbing until the skin peeled off, doing anything to get the stains of depression off of her fingers, to give her a new slate, clean of all the imperfections of hospital work, clean of the misery, clean of the guilt that came along with being unable to save people.

I notice her hands, of all things, as I wait, unwilling to look past the green curtain that separates my father from the rest of the world, as if too keep away disease and terror. It's not working, never will. Privacy? With screams coming from behind those curtains, there's no such thing. A man walks over to mop up the blood on the floor, my fathers mess. He moans words indistinguishable to my ears, cries for his mommy. A little girl from across the room cries for her mommy, too, and her little brother calms her down, telling her its over and there's no need to cry.

I wish somebody would tell me such sweet words.

I'm driving out of control; getting ready to crash.

We blow out the last light in hopes of darkness. But we never find total darkness because our eyes always eventually manage to adjust. Any form of light seeping through illuminates in even the darkest room. We end up seeing, eliminating the point of blowing out the light. Yet we still blow it out, because a dim figure in the dark is better than seeing the complete image in the light.

Are you ever driven to do something so out of the ordinary, you don't even know why you want to do it? Why does the teenage mind push the body so far, sugar-coating every sinful intention, making it actually consider the temptation? It feels like I had a clearer mind at 10 years old than I have now, I don't know why am I interested in experimenting when I know the consequences to these things. One of life's tests and trials, perhaps. "Push the teenagers into such temptation so that their lives become even more complicated than their dramatic confusion".

Nobody knows how deep the water is, until they tread too far.

We all have people in our lives, masked and armed, ready to bring us down. Sometimes they appear harmless, hurting you in small ways, like insensitive comments or actions, possibly unintentional, possibly intentional. Then there are those who go out of their way to ruin you, trying to break you into little pieces, beyond repair. In hopes of what, exactly? Nobody can fully understand the minds of the delirious. But you know better than to break, right? We know that the whole world is waiting for the first tear to fall, and we know not to give them that satisfaction.

My mom told me to.

If anybody ever dares steal material from my blog, I will hunt you down and slit your throat.

Okay not really, but my dad's into a law and I have friends who's fathers are lawyers and they know mannyyy BAD, BAD, people. And stealing from here is a CRIME, because from now on, EVERYTHING I WRITE/HAVE WRITTEN IS COPYRIGHTED! [except for the snazzy quotes and lyrics, but you get my drill ;)]

So don't break the law.
`Cept when it comes to limewire.

Gay Friend-- WANTED.

What makes it feel?

Capture the essence of your being?

What makes it good?

A concrete form of an immaterial language;

Emotion

What makes its capable?

Of translating warmth

From the heart

Or the chill of fear;

Emotion

How do you transform, when

The strongest weapon

Only scars the paper

With ink and

Emotion?

How do you write poetry?

BFOSJGNEOUGNKDS.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Joanna getting frustrated because she can't write poetry. I mean, come on, how do you do it, people?! How do you transform your emotion into such meaningful (and pretty) words?! My emotions always seem so much more intricate when they're untouched. Put them onto paper and they become overrated or cheesy :|

Anyway, wanted to apologize to my lovely blog-band [thats a neat name for the people that actually read this crap, kinda has a ring to it, hey?] for not posting anything recently. I swear, inspiration is at its peak during summer. When you're doing nothing but sitting on a computer chair all day and possibly forming an early case of sclerosis. [That's the back thingy, right? correct me if im wrong]

So yeah, I havent been having a good week, something's come up and no, i'm not gonna tell you what happened here, just email me if you consider yourself cool enough to be told :D IT'S JUICY, PROMISE.

You know what I want? A gay friend. I've been going on about this for so long, and I'm serious! I want one! One that I can look cool beside when we go to Starbucks with one or two other girlfriends and sip or macchiatos, or on frap's, or whatever the hell people like to drink at starbucks. OHH and it'd be soo wicked if he could tell me what I look hot in and not, in a totally non-uncomfortable way, you know, like in the movies? "ehh ma gawd, you look SO fetch." and I'd be all like "Oh my god, nobody says fetch. But i do, don't I? ooh mwah mwah mwah" and we'd get manicures and maybe get a little dog and carry him around everywhere! Okay, Im getting all excited! So all GAY, HYGIENIC, FASHIONABLE, FUNNY AND CHARMING GUYS, CALL ME. We'll arrange something. :)

I'm putting that on my birthday wishlist. Or Christmas, birthday's too far :)

Okay byee for now!

xx