So angry.

With my Mum. I feel bad for being angry, because she's a good person, she tries to do her best, and she's cool and funny and brilliant all round. But today she was driving me mad.

Firstly, we were meant to leave the house at twelve, and we didn't get out till half one, because she was cleaning the house for my brother and sister when they got back from school. She knew I had to be back for a certain time, but still pushed the amount of time we had out at our day out, which was only two hours because she'd spent so long getting out. She always says to me, "we have to be out by twelve!" and then I'll be sitting there for hours waiting for her to get ready. I feel like it's a control thing, like she has me ready but isn't herself, because she's more important. That isn't true. She doesn't think like that, it's just me being vindictive, I am vindictive. I can't forgive. I was furious with her for ages in the car, and later, and I just feel like a horrible person because I can't seem to forgive and forget like everyone else, stupid petty things like this preoccupy me and why can't I remember the good things instead, and focus on them?

Written down this looks incredibly petty, but I hate it when she puts me off for housework, for something the others could do when they came back. I still feel angry and hateful even though I know I shouldn't. Why can't I just be normal? My brother would forgive. I have given up on housework. I feel like it's never enough to do it, and noone else ever helps, so if they don't I won't make myself a martyr to the cause like she does.

I share a room with my sister and the only time I really get alone is this time late at night. I need it to be able to think freely. She hung around till four, and it's driven me mad, rustling receipts and banging about when I was trying to watch a film. I asked her if I could just have a bit of time on my own, and she just went back at me- we all would, it's your fault, I want time alone too. She's always saying how she wishes we could have a bigger house so I didn't have to share a bedroom, but she couldn't care less, evidently, because she doesn't respect my need for a little bit of personal space at the end of the day.

I hate being treated like I don't matter or like I'm not worthy of anyone listening to me, and that's how I feel at the moment. Two of my friends haven't been in touch for ages. My Mum doesn't give a damn about what I need, and prefers to think about what she thinks I need rather than what I'm telling her I need, and yet I still need her approval. I'm such a child. And I feel bad now, writing this because she's a good mum, in every other way, she just wants me to be happy, and I'm stupid and selfish for being such a cock.

I just want to be better. I want my own space. I want to be able to do what I want without worrying about money, or anyone nagging me, or feeling like I'm getting too old too fast for it all.

Thinking.

I feel physically sick at the possibility of not going to theatre school or not starting in the world soon soon soon. I can barely wait till next year to try, I can't can't can't wait till the year after that. I'd be twenty four, in my first year, that thought makes me incredibly depressed. I want to be there NOW and not later, and not when I'm too old, and not when I'm past it and not when doors have closed and by that time everyone else is successful and launched upon the world and I'm back and behind and still learning like some retarded child.

I hate the thought of it. I hate being behind. I hate.

Antonyms

A word for you newest reluctant darling
A new fresh word to open out
Flower into a sentence and then drift off on the air
I have used old ones in the past cardboard cutouts
Because they fit you right
But instead I will say
Blithe
Exquisite
they don't go together
When I look at you
I see new grown vulnerability
And happiness.
That's why, then,
I've used antonyms.

How you are

Glass girl shattered through in brown skin and beauty
Though you don't believe me it's true
And in life you're real, warm so that my cold blood
Is swept from my veins in your hand
Replaced with yours. Haze of cares float by
You're there
Fragile and whole.

I am angry because

Mum pities me.

I cut off my nose to spite my face.

I won't go out now because she wouldn't want me to and would panic. I want to go out. Why does Mum matter so much. Why do I care about people and yet they think I don't care when my brother cares about noone and everyone cares about him, he's popular and liked and noone loves him more or less than me. Doing what is right gets me exactly the same treatment as he does, or worse.

My brother never gets asked to do any jobs. Why can't I just be like him and get away with everything. He will most likely get into a better university than I have done with worse results, he will most probably get a better job, and I just stay obeying everyone and caring what they think of me and I hate myself for it and people for not letting me get away with it and just the way I can't and he can. And I hate being me.

Blondie.

It's a simple drawing of you little and round. I think you'd make a perfect children's character, strong brave and funny in your pinks and blues and blonde. You always look as if you are having the time of your life. Time of your life sounds like you have it once and never again. You're repeating it for every page. There's one though, of you in front of mud by tents. Three of you but it's you I look at as always. You have every right to look unhappy because of the mud; your boots are covered and your pink skirt, though these aren't things that make you unhappy. You said to me that you feel unhappy because you are not confident about yourself and I said the same and you didn't believe me. I believed you. When you said it your voice didn't change from how you normally are, but in the photo you look like you might have felt then.

Maybe you will attribute it to the mud, though usually you don't care about dirt. You look straight at the camera. Your curls have melted to frizz and your hands are sunk into sleeves. There's a slight epaulment on your stooped shoulders, and if I was there I would be the one taking the back of your hand, turning you to me and saying you are lovely lovely lovely, I want you, you are brilliant in the mud in your pink.

Poems

No choice but to.

Why this new leaking from the eyes
I had forgotten
That eyes can be red and sore.

Starts at the throat with a lump
and then it bursts
And my voice torrential beats a downpour
Steady deluged track
And I feel horrified as everything I've worked to maintain floats away on broken me
Babbling away
Because there's nothing to cling to anymore.

The roof of my mouth heartbeats
Waiting for the next flood
In tissue-wiped calm
Knowing there's worse out there
Doesn't form a shelter in here.