Patsault - Mae - Tumblr Blog

burn alive from prelude to ecstasy the short film

a list of everything i want and more.

i want to never come back to the house i grew up in after. i want to die in it. i want to be ten. i want to be eleven, six, seven and eight. i want to never feel as helpless as i did as a kid. i want to wear short sleeves in the summertime and not consider the scars. i want water balloon fights and i want to give out halloween candy to the neighborhood kids. i want to never speak to my mother again, and i want to hold her hand in her final moments. i want to be her daughter, i want to be something she is proud to call her own. i want her to never find out where i have moved to, never visit me, never see me, never talk to me. i want to forget my mother, and i want my mum back. i want children. i want to live alone. i want to be a mother. i want to brush my daughter's hair gentler than mine was, and i want her to wear the same onesies my mum kept. i want her to have my mother's last name and her mother's first name as her middle name. i want to provide her with the comfort i felt i had to earn, i want her to never feel like she's on her own beneath my roof. i want her to look out into the night, and be reminded no matter how far she is, i am only a call away. i want to have home videos my son can look back on, i want him to know he is my sun. i want to watch him build his life, and i want him to i am proud of him every single day. i want to carry my child on my shoulders and i want to point to the constellations, naming them all right, i want to lie to them to tell them there is one unnamed and it is theirs to call their own. i want to marry some girl i met in high school who has a boring last name, like Smith or Johnson, or some girl whose heart is far more open than my own i met in college. in some kind of movie way, the way that makes others believe love still exists. i want a girl who loves me like she doesn't know gentle hands still have nails. i want her to remind me i am alive. i want her to love me so harshly and beautifully i have no choice but to become religious, i want her to give me faith i am afraid of. i want her to love me like a dog, so i can know why didn't i leave when it was me. i want a girl who loves me quietly, who is shy when she asks to kiss me. i want a wife. i want a girlfriend. i want to be the love of someone's life. i want to be somebody's someone. i want it to be you i want to move in with my friends and i want to never live a day in life alone again. i want a tiny sunlight house, only one of everything because it's just me and a dog i want a busy schedule, and i want to go out on a wednesday afternoon to the store, or movies i want to be a writer, full-time. i want to be good enough to have burnout. i want to be great or nothing. i want someone to look back at my work fifty, eighty, a hundred and ten years from now and think, "i want to meet you, i want to know how you could understand me without ever knowing me, i want to know if im not alone." i want to be on the other side of the "you saved my life" comments, and messages. i want to understand myself, not for reconstruction but for pure interest. i want to know who i am so that i can fix myself, but also so i don't become my parents.

i want to know myself, so i can know if i am good enough, if the praise is only surface level. i want to be surface level, i want to be mediocre so i have an excuse to give up. i want to go to an art college, i want to be able to pay for it in cash. i want money. i want to be a teacher, high school, or college professor. i want to like loud environments. i want to be an extrovert, i want to like who i am when i am not alone. i want to have a voice that feels like my art, i want a voice that could carry the weight of my heart. i want a body that i can look at and not wonder if everyone i have ever loved only felt pity for me. i want to feel clean, and i miss her sometimes. i want to have said no. i want to be clean, i want to never crave that again, i want to be my biggest enemy. i want to get to myself first, so when other people do at least i already accepted that. i want to not be queer, i want to not be me, i want to be me. i want to be a man, i want to be a woman or something in between. i can't easily explain in casual conversation. i want to be a drag queen, and i want my grandmother to call me her grandson. i want to transition in the country i was raised in, i want my real name next to my poetry. i want my friends and i to grow old in the bodies we have reclaimed as our own. i want a world where a life like mine, may have been only a phase for others is even possible to conside i want to read poetry about transitioning as a person of color, i want to look up to someone who looks like me. i want to meet people in every walk of life who are like me because day to day, i begin to wonder if i'll even get to see this part of me in the mirror in a year. i want to have a life i want to live, i want a world am not horrified to wake up in. when people speak about my life after i am gone, i want them to not hesitate to say i was queer. i don't want them to set it aside, and brush it over, it is not entirely who i am, but it is a fundamental part of my life that i can't separate myself from. i want the ability to control choices made about my body. i want still snow days and i want a world to wake up in. i want to see the modern world to be modern, i want to see change from what we have said to have learned from. i want a future to look towards, and i want a family and the dream i was raised on, that they said they swore for us when we learned the words to the promise in pre-school. i want to live in some place i've never been, i want to go to ivy, get a medical, law, or engineering degree. i want to be an astronaut, astrophysicist, a tarot card reader. i want my fortune read, i want to believe in god, i want heaven to exist. i want to be a doctor, i want to save lives, and truly know i have changed someone's life. i want to never leave my house again, i want to just doordash all the groceries.

i want to delete all my socials and start all over. personal, creative. i want to be famous, selfishly, i want people to see my name in lights, i want to know that i matter, beyond a tiny pool of names i have memorized. i want my words quoted and my verses in anthologies, i want to be remembered. i want my face to be recognizable, i want to be analyzed, and i want to never die. i want someone to not know me personally but feel as if i am a friend, someone who understands. i want the people who knows me personally, to never catch me in a state of vulnerability, i want to be who my mother had fought for me to be able to be. i want to be a teenage girl and someone's beautiful baby boy. i want to rip out my hair and i want curls. i want to be normal, i want to not wake up one day and randomly want to die all over again. i want my months of progress to not feel meaningless every time i get bad again. i want to kill myself and i want to be a success story that tells of all the ugly the beauty conceals. i want to get bad again. i want to get better, so i can write every day again. i want to try everything i can, i want to find something to numb the feeling i can't name. i want to drown myself, and i want to be able to float without giving in to the urge to look down. i want to know what's wrong with me, and i want to still be interesting. i want to die at twenty and i want to see the twenty-second century.

“you make love like a woman, yes, you do. then you ache like a woman, yes, you do. but you break like a little girl.”

just like a women - live at sin-é, new york, ny - july/august 1993 by jeff buckley

i tell myself i've gotten better i like to believe it

yet the stash of blades hasn't left that spot in my room

i hesitate to dispose of them and that in itself tells me im lying to myself

Andrei Roublev 1966

Andrei Tarkovsky

“well i feel to young to hold on, and i’m much too old to break free and run, too deaf, dumb and blind to see the damage i’ve done. sweet lover, you should’ve come over. oh, love and i waited for you”

lover you should’ve come over by jeff buckley

everyone has someone, and though their someone might change, it will rarely be to somebody who has nobody. i have never felt like anyone's best friend, i've never been sure i'm the one someone thinks of first when they need someone, i've always been the one who understands why things happen. i feel like i will never be anyone's priority, after themselves. i know youth and loneliness have strings interwinting together, hand in hand, and it's all about where you are. people say just wait until you're older, but the older you get the stronger the bonds you don't have are, with each passing year, it's another i can't make up for in a month, i can't make anybody stay and it's frightening because there is no guarantee i will not end up alone. though it may not be physically, i fear nobody will ever be around enough to get to know all of me, watch me change and be able to say that they saw me seven years ago and i still can't pronounce that word right, or say they knew me in highschool all nervous and now have seen me get married.

i want to be shower beautifully so badly. i want to look skinny like how i feel when i look at my wrists. is it sick of me to worship the thinnest part of my body? if i hold them at just the right angle there's barely anything there and i think i'd like myself much more if my entire body was like my wists. i don't want to look bald or hired or unkept when i shower. i want summer skin and post cry lips. i want curled lashes and clear, pearly white eyes. no redness. no sleep deprivation. i want to look like i only ever seep on silk and that i'm a morning person. i want to be clean.

abigail morris photographed by cal mcintyre

sometimes i forget how to exist when i'm not being perceived. how should i be? how should i hold myself?

i actually don't know if i loved you. i think i might have loved how much you loved me.

i didn't mean to overthink things. i just make up stories sometimes, like how amazing you are in my head. those thoughts aren't always good thoughts. those thoughts aren't always good thoughts.

you left your things here and i hold them sometimes.

if you called me i would still pick up. but i don't think i could love you. not how you want me to at least.

the morning leaves the night crawls in. wash my face. swallow my pills. i can't stomach the guilt. these nights are lonely. but it is the price i pay for you to have a better life.

sometimes i think about you. no. all the time. i can't stop hearing your voice on that day i left.

how to never stop feeling sad

1). every time you see something bad let it linger and fester up inside of you, feel it's coldness and watch as the people around you laugh and smile, you can't feel it.

2). find comfort in it, take it as a second home, everytime you talk to someone speak negatively, to the point it is impossible to have a conversation with you without feeling drained, but you already believe that this is what you are doing, you don't need this step do you?

3). slip away even as you stand there, be somewhere else, a walking ghost. become everything you've ever hated, because now this is all you've ever wanted, lose interest in your passions, become dull and tired for a sleep that you can only reach alone.

4). listen to sad music on repeat, let the lyrics embody your life, and when someone asks if you are doing okay, push them away, get angry, how dare they stop you? how dare they care now? repeat yourself it is too late. not even you can save yourself now.

5). write, over and over the reasons you are unloveable, write all the reasons you think your friends hate, surely now, they must do, if you have any left that is. write until your head hurts, until you're too tired to pick up a pen.

6). don't get up from your bed, until you can't on your own. avoid all basic hygiene, become a carassess in your own room, watch the mould grow and the trash build up, it is ugly, let it become a mirror almost of yourself, believe this is who you are.

7). repeat the memories you used to try to distract yourself from, there's no use in the distractions if you want this feeling, talk to it, hear it's whisper and watch as it becomes a scream, a plea, you want to be seen but you cannot take the help no matter how bad you know you need it. you can't admit it, in fear of being seen as weak, in fear of burdening others, losing who you are all over again.

8). watch the days pass and turn into months since you've left your house, lose your job and wonder how you'll ever make it in "the real world"

9). start writing again, this time the letters, put careful detail into every, there will be many questions, but so little answers. let the tears stain the paper, a quiet voice inside you will beg like a child, for another chance at this, and you will slam the door, you've made up your mind. let the gratitude for your loved ones fill your heart, feel the warmth of the love you rejected, you dont think beautiful things like that could be given to people like you, they must've want something in return. notice how some stayed, take it as they must dislike themselves too, it is the only answer. fall asleep halfway through writing them and watch the sunlight creep onto your face for the first time in months.

10). wish that it could be enough, know you could never be, it was stupid to try. listen to the tiny urge within you to open the window, feel the breeze and the children laughing, the world will be the same without you, and watch anyway, see the beauty of it all as you become an observer, see the light in their eyes and recognize the loss of your own, miss everyone, and wonder where they have gone, believe that it is your fault, something you have no control over, ignore the messages unopened. forget that if you reached out, you know you' wouldn't be alone.

11). call someone, ask how they're doing, it's the least you can do, you're leaving now. open up, talk about it, like a dam breaking down, flood the room, feel the warmth of their arms around your cold body. know that it is okay to be okay, you do not have to be sick to be alive, know that being sick isn't the end, you are not dead yet, and you will be okay again, it is never liner, and you are never completely on your own, even in a empty room, you feel suffocated, so scream, plea to be seen, take the risk that they might see right through you, that you might be already too gone to save, isn't that what you wanted to hear?

12). the world may not change it's axis without you, but someone else's would shatter beyond repair,
if it's all you have then stay for other people, until you can do it for yourself, do whatever it takes to do it all another day and always one more sunrise, sunset, you can do it another week, for now watch the beauty of the world you live in, for such a short time, everything will pass, no matter how slow or fast time goes, it passes the same anyway.

13). try to observe it, not as a person but a viewer, isn't it lovely, how the stars are seen as animals and people though they're no art we understand? isn't it beautiful we have art for every human experience nearly, and for the things we dont, they are being created.

what a gorgeous thing to understand, to find something that speaks to you, without a voice even, a brief conversation with some star like listener. you are not alone, and you have never been, you will stop feeling this way someday, wheather you want it now or not, the only that is forever is death, you are alive. and as you read this your heart beats, your lungs still provide you air, your hands can still touch things, your feet can still carry you. you might want to leave, but your body will do anything to keep you here, if nobody loves you, it still does, if you're alone, you still have yourself to understand.

i can't seem to do anything right so leave me. no please. save me the leaving I hate that part most. i'm messy work. i don't love properly, i either swallow it whole. or can't stomach it. they both hurt. everything hurts.

this isn't my first time loving... but i haven't learnt anything it seems. i’m still messy work. you can't save me... no matter how much i wish you could.

here's the thing. this rage isn't for you. but you have soft skin and kind eyes.

i'm afraid you'll see through me.

and if you keep staring i'm afraid you'll see in me everything my father saw in my mother.

and every part of her he saw in me.

i don't want someone to look at me like that. i don't want you to look at me like that.

i want you to love me without knowing me. i want you to see me without looking.

there are alot of things i won't tell you. in a dream i am holding your hand. in a dream we are walking through each other. and when i pass to the other side, i can't remember who i was before. in this dream there is a movie ending and when the credits roll towards us. i am hiding behind your hands, hands that i cannot hold.

we know how this movie ends, we know how it begins. but the contents are all scrambled.

it's my turn to stand before you like art and you size me up with your left thumb. i won't ever really know if you found me beautiful not really. we know how this ends - the credits must roll at some point.

there are things i can't tell you. tomorrow i will wake up wishing we had never met. but i can't remember who i was before you, so i won't say a thing.

so how do i love? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i will take you to a field on a warm spring day where the bees dance over the flowers in bloom.

how do i hold you? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i will take you to an empty coop and show you how to hold an egg without breaking it.

how shall i talk with you? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i sit with you in a quiet church where the bells are singing to us.

how do i fix myself? you will ask, but i don't have an answer so i cut off my hands and let you wear them until they are bruised and broken.

how do you love me? you will ask me on a quiet night. look. i will say. look at all i do. this time i have an answer, but i mustn't tell you yet. instead i will show you the sky and the ocean, how the meeting on the horizon is brisk and sweet in the evenings. how the clouds gather in unison. how to love someone that might not deserve it. the answer is i will teach you what i know of love, what i know of holding and caring, while also knowing it will not be used on me.

but i mustn't tell you that, because you will not believe me when i say that my love supersedes even me.

you place me on the stool in front of you.

stand back and admire me for a moment. for a moment i feel beautiful. truly.

it doesn't last for long, the room dims and soon you have your hand up in front of me. one eye squinted. sizing me up with your left thumb.

somethings not right, you say. you don't say it but i know it's me. not the stool, not the light. not your own hand.

at least i felt beautiful for a moment. so much is not right. i think.

i want you to let me down now. i want you to stop perceiving me now. i want to be a child again. i want to be loved again.

i am jealous of the pillow that holds your face while you fall asleep

jealous of the sweater that keeps your body warm

jealous of the mug that your lips touch while you drink your tea

jealous of the hairbrush that runs through your soft hair

and i wish i could be the only one to experience your beauty

but what if i’m eighty-five and still thinking about this? what if i am still remembering the pleats under your eyes? the fine slopes of hair on the nape of your neck— wringing me to ashes. what then? what do i do with the knowing? ask this, as if it is not my confession: i will know you until i cannot know anything else. what a silly thing, to confess indirectly. whispering, in the margins: are you understanding me? i am saying i love you. i am saying i loved you then and love you now. still, you.

i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am his only child so engaged in following his footsteps. the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say, but i am not an apple and he is not a tree. though his face is oaky and strong and mine is red and blistering, so different yet so alike, what differentiates us from one another will always walk a thin line of existence and delusion. i am still the embodiment of his worst qualities. i still harbor the nature that scared me as a child. though he was understanding and kind, though his eyes were gentle and blue, they could still grow cold. the weathered hands that once cradled me as a child were still capable of bleeding. the comfort in his voice could teeter over the thick bridge of careful consolation and could harden like ice, cold and unloved. i am a firsthand witness to my father's anger. i am the only one so imbued in becoming just like him.

i wish to be a lover. i wish for my hands to be careful and soft. i wish to cradle the fists that have beaten me and wash the feet of those who have kicked me to the ground. i wish to love in any way that is not pathetic or desperate. i wish to be able to express myself without rage. i wish to be without rage. i wish to be without. i wish.

i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my very being is her burden. they tell me that this is what she had signed up for. that this was her duty as a mother. i tell them she should not have given herself up simply to cater to her children. i tell them she should not have given up. there was a time where she was free. where she could dance and sing and laugh without worry. where she could pursue her career and go home to an empty house with a big dog named after a flower. where she could cry and smile and spin around in circles with her arms in the air. where she could run down the streets of the city in the rain with nothing but the clothes on her back and the warmth of her best friend's hand holding hers. i am the precursor to my mother's misery. my existence has only caused her plague.

i wonder about the woman she would have been had I not been born. i wonder how much love she could have felt before she met my father. i wonder if she would have often thought about someone who has not yet existed. i wonder if she would have missed me. i wonder if she misses me. i wonder if she misses. i wonder.

i am a testament to my sister's loneliness. i am the final piece of evidence that everyone will leave her. we had grown close when we were younger. two peas in a pod, is what they had called us. opposite sides of the same coin. best friends on two ends of the same earth. different, yet so, so alike. so similar it makes me want to rot. we grew distant with age and time, as all siblings do, but have never reached that breaking point where we cave in and come back to one another. i wonder if i should have stayed. if i should have reached out one bleary night where the moon was drunk and the stars were slow dancing in the sky. if i could have done anything to make her feel less hollow. if i could remember that i am not her keeper, that her suffering did not have to bleed into mine. i am the testament to my sister's loneliness. i am a monster for not feeling guilty for it.

i crave guilt. i crave to let it consume me and turn me into nothing. i crave to feel something that makes me just a bit more human. i crave to hate leaving her, to regret it for just one moment. i crave to hate her. i crave to hate. i crave

a lake with deep twisted shadows dancing in the shallows that resemble my silhouette, just a little bit more in shambles.

crystal clear ice covers the surface and you can't break through.

you can't claim to know my deliberate depths when you've only observed from stones on the shore.

if you picked a god and prayed hard enough then maybe you could sink down to my mud.

and i've talked to the sun but only at confession time when she has the cover of the clouds.

to keep you on the stoney bay.

“and i would say i love you, but saying it out loud is hard, So i won't say it at all”

futile devices (doveman remix) by sufjan stevens