Miss Hannah Grace

Painted masks on porcelain frames
Sipping poison for the glamour and fame,
Little dolly girl with her curls a mess,
Why does this world cause you so much distress?
Through faded lips come the slanderous throws,
And searching fingers that recoil from bows.
Naughty little children are praised for their sins,
While little dolly girl is putting needles in her skin.
Don’t look now, the fairytale is fading
To lust-ridden vows in cheap diamond casing.
The princess is gone and the prince has been slain
And little dolly girl is trapped between pages again.
Pretty porcelain girls with nicotine on their lips
And the boys with pretty words in their mouths—
Little dolly girl gives a stitched-up kiss,
And lies in her satin bed of self-doubt.
Because between the parchment pages of her prison,
Where the little dolly girl is kept,
Is where her glass eyes see the lies
Of the nicotine girls and the cyanide boys.

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found some old poem i remember doing for a creative writing assignment last year. i think the assignment was we had to create a random list of nouns, adjectives, and verbs we liked, and then work them into a poem. i rather like the beginning of this.

My mind is a battleground of opposing personalities.

Between the glitter and the grime—through the vomit and couture—there is one little girl. And this little girl picks up the needle in her hands, and paints her body like a canvas—lace dripping down, glitter around her eyes, rhinestones falling like tears. What kind of creature is she becoming, behind the velvet curtain? What is her heart saying, underneath the frothiest lace negligée ? She saw images of girls with waves in their hair and chiffon at their hips and bows on their feet for as long as she could remember. Nostalgia for a world overseas she’s never even seen—just admired from afar, just inbred into her system.

All the little boys ran away from her as fast as they could. Ran, ran, ran. Ran from the lace at her hips and the waves in her hair and the little bows on her feet. Continued to run from the glitter and the grime and the rhinestone tears. And finally she started running too—deeper into the sea of lace and embroidery and chiffon that was beginning to fill her lungs. She ran for years.

Finally, in the starlight, voices begin to call. Voices she’s never heard before. Voices she’d never even dream of hearing. Hands grasping out from the darkness, looking for something to hold. Curious eyes. Safe and curious. Not cruel and curious like the gaping stares from the street. She falters, and wonders if she should run again. But she delicately takes the hands from the darkness and swirling lights and falls down into a world she has been seeing behind her eyes, but never seen for real.

When she was 12 years old, the world seemed so dark. She was all alone—just her and the ribbon and lace within her hands. But now there are other hands, offering other pretty ribbons, and other pretty laces. Her heart is filled with love, but she is hesitant. Would these hands end up running away too, just like everyone else had…?

Twelve years old. A very confusing time within my head. Hormones and medications rushing through my system—walking through doctor’s offices and schoolyards, seeing things through a haze of fear of and confusion. Looking at the other girls around me—boys on their arms, curves on their hips. “Blossoming” girls, they’d say. My eyes stared in curiosity and frustration at my own self. My brain didn’t connect with my mouth and my words didn’t connect with my lips and my thoughts didn’t connect with my hips. Boys and lipgloss pushed away by my hands — art and fashion from a million miles away filling my grasping fingers instead. My mind drifted and dreamed of bows and petticoats while other girls were talking about when they’d kiss their crushes on the playground.

Maybe I was disconnected. Maybe I was ill. Maybe I was a “late bloomer”. There wouldn’t be blood between my legs until a year later.

Growing up is such a funny thing.
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Musing about my experiences with puberty for one of my final projects for school. Photo of myself before the Emilie Autumn concert I went to a few months back. ♥

[Flash 10 is required to watch video]

“Lillie is the freak who freaks out the freaks”. — Lillie, Dave Mckean

messing with footage that i’m filming for one of my final projects for school.

music from the Rule of Rose OST

people seem to be enjoying these preview screencaps of a film i’m making for class on my personal blog…what do you think~? ♥

Ghosts of people; moving shadows swaying through the bass. Alice in clubland—led by the hand through the lust and confusion. Little blonde bunny raises the apple of temptation to her lips: “Just one little bite”. Eyes searching. Lights flashing. Feeling the music beneath her skin. Her life is being sucked away—she loves it all the same. Please, nourish me. Alice sings. Let me drink the poison and fall deeper, down, down, down.

And there’s a face, and there’s a light, flashing like a beacon in the darkness. Pale skin frame glowing like ivory. Alice’s lips form words. Ghost, she says, where have you been hiding? I can almost not see your face but I can feel you there, floating through the crowd and chaos. Won’t you be my friend, dear ghost?

There’s a smile, but the poison makes Alice sick. And she runs. Running away from the lights and the noise and the ringing in her ears, poison dripping from her lips, rejected by her tender insides.

But her mind always brings her back to the ivory-skinned ghost.

Dear ghost, please come back.

[[myself modelling my makeup and jewelry for the Anime Boston rave, along with a wee bit of prose. ♥ ]]

oh goody, my first inspiration post! ♥

i’m sure you kind souls following me will notice the huge theme of potatoes i’ve had in some of my latest works—ever wonder where i got the idea? for the photoshoot i did for my TIME class, i was strongly inspired by this film short, Down to the Cellar, by Czech surrealist Jan Svankmajer. the film plays with the major fears of childhood—darkness, strangers, trying new foods, etc.

this particular short is one of my favorites by him, and i find it very relateable. i wanted the same kind of vibe for my own photos, to portray the sense of confusion and anxiety i had while growing up (i was a very frightened child half the time).

anyway, hope you enjoy ♥

potatoes.

MORE ART SURROUNDING POTATOES. YES. god what is wrong with me…

well, anyway, this is a little piece i did for a creative writing class i took during my senior year of highschool. we had to choose a fruit or vegetable and write about it…most of the kids chose apples, and strawberries…i chose potatoes. potatoes actually have quite a special meaning to me and my family, and appear in my life a lot, the more i think about it!

i remember struggling so hard with this assignment though, ha. to quote my old deviantart page, “fucking potatoes”. anyway, enjoy! ♥

The potatoes grow underneath the ground, long roots twisting throughout the soil. The entwined roots collect nutrients for the plant to grow, so its big green leaves can unfurl in the sunlight, while maggots and insect beasts scuttle among the growing bulbs soon to become human food. Rough brown skin, pricked with pokey little eyes—Are they watching me from their corner in the cellar? Oh, the nostalgia found inside its earthy-smelling fruit! Mother pouring milk and butter in her old iron pot, fluorescent lighting off of cream kitchen walls. Mother saying “eat your peas” as I put another spoonful of mashed potatoes in my mouth. Mashed potatoes Monday through Sunday—a growing child’s daily dose of starch (but she’s really just a pint-sized picky eater).