Posted in Uncategorized on December 4, 2016 by alisonadventures


I started smoking after I was committed to a mental asylum because I stopped caring; the world around me was already in flames.

When I was a child, when I still had a sister who used to wrap her arms around me, I remembered the way she smelled when she gave me those hugs: a comfortable mix of Marlboro’s and CK One perfume. How she used to take me on drives when she visited and she would buy cartons from the Indian Reservations, to save money on what I later in life realized was quite an expensive habit.

She always seemed so glamorous to me, with her bleached hair, tiny designer handbags and the cigarettes she would smoke out of her rental Cadillac’s windows, the sky a bruised pink and purple sunset with golden puffed up clouds trailing past.

Smoking did not seem to be so bad of an addiction.

Less than the powders and herbs, no dangers from syringes, accepted by society. Legal, even. An excuse to get away from the closed in world for brief moments, or nihilistically polluting the air on nights out with your mates when you were already trashed. The only light coming from a borrowed cigarette, the smoke rings making your own clouds. That feeling of pure and utter freedom when you would take a break, sweaty and shaking, from the punk rock/metal/goth clubs, maybe already high, or drunk. A cigarette would be something else to just consume. And is that not the point of a capitalist society?

I lost my best friend, at the age I am now, three years ago. An accidental overdose from consuming too much. I lost my sister not long after that: I felt the demons who stretched their ragged wings across my cranium reflected too much the monsters who tortured her own soul.

When you have already lost friends and family, when you’re already anxious and wide eyed and scared, when you’re too broke or ill or depressed to try and live what is one more addiction? What is one more thing to pass the time, to consume?  

You see Donald Trump winning the elections. You see brexit and effigies and formerly glorious rainbow flags burning. You see the racism and sexism and hate all around you. Graffiti screaming to “Make America White Again” as if that would somehow make it great. You fear a second Holocaust. Your friends are dropping like dead flies trapped in nectar: you are no longer sure you know who to trust. You read books to escape.

“What time are we upon, and where do I belong?” the text asks you. You wonder at the question. You feel yourself starting to unravel like a ball of knitting yarn, a light pinkish red  like the shade of intestines, of blood. You see the scars on your partner’s arms, his chest and are afraid; how to save him if you are barely sure you can help yourself? Can anyone truly be saved? 

“What time are we upon, and where do I belong?”

You think of the ending of Heathers, Christian Slater with the bombs all strapped to his chest. Winona Ryder waiting as he pushes the trigger, taking out a cigarette that hovers delicately like a butterfly between her lips, right before the explosion.


Posted in Uncategorized on September 15, 2016 by alisonadventures


Sometimes I wonder, if we could survive the sabotage.

Glimmers of truth, twisted with lies, trying to pick find the beautiful flowers, among the ones with  poisons.

But weren’t you always intoxicated by the deadliest of things?

Rumors swirl among the grapevine, and you feel like Alice, tumbling down the rabbit hole, some mushrooms make you big, some are magical, some  make you feel so small you worry about being eaten alive, of earth and spades and the bright sunlight, when you want to remain below, the soft dark earth damp and welcoming.

I before e except after c

You think back on those early childhood grammar lessons, and wonder if with others, I should be before we. But you don’t know where the I would be, if you never met her.

You wish, We came before I. That you could somehow save her, by leaving the confines of this world yourself. You wonder if she isn’t waiting for you on the other side, huge brown eyes and long ghostly fingers, always drawing you  nearer to their world. You can’t stop thinking of the text she sent, when you briefly had to cross an Ocean. (I can’t believe I made a best friend just to lose her! We will be together again soon xxx) You wonder if you are not disappointing her by remaining in your shell yourself. Why you would ever leave, your own health be damned.

And what is it about love, anyway?

Loving someone always seems to imply conflict, strife. You think about your favorite passages in the poetry you read, the supernatural shows you prefer.

“Love is a dangerous angel”

“A demon sent to snare me?” “Or a perfect fit, body and soul.”

You feel like you have always loved others too deeply. But where would you be, without you friends for happiness and comfort? Without your partner for love and respect?

But what if those two worlds collide?

How can someone with the longest black eyelashes, the bluest of eyes and the kindest of laughs when he smiles at you, be a demon? Sometimes the intensity of it all scares you and you just want to run, to sleep, to disappear entirely.

You used to be so good at seeing through people, but some are more complicated than others. Sometimes you wonder if some even know what their intentions truly are.

Are you trying to save someone, are you again falling for the scapegoat, the underdog, somehow knowing that after the competition ends, they will win the race? That you both will?

Sometimes you wonder at what you see when you remove your heart shaped glasses. At the friends whose minds you worry for, whose health you care about.

But how can you fault anyone for going for the poison, for taking that sip of their preferred broth. How can you fault someone for repeating your past mistakes? For wondering, is the answer at the bottom of that wine glass, in the pixie’s powder, if they simply don’t care anymore in that act of forgetting.

When you return to reality life is harsh, the sunlight burning your translucent skin. Can you really fault those for their sabotage, for throwing shards of the Snow Queen’s glass into your sea-blue eyes?

Sometimes you wonder who is actually hurting you the most.

The ivy vine of rumors, trying to pick the roses from the narcotic poison of the sweet-smelling Oleanders, the constant whispers racing through your mind.

Finding those roses only to prick yourself, lying bare naked and bleeding among the thorns.

At times you wonder most if you are sabotaging one another, or yourself.

When you have no idea what will happen next, if either of you even deserve redemption.

They say Lucifer  was the most beautiful of God’s angels right before the fall.


Posted in Uncategorized on July 17, 2015 by alisonadventures

The_Scream (1)

Come little girl

Have you ever played with fire? Have you ever cut yourself just to make the thoughts stop, blood pooling out of your human suit, wanting it to wash away all the doubts, fears insecurities, winged black monkeys scratching at your brain, the names, always the names.

Stupid failure useless useless useless.’

Self destruct before the world does it for you. Starve and harm and die before he has a chance to break your heart, before the disease gets you, before your best friend who shared your demons and journeyed with you to hell but with her, you got the tiniest slice of heaven dies and leaves you

alone alone alone

knowing you are only here, still struggling like a stubborn stain that just won’t fade because you may be a  masochistic but you are no sadist, you don’t want to put those who care, those who love, in that kind of agony.

Please make it stop please make it stop please make it stop stop make it go away

Say it like a prayer, and incantation. Howl it to the moon and hope your body erupts in fur and claws, you transform into your inner werebeast, you might be a monster but at least you could run, at least you could finally be free.

I want to run, I want to run so fast my sweat flies off my stupid human shell cocoon falls away, I want to run and run and stab and stab and free myself of this.

I don’t know if I am cursed or cursing myself, slowly poisoning my mind and body untill one day there will be nothing left to hold, nothing left to love.

I think of the secret garden, one of my favorite books as a child. “If your head is filled with thorns there is no room for the roses to blossom.”

I want roses. I want beauty. I crave it like I do love, like I thirst for water, the stream of liquid refreshing, reviving, healing. I want to heal. I want to be happy.

But the fire burns so brightly, hell calls out with the voice of a siren, luring me ever harder against the rocks, wanting to crash my tiny human skeleton out completely, the vultures are circling, the buzzards want to fly into my eyes and rip chunks out of the decaying flesh, the hyenas chomping what ever meaty bits are left.

Disease is like those predatory creatures in nature, always taking, never thinking of anything beyond the bloodlust.

Cancerous cells multiply, wanting to exterminate the bits and pieces that were once a young girl, once a beautiful boy.

Everyone wants to change you. Everyone wants to fix you.

Take your meds, Ali. Eat, Ali. Do your algebra and brush your teeth and perfect the mask, wire your gums shut, let the peroxide bleach your teeth as white as they can make it, as if having that perfect porcelain smile will somehow lighten the stains on your corrupted soul.

And if you stray too far from their perfect path of numbers and uniforms and tucked in shirts they will lock you away, send you to a prison they call hospital, inject you with needles and make you eat the fuel they call food, make you listen too the screams of all the other lost souls like yourself.

Little rat scurrying on on the floor of your cage. They want to turn you into a gerbil running around and around in circles, test their makeup on you, sell you the perfume and the bleach and the hair dye, the chemical treatment or even someone else’s hair to glue onto your head, giving the illusion of length, of perfection.

Perfect the mask. Sell them the products and the window dressings we call fashion, Focus on making the eyelashes long and dark and fluttery, the lips red and glossy and pouty. Coat the nails in bitter metallic polish to stop you from biting, shave the hair and keep the skin moist.

Do all this and they won’t judge you, won’t point at you and whisper and call you a freak and a loser and pathetic and broken. Do all this and even but it is too late, the damage has been done and the voices are in your head now, the disease is doing a victory jig with its burning eyes and poker sticks. You have been corrupted, the demons have collected their bounty, little girl has lost her body and mind.

You are poisoned and one day death will creep in like a comforting velvet hug, embracing your shattered psyche, letting you finally rest at ease.

Distract yourself with the games and numbers and drama, take the pills, buy the products. Do it so they won’t lock you away and throw away the key, like the witch did to Rapunzel, suffocating her with her wants, her desires.

It’s ok. If there’s one thing I can do is make a good mask, color in the lines, swirl the colors so perfectly they see a model, a daughter, a fiancee. Act the perfect part in the endless play called life.

But one day the cracks will get too deep, I will fall from the ice and plunge into the freezing

bottomless abyss.

Pick pick pick

Chip Chip Chip

Scratch burn hurt cry.
In the distance, the wolves are howling and the vultures swoop in for the final kill.

I’d rather be a fairy

Posted in Uncategorized on July 13, 2015 by alisonadventures


Is this what we become after we die?

Her mother grabbing her clothes off the rail, lightening fast, not looking me in the eyes. Her zombie kitten shirt. The special Nightmare before christmas one with jack and sally’s skeletal faces swooping in for a kiss. I feel muted, like I am being plunged underwater and held there. How long can you hold you breath before you suffocate? I cannot breathe.

Blindly, I look at the items…..her clothes, mingling with mine. The blue and white alice in wonderland skirt worn on so many photo shoots, her long black trenchcoat with a button pinned on “I love ML”. But did you cassie? Is that why you took those pills in terrys apartment, that why you sliced yourself open like a fish to dull the pain of your own existence?

I still remember the beautiful girl, the vibrant spirit who thought of others before herself, wrote secret  messages like letters tied up in bottles and tossed into the sea, those last words of the dying. Their thoughts, hopes dreams, loved ones. To drift endlessly in the ocean for years, maybe never to be discovered.

Did it hurt, when it came, that final moment of the drugs sealing you in your beautiful body, forever a model, immortal and stunning? As those last words of help escaped your lips as you were about to enter that endless, eternal slumber, did you suffer?

I don’t know, can’t know can only put on the black velvet jacket with the corset ribbons laced down the side in a haze, the  zipper partially broken but cradling my small form tightly.

My fiance looks on, surprised that I fit into the PVC metal boots that you wore to the metal clubs in London, the pink tutu skirt. But wasn’t it obvious?

We were the same person. Two halves of the same soul and then you were ripped away and I am alone all by




your mother asks me if I want a pair of the satin cyber goth style pants my friend Louise gifted me when I still lived in the flat with my two closest girlfriends and I never thought I would make a best friend, a twin flame, sister soulmate who would then be ripped away. Back when life still made sense.

I hear her as though through a wall of water, the words on her mouth crawling out slowly like spiders across a web.

How long before I nod, recognize the pants as my own? Minutes, hours, days?

How long before the tears stop, will the anguish ever fully heal?

I should probably just accept I will be forever broken.

Your mother gives me a present from you, your monster high doll with the pink hair and lolita accessories. How could you leave her, homeless and unloved? How could you leave me?

Maybe its better where you are. Perhaps it is never cold and not full of the men who abused us, the demons in our minds. Maybe over there you can forget that hunger that caused you to stick your fingers down your throat, that pain that that you would do anything to escape, no matter the price. Maybe the toll of your life was a bargain for an afterlife of bliss. Maybe.

But what really happens after you die?

Maybe the more frightening question is living, and knows that one day when we least expect it all those we love will be eventually taken for us. Life has cancer and diseases where even your memories or limbs eventually fail you. Even your own mind is sometimes not your own. Perhaps death is the only way of truly finding peace from it all, but if so, why the survival instinct? Why do humans struggle through so much hardship and pain just to live another day, and have to endure it all again?

Is it that distant, glimmering hope that one day things will not be quite as horrible to endure? That last winged creature pandora managed to trap inside the golden box, even as all of the other plagues of humanity ripped free. For as everyone knows, humans could not live with no hope at all.

And what is faith, but the hope of a benevolent god, a better afterlife? Sometimes it is all we have to get us through the day, to go on in this quest of blood sweat and tears that we call life.

But the one wish I have that is stronger than them all is to go back in time, to be there to do something, to stop feeling so goddamn helpless but I cant all I can do is ride the tidal wave of kills until it makes me topple over, a ballerina on point even as her toes are breaking.

That or make it dull, just for the moment, just for a time. I don’t know how much longer I can keep living in this fantasy, but when I think about the reality the floodgates opened and I sob with the strength of the ocean that doomed Atlantis, forever a lost empire under the sea.

They say the only way to deal with your pain is to deal with it, perhaps to face it but I don’t know how without crumbling entirely.

The worst part of it is seeing the love and hope in your beloved’s eyes, and just knowing that you are a disappointment to them and yourself.

I just want to make the sadness go away but I can’t and so I continue my journey into the make believe. I’d rather be a fairy than

a human anyway. 

The Fountain of Tears

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on September 3, 2013 by alisonadventures


There was once a young starlet in Hollywood

who loved far too much.

She loved the wrong people, and gave her heart away too quickly.

One by one they left her.

She was used, abused.

Becoming thinner and thinner with the weight of her unrequited love.

She had a man, once.

Who held her in his arms.

Cradled her, caressed her

Kissed away her tears.

And for a brief moment she was happy.

She saw the love he had for her blooming out of his moist green emerald eyes.

And for a moment her terrible burden was lifted. Her anxiety and loneliness was soothed in the warm circle of his arms.

Until after a while he tired of her.

Her mood swings and depression sucked the light right out of their love.

Until one day she gazed upon his face. And his eyes, so full of promises and hope

Dreams and futures

Became cold hard mirrored glass.

He spent  more and more time away from her, hunched over his laptop, a frown across his face.

No longer did they touch, or sleep caressed in each other’s arms.

And when she cried he put on headphones, drowning her out with music.

It was her own fault, the girl decided. She had suffocated him with her love, with her longing and neediness and wanting of him.

It was hardly a surprise when she woke up one morning to find that he had left her.

Suitcases neatly packed, not a trace of his cologne or belongings to be found.

She knew that he had left emotionally a long time ago.

Still, something changed after that.

Her limbs became harder, her blood slowly thickening. She was becoming wider, taller, less human. Scared, she gathered the last of her strength, and plunged the dagger into her heart.

It was to late.

She had not eaten for weeks, maybe months. He was never coming back.

And out of her heart poured only the tears that were still gushing from her eyes. The last reminder of her, of him.

Soon afterwards, a traveler found the strange  marble fountain in an abandoned house in Beverley Hills.

Astonished at it’s beauty, he installed it in his courtyard.

And all the visitors to his parties remarked upon the slight salty taste of the water, how the marble formed into curves like a woman’s body.

Two Flames

Posted in Uncategorized on June 7, 2013 by alisonadventures





We were so close, mirrors of the same soul.

We were faerie’s, dancing through life, tearing through London like the whole city was a giant dance floor, the whole world our stage.

 Our head in the clouds, our hearts united.

 Our hand’s entwined, every day was an adventure. We loved the fashion’s of the Gothic and macabre, steel-boned corsets that sculpted and streamlined our every curve, Lolita styles from Japan, lace and frills making us like breathing dolls, big eyes and carefree spirits.

The camera’s snapping away at us as we danced. We were muse’s, inspiring the world around us. Together we were unstoppable. The world was our oyster, and we were going to live our lives to the extreme. All we wanted was to be together.

We had gremlins, too. The same world that gave us our imagination and creativity also spit in our faces, twisted our souls, ripped off small pieces of our hearts. We were used, abused, hurt. The men who forced themselves upon us, the ones who charmed us into loving them before they hurt us, pushed us away. Our light shined too brightly for them, they were enchanted but terrified, so scared of being burned.

Society tried to label us. We were mad, manic-depressive, selfish, insane. We took the pills and the powders they prescribed, we prescribed. Anything at all to keep the darkness at bay. What no one understood was how hard we tried. We both  just wanted to be happy.

But for us, joy came at a terrible price…for when it came, be it for hours, days, weeks, it seared through us like molten lava, burning us to the core. We were manic, Jokers and Queens, the life of the party. We wrote word after word, ideas coming to us like lightning. We were genius, rulers of the world. Nothing and no one could stop us. But just like a fairy tale, the troll underneath the bridge wanted his gold.

We never could find the magic key, or guess Rumpelstiltskin’s name.

When the darkness found us it was complete. We went into hibernation, locking ourselves off from the world. We were a terrible burden, an unsteady roller-coaster, melancholy and destructive to any and all in our path. We were broken, like a scratched record, a jack-in-the-box that popped out nothing but entrails and blood. So harmful, so fucked up. We would bring the world nothing but pain and misery, or so we thought. Our biggest enemy was ourselves.

And so it went, on and on, the blackness and the light. Until, for you at least, you made it stop.

Some may blame you, call you selfish for what you did, leaving the rest of us behind. While your soul rests in peace, eternally in light, I like to think. It’s where you belong. You tried so hard. We both did, every second of every day. I know this, all to well.

Even across an ocean, our letters continued. You tried to see me, but my family forbade it. I tried to fly back, but the government barred my way. So close we came, so close. All we wanted was to be together.

And now, no matter what I do, say, no matter how hard I cry and how I may scream, shaking and sweating, trembling and screaming, saying your name over and over like a wish, a spell, an incantation, nothing I do or say now can bring you back.

Still, I do not fault you for what you did. I know only to well the trials you endured, the tribulations. You just wanted to be at peace. And while I still want to join you, terribly so, daily I tell myself, death is not the answer. I know you, your last word of “help”…you did not mean to leave us, to leave me. Not really. You just wanted the pain to stop, to go away and leave you in peace…I just hope, that finally, your soul is at rest. I like to believe that you are still here in spirit, guiding us, guiding me.

When I left I loaned you my wardrobe, and for a year I saw you in photos in my dress, my coat. I am so happy now to have given them to you, that they may have provided you with a moments style, warmth, energy. You breathed life into fabric, silk and lace. And even if I never see those items again, just the photos of you wearing them brings me happiness, reminds me of you.

You took me to Heathrow, on that fateful day a year ago now. We were in tears as we said our goodbyes. If only I knew it would be for the last time…if only I knew.

Before I left, you imparted one last gift. A pill holder, with a smaller pill inside, when opened bearing a small, written message: “You are creative, beautiful and smart. Don’t forget about me!” Sophia, how could I ever? I just wish it was as magical as you, if I could bury it and it would grow, like the beans sold to Jack, and a giant beanstalk would sprout from the ground which I could climb, higher and higher, and visit you in heaven.

Every day without you in it is a constant battle, a fight not to let the depression enter completely, stealing my heart, corrupting my soul.

You knew me better than anyone, we were reflections of each other, soul-sisters in a harsh and uncaring world. And now you are gone and I am lost.

Sometime, when you feel like you are free-falling down the rabbit hole, you find things you grab onto, to bring you back into this world. A puppy with chocolate-brown eyes, a man who finally loves you with all his heart, a pill with a secret message inside. Messages pouring in from across an ocean that one day, you will be able to cross. Knowing that in some part of this world you still have friends.

My heart may be heavy in my chest, leaden and breaking, but for you I  live on. As I continue to grieve I know all you would have wanted was for me to be happy. And so  I finally find the courage to write, schedule photo shoots, try and scratch out an income to make my way back to London. You may be gone, but your legacy lives on. And you will never be forgotten. 

The Mirror of the Mind

Posted in Uncategorized on May 29, 2012 by alisonadventures

Packing up of possessions.

The pink frilly tutus, black lace dresses, brocade corsets, rainbow fluffies and lingerie.

So many items. So many memories.

The key ring with us screaming like children from the funfair at Christmas, the stuffed teddy bear found stranded like the squished and rotting brie  at the Masquerade ball, the heart of the ocean that you slipped around my neck.

The books and graphic novels spouting legends, nightmares, myths.

The Cthulhu pearl necklace, the fox skull fascinator, the custom designed latex dress.

The items we shell ourselves in, adorn ourselves like preening peacocks, screeching for attention.


All of it lost now, being packed into the same brown cardboard boxes, the glitter and glory remaining a secret within.

The films I have collected over the past four years will be useless to me across the ocean made ofAlice’s tears. Who won the dodo’s game, in the end? I cannot remember.

Soon gone will be the nights spent dancing till dawn, the friends who became family and the lovers…the heartbreaks and heartbreakers.

All of it abandoned as alone, I stand facing the enemy, ready to fight. I am not armed, my weapons have been purposely abandoned as I face my foe, naked and shivering on this small astral island on the ocean of tears.

The moon casts a spotlight over me as I look up, scared but determined as a red velvet curtain whooshes to my front, daring me to peek behind.

“Who are you?” I shout, but the wind eats away at my words, as if they had been spoken not at all.

On and on we stand, me and the curtain, and I refuse to move, waiting for him, for IT to strike.

As the hours pass, and the purple and gold bands take over the horizon, I consider turning back, retreating into the familiar ocean of this island of tears. Taking comfort in the soothing well of misery, that endless pit I knew only too well.

But no. Something in me stands strong. I have come all this way, trawled the circus we call life, fought the lions, got caught in the maze several times, painted the white roses red using the blood of my passion. Spend half a decade in a funhouse and you know that once you decide to leave, there is no turning back.

So as the sun rises over the surface and it is still me and the rich ruby curtain, I reach out and with trembling hands find IT.

IT is not a marine monster, many tentacles extending to choke me where I stand.

IT is not a great green glob of mucus and slime, seeking me out for suffocation.

IT is not a giant monkey, or monster yet unknown to man.

IT is not even a man or woman itself, dagger poised, ready to lunge into the fragile yet still-beating organ inside my sternum.

IT is a magnificent mirror, full length and dripping with diamonds that catch glare from the nowmiddaysun, causing purple dots to dance in front of my eyes.

The framework is exquisite, the craftsmanship, flawless. It is priceless, a work of art whose beauty withstands monetary value and the test of time.

But it is no ordinary looking glass. For floating on the island shimmering before me is the greatest foe of all:

The Mirror of the Mind.

For reflected within, a mortal can be trapped staring at their failures, doubts and insecurities. It can become lost in the woods of rejection, thrown into the lap of sadistic decadence, forever lost to the bleak black hole of depression. The Mirror does not reflect our bodies, those physical shells so easy so abandoned if one cares to look deeper. The Mirror shows not the party frocks and frilly fantasies, but only the truth reflected on that shining silver service.

And run and hide as you might, go to the clubs and faeries grottos, sip the magic potion or inhale that intoxicating pixie dust, The Mirror is always there, omnipresent, waiting for you to tug the gold tassled handle, rip away that scarlet covering and reveal…..


But as I face The Mirror’s gaze, I stride forward on shaky legs, not feeling the soles of my feet burn on that hot island sand, nor the sunburn turning my white shoulders pink, even the hunger, the lust, the desire, all has faded as I now stand, my face inches away from the glass, fingertips lightly touching the surface.

And no longer am I afraid, anxious and scared, for although those feelings will always arise and be reflected in The Mirror, there is something else, something greater.

There is my strength, to overcome all obstacles and achieve what is just. There is my hope, for one day creating the beauty I crave in others. There is the kindness, and compassion, and the love for the people I must leave behind, and of those I have yet to encounter. But the greatest orb I see reflected in The Mirror is that of strength, of the fortitude to carry on, no matter how big a giant or how slimy a worm stands in my path.

And no matter how scared I am of facing the other, darker aspects of The Mirror inside, I press my fingers harder as the glass transforms into a swirling vortex and I step in, tears rolling down my cheeks but a smile hovering over my lips.

I don’t know exactly where my journey may lead, or for how long it may take.

I might end up lost once again in the ocean of tears, but this time flying high above the continents, exploring cities both new and villages of old.

But I do know this:

Every word of advice or wisdom my loved ones have imparted on me will stay close, lodged into my heart. Sometimes you need a tough and bitter draft of wind to accept the truth, even if at the time you may not have wanted to hear it.

Your support, cuddles and love mean more to me than all of the diamonds dripping down The Mirrors frame.

Please think back on me sometime, if only fleetingly, and remember.

And in doing so, my strength will grow ever stronger, and soon I will be able to face The Mirror proudly, and without fear.

Perhaps I will see you there.