mirrorballtales

[mirrorballtales]

Can I admit something?

Many of my thoughts remain unspoken. And it kills me. But I’m sitting here and these reels are playing in my head. I’m really tired. No, I mean, like I think I’m tired the way a cancer patient being told chemo didn’t work decides they are ceasing all treatment.

I just don’t understand how they don’t miss me? I feel like I’m screaming and I’m being met with deafening silence. Like no one can hear me, and I’m pacing the halls like a ghost throwing things against the wall begging for someone to believe I exist. I’m not okay. It’s this album. No I’m not blaming it, I mean it’s bringing up every single year of my life where I keep losing. I’m so sick of it. I’m so tired and I can’t do this anymore. I’m so tired and I don’t know what to do. I still can’t believe it, something is wrong with me and I can’t fix myself. I don’t know what to do I’m so afraid I won’t make it to the end of the week. I feel really tired and I don’t know if my heart will give out. I’m so tired of begging for it to let it once be me. I feel like I’m reaching for a hand that isn’t there. I’m howling at the moon trying to will it to save me. I’m so afraid I’ve sealed my fate. I’m so afraid I am not making it to the end of the week. I don’t have it in me tonight to fight anymore and I am so tired. I wish someone would just fix me. Please. I’ll do anything. I don’t think I’m thinking straight and I am really sorry. I wish I could press the reset button. I wish I could disappear. Remove myself from everyone’s life. Make theirs so much better. I am like a shadow blocking the daylight.

I blew in with the winds of fate and took them all to hell with me. God please. I don’t know what to do, my god. I look in the mirror and I see what they all saw, all the shit they talked, they were right. Something in me is dead. Something in me is so ugly and I should have let it stay buried. I’m so tired I feel like a child left at the mall. I’m calling out to my mom but she doesn’t come back. I want to die. I want to die. I mean it. I mean it so much it’s scaring me. It’s scaring me that I can’t think clearly. It’s scaring me that I don’t care who finds me. I don’t care if I’m ever found. If it takes days. I don’t care. I don’t care. I’m sorry. I don’t care. I am such a fucking burden. My pain is such an imposition.

I’m not okay. It feels like that day when I did it and it’s killing me. I’m restraining myself. But for what? I look in the mirror and I want to fucking scream!!! This is what I look like? What a sick joke, I want to set fire to everything I know. Hire the priest to come exorcise my demons. And I hope it kills me. I hope they all hear me. I hope they know it. I hope they feel it.

I guess it doesn’t matter.

I’m the only one left bereft and feeling.

[mirrorballtales]

Come one, come all

It's happening again

My beloved ghost and me

Sitting in a tree

D-Y-I-N-G 🤍

[mirrorballtales]

The thumb stroke, alright I’m done. She really thought of every detail. And she’s gorgeous my goodness. 😭

I love you... ...it's ruining my life

[mirrorballtales]

I am going to throw up.

This!!! I have seen the music video about 13,000 times and both the beginning and end physically choke me up. Obviously, art is up to the consumer’s interpretation, we use our own experiences to reframe narratives that fit us. Someone in a completely healthy mental state might view this as just a tidy, neat ending. I think someone who might have never been institutionalized or needed to be might not understand the first sequence of scenes.

I wish I could describe to you what that did to me. You sort of surrender yourself to others who desperately try to “fix” you. There’s sort of a lack of empathy and humanity that leaves the door when you enter a place like this. I think a lot about how I was driven mad and somehow my body and mind refused to let it change my reasoning, even if reasoning was lacking.

I also think a lot about those that left when they saw my mind. I feel a lot like a hurricane. Coming in full force, strong winds, rage cascading down from heaven, a relentless touchdown of emotion, and they only like to stay in the eye of the storm. So seeing him reach out to her, and not bring her down but say “I’m here” without it needing to be said, to see this loud surrender of okay, this is a really shitty storm, I’m cold, I’m tired, I’m afraid, and that hands says, “That’s okay, it will pass but until then I’m here. It is shitty. But I’m here.”

It stops me in my tracks.

#taylor swift #taylornation #taylor’s version #healing #fortnight #post malone #the tortured poets department

[mirrorballtales]

Hearts are hers for the breaking

There's an escape in escaping

Ended with the slam of a door

Then he'll call her a whore

Wish he wouldn't be sore

But as she was leaving

It felt like breathing

All her fucking lives

Flashed before her eyes

[mirrorballtales]

And I can confirm she made

A curious child, ever reviled

By everyone especially her own mother

With a quite bewitching face

Splendidly selfish, charmingly helpless

Excellent fun until you get to know her

Then she runs like it's a race

Behind her back, her best mates laughed

And they nicknamed her "The Bolter"

[mirrorballtales]

I’ve thought of burying myself in my nicest dress, and calling up everyone one who crossed me thinking I’d die quietly.

I was a functioning kid until they tried to kill me. I lost my mind and more, and who is here to blame? They turned me into the crazy girl, the snarling monster, the one you approach with caution who always remembers. I have loose ends I want to tether around their necks, sever the heads of what’s ruining my life.

They’ll say they touched me for only one night, and decades later my mind hasn’t moved on. Instead I became crazier and crazier. Lost in the labyrinth of my mind, and they get to live in a house with a white picket fence, maybe they have children now, and they see my innocence in them, or they look to their wives and see their quiet treason against the thirteen year old? I wonder if they plant seeds, water the ground, and instead of rosy petals only dead roses come up. Lost the magic with no midnight kiss, and there I am a spectator to their lives, I want to kill them.

I wonder if they talk at night, and tell them about thirteen year old me? Do they reenact it for them? Do they hear my screams, do they feel the resistance, the digging of my nails, do they feel the panting of my pleas, do they imagine me or the new face? Or do they blame me? Rewrite the narrative, tell themselves the screaming and crying was part of the game? Does it get them off? Do they hit nirvana when they think of cutting me? When they grab their wrists do they imagine mine? When they close their eyes am I there? Or am I forgotten in their memory too? Do I get to be the only one to think of that night? Am I the only one with scars? Do they see dark eyes when I see opal ones? A dark ocean of waves drowning me. Do they see a girl with black hair and imagine it’s me? Do they hear a voice like mine and for a second feel bad? When their girls are 13 will they think of me? Or are they free? Is this why I was the only sent away? Will they ever confess with they did it?

Was I supposed to stay in the asylum, did they forget to make an appointment for my lobotomy? Can they fix me? Maybe they’d miss me? Can they remove my heart? I can be the tin man, oil up when I creak, and rust myself with the tears that find me.

I think I’m still there. I’m still at the hospital. I don’t think I ever left. They forgot to come get me. Visitors overstayed their welcome. Then they said my company was no good. I tried calling everyone to come pick me up but no one answers anymore. I’ve tried going thru torn down walls, digging holes, jumping fences, but I can’t do it alone. My hands are stuck in an endless strapped jacket. Does no one want to undo them for me? Carry me away? I’m tired of this room. I’m tired of the miracle drug not bringing miracles. I’m tired of no one caring I’m still at the asylum.

I’m still pleading, please don't leave me, but they all get so tired of my screaming. My last breaths in a haunting story with a corpse too cold to respond to me. I’ll go anywhere. I promise not to cry anymore. I promise not to scream. I promise not to be scared. I promise not to be sad. I promise not be angry. I promise to be quiet. I promise to not talk. I promise to not dance or sing. I promise not to feel or think but can someone please come get me? Will someone please break down the door and take my hand? Is everyone gone? I don’t want to walk the halls alone. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. I don’t want to. Please. Can anyone hear me? No one is picking up.

[mirrorballtales]

Who’s afraid of little old me?

You should be.

[mirrorballtales]

Pick your poison babe,

I’m poison either way.

#imgonnagetyouback #taylor swift #taylornation #the tortured poets department

[mirrorballtales]

Seven

I remember being seven, watching my mom crying, prying my father out of her reach, my white-knuckle grip on his back pockets begging him to let her breathe and being pushed back on her bed. I remember being 11, and watching my mother imploring with him to keep his weekend clothes in my closet, reminders that he was a temporary cold, and I begged for the cure, meanwhile my mom injected the poison into her veins. I screamed for them both to stop fighting in front of my six-month old sister. I remember being 12, watching him choke her into the bathroom sink on Father’s Day. I remember yelling for him to go away. I remember my boyfriend on the phone, begging me to call the police. I told my mom to please do something. I heard pots crashing. I heard thumping. I heard my father yelling at me to never intervene when he is angry. I heard the operator. I heard the sirens. Then I heard the blame at midnight. I heard her saying she’d disown me for him to stay. I was thirteen, and his knee was on her neck. And I begged my brother to get in the car. I asked him to stay put while I fixed this. I was seven prying him off of her again. Then she talked utter nonsense into our heads. Promised to walk away. Told us we’d figure it out. And that may be the only day I thought I knew peace. Then she came back. And hugged him. Left the door open for him to return. Then I was maimed and tattered and they Bonnie and Clyde’d their way into blaming me for the choices of other boys. They partnered into a cruel enforcement, they traded places, striped me of my clothes, blamed me for the mistakes of others. Bonded over their meanness. Switched places on who could bruise harder. Laughed when he grabbed my hair and slammed into dinner tables and walls. Guarded the hallway when he crossed my room, and blamed it all on my stupid youth.

Then I was seventeen and I thought I found the antidote. I thought my string was tied to a tether of hope. And he cut it. So I tried to die but it didn’t work. I was twenty three and I tried again, he said I was wild joy, and I thought he was wild hope. I thought I was lighter. I thought I was the fire keeping him warm. And then he said my sadness was too much. He said I talked too much. He said I needed to fix me. And I swore I would, maybe he’d miss me. Oh the tragedy I’ve always been.

I left all I knew, I’m pissed off I gave all my youth for free. I held tight to his tolerance, to his quiet resentment of my mind. He said he didn’t want to be there, not under my cloud, not under my bluest haze, not under my rain, not under my broken glass, not on my imposed pain. He said he didn’t want to read my stories anymore. So I became a mad woman. Everything I embroidered onto his mind he unstitched. The glow dimmed, half buried, he was a stand up guy, for everyone, but me.

And the prophecy came to play. The curse returned and took the conman, and left another hole, no hand left to reach for, the man who knew so much more, the traveler, the philosopher shit talked me to death. Said no one would read the book I could only finish in my mind. Told everyone I was a joke, a bitch, a fucked up girl, a nutcase, a broken toy, a waste of time, “Why would anyone stay?” he said. “How can anyone love this?” he gestured as I was folded over on the floor begging for him not to leave. When they threw the food at my face? When they kicked me out of the car because they were sick of looking at the “same old fucking depressing face.” My mom came back in whispers, she said “I told you so.” She was right, we sat in the car, I was a passenger to her fortune-telling. She knew no one would love me. She knew something in me pushed everyone away. She knew all those plot twists would end with me falling off the cliff. I want to unrecall it all. I want to forget all the lies they said, the times they promised they’d stay. The times they said I was so strong, they admired my passion, they loved my broken pieces. Except when it cut them. Except when the passion was not theirs. Except when I could not be strong. Except when I couldn’t move on from everything everyone has done. Then it hits me.

They all said the same thing, “you need help.” They all said I was exhausting. They all said I ruin everything. They all said they couldn’t get past the number of times I “let” others touch me. He said I was ruined. They said they couldn’t get past my rules. They said they couldn’t get past the cries. They couldn’t get past the baggage they didn’t want to carry anymore. They said in fifty years they wouldn’t want this. They all said, “good riddance.” See it wasn’t sexy anymore to be the crazy girl they got to fuck. Not when I cried because I couldn’t separate the memories.

They said I wouldn’t open up. I wouldn’t let them hold me. It killed me. I just don’t understand. Why they didn’t try? Did they not miss my laugh? Did they not miss my stories? Did they not want to hear my wildest dreams? Did they not miss my eyes, or did they prefer to make fun of me? Did they not hear me when I was dying screaming? Did they not care that I just wanted to be held? Did they not hear a song and think of me? Or was I right and they were wrong? And it’s the stars talking? Did I just not realize that fate said the morning I was born, the stars are not aligned for me? They burn brighter when I cut them from the team? Did they not think I was beautiful? Did they feel shame when they looked out to the crowd and saw me? Did they deny me when they asked if they knew me?

So I hate them all. I thought I caught lighting in a bottle. But then it was gone. I would have died for them all. Instead I died inside. They all deserve prison but they won’t get time. I always forgive but never forget what they did. I look to the sky, on my knees, and beg for the change in prophecy, for anyone to want my company, friend or foe, for the cards to read my way.

I know I sound like a petulant child. I’m just a women who howls at the moon wondering if anyone ever sees me and wishes I was theirs? I’m just so afraid I sealed my fate at seven, when I made a deal with the devil, said I’d give up my happiness so my mom would have hers. Tell me, who do I speak to? Who’s going to look at me and thank the Gods and Goddesses I exist? I wish I was a better woman.

God you have no idea. I swore to the seven year old girl who had to deal with the cruel and the mean that I will love her when everyone chooses not to. That I will love her wild and her roar. I will nurture the stories untold. Her melancholia will make her glow. She will tie her strings to her own pen, and write with the joy of her ink. She will own her sad even if she looks ridiculous. She will wipe the tears of that seven year old. She will hold her hand when there is no one to reach out to her. She will sing her lullabies at night. She will curtail her curiosity for danger ahead. She will stay. They’ll get lost on purpose.

I don’t mind. It takes time to save that girl. No one on my side. That’s alright. We’ll run away with the ghosts that haunt her. She’s a hurricane, and billow smoke of spilled ink. She’ll slip into the eye of the storm in white lace and their crimes. She’ll lay her body to rest on the holy ground of her long suffering. The rain will soak her gown. Every curve on display, ivy growing over her feet, burying her sadness, her regrets, and they’ll say she’s one hell of a drug, a sin they want to commit. They’ll find the key for the cage. They’ll say she’s bad, or mad, or wise, but either way they’ll slip and fall into her labyrinth. And all will be forgiven under her rule. They know she’s a vault. A fatal fantasy. They’ll worship her in their head. She’ll swirl them into her poems. They’ll say, “I can fix her” and I’ll say no, you really can’t but I can show you heaven, no really, I can. And you’ll be tempted by the girl who goes in, because in the end, you’ll hear the whispers in my eyes, you’ll know I’m the one who gets to flip the script. I decide who’s hands touch mine. And all at once they’ll all realize I can feel it, and I’ll press the reset button, bygones will be bygones, and you better be ready to pick your poison. I’m poison either way. And I’m the only antidote. Consume me.

And that seven year old girl no one loved, will wake up and she’ll run away and she’ll be free at last and when you look at me you’ll look for me in a crowd, and you’ll think of the first time you saw me, and it’ll be bittersweet. So decide, are you going to marry, kiss, or kill me? It’s a game but really. Tell me. Philosophers would never dare to entwine me into their poems. Aristotle would question his pedantry, casual observation of me would never be enough, details would surpass logic, and you’ll look to books, to Gods, the stars, the moon, and ask why you feel the way you do. So truth or dare? But whatever you do, go at it with stifling hurried pace, for I am philosophy in body and mind, and to have knowledge on me you’d have to study my body and mind. To reason with me you’d have to look me in the eye and say what they whisper when your eyes crinkle and twinkle because they see the lines of my humanity.

Cloaked men disguised as wise men will say to approach with caution and warn you about me. They’ll say “she’s no rose, all thorns.” You’re in terrible danger. And I’ll go from being the favorite to persona non grata in a blink of my sad truth. I’ll tell you I tried to warn you, that the danger is in not fighting for my honor. The danger is in not whisking me away from all their death threats. The danger is in forgetting me, again. Mourning, screaming “it’s happening again, they’re leaving me!” So, pause, and look at me. Let me tell you what I want to say and all I can say in a blink of fluttering eyes. Then let me hide and stifle my girlish giggles, they come from seven year old me. She’s really sweet. I pinky promise.

If you hate it here, come hold my hand, I’ll take you to the secret garden in my mind, I’m the only one who has the key to it. I’m sure I made it up in my mind when I was seven. If you hate it here I’ll take you to a place where you won’t feel any fear, where you won’t want to die, I’m sure I made the place up when I was a precocious child and no one wanted me.

I promise I’ll romanticize it all, my sadness and your dreams. I’ll romanticize your mistakes and mine. I’ll romanticize your darkest parts. If you romanticize mine.

And the seven year old girl will jump with unbridled joy. She’ll find my hand and take me to you. She’ll jump into your arms and beg you to push her on the swing set. She’ll be wilder and lighter for you. She’ll memorize every wrinkle in time. The clock will be tethered to her heart. She’ll learn every single soliloquy you utter. Memorize the cadence and resonance, every intonation and enunciation. And you’ll bury deep the secret and leave only sweetness, for her. It’ll be her bedtime story. She’ll say it was worth the fight and kill. She’ll tug at my hand and say you know your stuff and she’ll say she’ll spin the bottle and she’ll write you a novel. Maybe you’ll want to read the happily ever after ending. She’ll go to bed and pray to the gleaming, glowing balls of fire. She’ll say this is what it was all for. She’ll make sure there is no room for regrets in your dreams and she will too find seven year old you. She’ll take his hand and be wild joy, you’ll be a wild boy, dancing with wild hope. You’ll listen to my every monologue with fingers intertwined, you’ll be drinking what I’m thinking and I’ll quench your mind, and the invisible string wrapping all your pain away and she’ll say you can stay with her. She’ll say she’s got you.

And the stars will say destiny wrote it this way. The curse is broken. Even before Eve was bitten they knew it would end this way. And that seven year old girl won’t wake up in the middle of the night. She’ll let me tuck her into bed and she won’t search for pill bottles. And maybe for once she’ll believe the stars are in her eyes and they’ll be making wishes whenever they look at me. Maybe they’ll say for once, they looked at the stars and wished for her.

So I dare you to choose, marry, kiss, or kill me? Truth or dare? Seven year old me is sitting in the meadow waiting for the call. That seven year old wrote a hundred thrown out truths. But she’s waiting for one to be written for her. She’d like for once to hear it, tell her what you saw the first time you saw her. Did destiny play a part, did she feel the shift of the axis? Cross my heart, I already know. Cross my heart, I’ll keep it locked in a vault, categorize it into the file of bittersweet beginnings. Tell me the truth, and I’ll swear, Scout’s honor to the silent oath I’m giving you.

She’ll have edge, one day, and then all say, she’ll always be a curious bewitching face. So beguiling. She’ll be really fun until you get to know her. All her fucking lives will go back to the day she fell through the foundation of the house, and came out alive, and drew in fresh air. She’ll step aside from all the anger and somewhere in between you’ll feel her.

Every body on her will be buried, the men of many faces said “nevermind” when she let them peek into her mind so she’ll bolt, she’ll escape to the place she used to go when she was seven or so, and I’ll guide you to her. Will you reach for my hand? And hold her through drowning cries of childlike rage? Will you turn her page? Will you find the key to her cage? Will you climb the celestial stair and align the stars for her? Will you give her a taste?

She is a curious child. Reviled by all, especially by her own mother. She likes to run, the car starting at the sound of another slammed door. Seven year old, sweet little girl, just looking for the hand to hold. I got her. But will you hold the other? Will you tame the bear? Will you be okay when you fail? Will you hold her face and beg her to stop leaving because all your fucking life led you to the chance encounter of your life. Will you look into her eyes and thank the stars they stay put when you aligned them? Will you pray and thank the stars that you get know her? Will you finally tell her what she’s already thinking? Will she always feel like the start of June, a warm Saturday? Your favorite flavor? All her fucking life she’ll say “I’ve been waiting for this.” And she’ll finally tell you her hiding spot.

It’s just a game, truth or dare, spin the bottle, marry, kiss, or kill me? But choose something for me.

[mirrorballtales]

Two things: When your bestie says she’s going to record you singing your favorite song because who the hell cares? She called it “joy of youth” and “embrace the cringe” so we both said “fuck it” and embraced the cringe. Enjoy me three drinks in dancing to Guilty as Sin? Will I remember I posted this??? God I hope not.

And two: my neighbors are going to hate my walking-my-dog outfit for the next few months but this “lilac short skirt, the one that fits me like skin, did your research you knew the price going in, and I’ll tell you one thing, honey, I can tell when someone wants me” skirt fits me incredible, like holy shit it looks so good on me. Like look at that? It’s so pretty! Can’t wait for skirt and sundress season!

#taylor swift #pop flex skirt #style taylor swift #taylornation #imgonnagetyouback #guilty as sin? #post malone #fortnight #down bad #the tortured poets department

[mirrorballtales]

The way I could easily be kidnapped and lured into a van if you promised me Eras Tour tickets after hearing she’s adding TTPD to the setlist like? Please kill me AFTER the concert.

[mirrorballtales]

I WANT TO SCREAM OLD HABITS DIE SCREAMING!!! I WANT TO SET FIRE TO EVERYTHING AND HIRE A PRIEST TO COME EXORCISE MY DEMONS. EVEN IF I DIE SCREAMING!!!!!!!!!! EVEN IF EVERYONE HEARS IT. EVEN IF IT RUINS EVERYTHING. I AM INTERTWINED IN THE TRAGIC FABRIC OF BROKEN DREAMING. I AM SO ANGRY. I AM BEYOND ANGRY. I AM SO ANGRY THIS IS IT. I LOSE. I FUCKING LOSE. AGAIN. I SHOULD KNOW THE STEPS. GOD DON’T I KNOW THEM! GOD PLEASE. TAKE ME. I AM BEGGING YOU TO PLEASE TAKE ME!!!

God I am begging you, please I cannot possibly do this again.

[mirrorballtales]

Oh never related more to the lyrics, “I’m down bad crying at the gym” more than right now. Please God remove all emotions from me and make me numb. I am howling at the sky for you to make me someone who doesn’t feel anything. Please. I am so sick of feeling like this. I genuinely don’t want to feel anything anymore. I’m so tired. I’m just so tired.

[mirrorballtales]

Taylor you’re wrong, I actually as a matter of fact, CANNOT do this with a broken heart. I want my signed cd and I want it now. I don’t care if this sounds like teenage petulance, FUCK IT if I can’t have it. I might just die, it would make no difference.

#signed cd #umg #taylor swift #taylornation #taylor’s version #ts ttpd #ttpd

[mirrorballtales]

Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?

Did you sleep with a gun underneath our bed?

Were you writin' a book? Were you a sleeper cell spy?

In fifty years, will all this be declassified?

And you'll confess why you did it and I'll say, "Good riddance"

'Cause it wasn't sexy once it wasn't forbidden

I would've died for your sins, instead, I just died inside

And you deserve prison, but you won't get time

You'll slide into inboxes and slip through the bars

You crashed my party and your rental car

You said normal girls were boring

But you were gone by the morning

You kicked out the stage lights, but you're still performing

#taylor swift #taylornation #taylor’s version #healing #the smallest man who ever lived #fortnight #down bad #matty healy #post malone #the tortured poets department #ts ttpd #ttpd #guilty as sin? #folklore #bridge #joe alwyn #travis kelce

[mirrorballtales]

the way taylor memorialized directing the all too well short film in the manuscript is so beautiful and moving. it’s the first time she’s written a song directly about her work and the catharsis of telling her stories and passing them down to us. i can’t think of a more poignant way to close this album