My name is still Victoria Lowe... I barely recognise it.
I should jump right in and tell the truth... Instead I hang back and wait to see what happens.
I rarely see my friends, just speak... I wonder if they are but figments of my imagination.
I go to raid the fridge... And the best I can come up with is processed cheese... Even that's light.
I am contemplating sex with random internet me.
I will get revenge, even if only in a way meaningless to anyone else but me... Even if it only hurts me.
I long to be special... Like the characters in the books I read.
There are two of me... I prefer the unstable one. I don't like what I see in the morning mirror... When I do like what I see it's cus I'm carving an image... The person staring back is not me, just someone I want to be.
I bare my life online... But can't tell the people closest to me a thing.
My favourite book is about the suicide of five girls
I crave love... Then shun it once it's here.
Everything is my fault... I bring it on myself.
I adopt the way in which my lovers make their beds.
I'm freezing... I can't remember the last time I felt warm.
I can't remember the last night I slept well.
I can't give up my hot water bottle.
I can't remember the last night I slept well.
Maybe it all goes hand in hand.
Some days I prefer my mascara caked.
I smoke too much, and at times not enough.
I am getting closer to those 30".
My favourite pair of jeans are two sizes too big, displaying even my low-slung thongs to the world... I'm plucking up the courage to wear them out in public.
I've only just realised how perceptive I used to be.
I work too much, yet want more.
I can't believe I never saw the warning signs... I can't believe I hid them so well from everyone else.
I want a fairy tattoo on my back... I've only one possibility, she's not whole and she's not a tattoo.
After eight days I've given up... If he comes crawling back I'd take him for the sex.
I've got two wisdom teeth on the left side... They've been scratching the surface for weeks.
I want to be Thea Gilmore's "This Girl"
This is Verona... I've never been, but I will.


My name is Victoria Lowe.
I don't like it so I don't go by it.
I can't sleep at nights.
I have too many thoughts... they keep me awake... It's nice to sit with them awhile.
I am semi-additced to nachos and cheese... they make me feel ill... It's a nice feeling.
I tried suicide six weeks back... I am now rebuilding... I ran away scared. I am not depressed... I am on prozac.
I love to run with my inner bitch... I frequently do... She is as much a part of me as anything else.
I am unfit and have a 33inch waist... I am sure this size is dropping. Silver wrap is my substitute for wallpaper.
Deep down I am not a bitch... I just frequently say the wrong things.
I work on an invisible production line... I will soon get out of that.
I've drunk at 11 am then wondered why I felt so Bad... Now I do not drink.
I have driven people away... I am bringing back those who matter.
My boobs are too big... It's not all guys staring.
I want to be recognized for something... I am not sure what.
I used to wake up each morning and wonder if there was any point in looking out of the window.
Now the first thing I do is look at my mirrorball.
I have an escapist world... It's good to get away for a while.
The headaches have stopped.
I am tired but I am fine.
I write meaningless words... not poetry.
I write poetry... not meaningless words.
Everything is dependant on my mood.


I need to pull myslef together and
Stop this shit. I'm tired, the
Paracetamol isn't working. My head
Still hurts.The dull ache in my
Side won't go. The music won't stop
Playing. Maybe I won't let it. The
Work jeeps coming. The stress is
Unbelievable. I need to sleep.

I've pulled myself together and
Stopped the shit. I'm light. I am
Free. The burden has gone. I do not
Need paracetamol or other
Bathroom cabinet drugs.
Love is my drug. I have slept
Forever. I am not ired. I hold the
World in my hand, the universe
At my feet. I am in love. I am free.


May name is Victoria Lowe.
I hate my name, I long to live by a stage name
I can't sleep at nights... I have too many thoughts... they keep me awake.
In my mental state I am a female playing Hamlet.
I am found screaming in Munch's painting.
I am semi-additced to nachos and cheese... they make me feel ill.
I do not know anyone residing in a padded cell... if I did they would be my role model.
I tried suicide at twelve... I ran away scared.
I am not depressed.
I am the void instead.
I have scars on my legs... ones are self-inflicted sports injuries.
I am unfit and close to thirteen stone.
I am recovering from a scarred past.
Silver wrap is my substitute for wallpaper.
In an alternate reality (a continuation from my youth gone wrong) I smoked my life away and enjoyed it .
Heather Donahue is an idol.
Sex scares me.
At thirteen I was prepared to lose my virginity.
deep down I am not a bitch... I just frequently say the wrong things.
My Dr's only non-negligent move would be to prescribe me sleeping pills.
I have fallen for a gay man and know it for the past eight months.
My friends know no-one bitchier than I.
I work on an invisible production line... my collegues do not know this.
I furiously dislike my boss, yet find the need to seek her approval of myself.
I'm a vege with a desire to kill... the closest I get is fairground shooting games.
I have the mind of a female Patrick Bateman.
I've drunk at 11 am then wondered why I felt so bad.
My boobs are too big... it's not all guys staring.
I fucked up my early teen years and wonder why I feel bad now.
I bleached my hair blonde... only I can see my four inch roots.
I want to own a gun... I would probably use it regularly.
I want to be recognized for something... I don't care what... it's just fame I'm after.
I long to feel love... I end up wondering if I'm loved at all.
I live because they didn't write a get out clause in my contract... I signed it as a new born minor.
I wake up each morning and wonder if there's any point in looking out of the window.
I have an escapist world.
I should become a Starfleet officer... no, maquis.
I squeeze spots until they bleed... but only if they're painful.
I suffer frequent headaches.
I write meaningless words... not poetry.
God is a figment of the poor man's imagination... the rest of the world is only aware of that figment.
The stars seem like a better place than this life.
Beam me up Scotty and into that vacuum they call space.