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There are times when you appreciate being in the 2% of people who _______. This is not one of them. |
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Their hands all bleed together. The ones I love. The ones I didn't. |
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Some things you should never revisit. One day, I'll learn. |
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being me gets very stale. |
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Jul. 2nd, 2004 @ 04:16 pm
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i don't know how i can be in love and yet not at the same time. how i can hate him and yet want to crawl up inside him. he radiates this warmth and yet this shallowness. i want to know every line in his face, every vein in his teeth. and yet, i want to act ike i don't even know him. i want to cross the street when he calls my name. we are so everything and yet so seperate. he says, frustrated, screaming, we are too different, that is the problem. and i say, evenly, we are too alike, thats whats wrong. everything i hate about myself- i see in your eyes.
today, i do not know which i am more - one who is so consumed by and with another that she is almost caged. that she needs to be with him and by him and next to him so much that she is almost ill and overdosed and sickened by herself. or, one who is just going to decide that today is Friday and mongomy does not work and ultimately, how can someone who claims to love me scream at me over breakfast? i remember last 4th of july's fuck so clearly and for some reason, the phone number stands out in my head. maybe love only happens when you want it to. or when your boyfriends not working. or when you feel like having a conscience. |
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he tells me he loves me in eight different languages. those before him could barely say it in one.
Jun. 9th, 2004 @ 03:05 pm
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| » new boys,ii |
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he's beautiful but not tragic. this is important. his eyelashes are not longer than mine. He does not ask me if he looks fat in his t-shirt or if i think he has perfect cheekbones. he says things like if you cheat on me, i am going to call your mother and ask for permission to punish you. he's a little primitive. i feel a little bit owned. and i like that.
May. 28th, 2004 @ 09:11 am
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it's new-new. like too new. and i'm crossing my fingers and not walking on cracks and thanking obscure goddesses and holding my breath.
May. 27th, 2004 @ 03:57 pm
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The problem with being a good girl in a we'll- just- fuck arrangement is that you have to mentally pad it with all the sweet stuff. Because you aren't going to get it anywhere else. So you string together the sort of nice things he said, the kind of romantic moments, like christmas lights, and string them all around your heart. And all the time that you are nodding telling him, yeah, I understand there is no forever here, I don't need your promises, just fuck me, you are remembering how he told you he missed your smell on his sheets, or how he can tell you that your toe nails were red the first time you met.
I'm trying not to think about this, trying to just wait for chicken salad on white toast like a normal girl. Trying to block out the fact that we work eight doors apart and not once has he asked me to meet him for lunch. I try to match people to their sandwiches. I'm wrong every time. The Manhattan with no mayo is an old lady with a dafed bandanna. The Blueberry hill is a greying buttoned-up. I try to memorize the menu. Who would ever order the Walter? Is the Reuben any good? Instead I remember running into him last week, on the corner, and how even angry at him, I just wanted to touch his face. Instead I just stood there, feet away and said nothing.And remembered too vividly where my lips had been.
Jul. 31st, 2003 @ 11:11 am
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I want to be someone else. Someone other than this girl. Loving all the wrong people. Bleeding at all of the wrong altars. Believing in all of the wrong truths.
Jul. 25th, 2003 @ 08:20 am
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adaylate's journal