||[Jun. 7th, 2006|01:07 pm]
anonymous love letters.
I don't know where I am today. I'm surrounded by thoughts I'm unfamiliar with. Like countries, continents, rivers, tributaries that I can't name. They just seem foreign, so I try to make them insignificant, but they rob me of my time and energy anyway. I don't have a choice but to feel the ways that I do about everything. I don't have a choice over whether or not I understand. I wish it were something simple to read into. I don't even know where I am today.
Someone once told me that they felt like they were holding the moon in their belly, and I never felt more in tune with what someone else felt. That was months ago, though I've yet to fully give birth to my own planetary object. I'm still sitting in this room contemplating myself. I hang up pretend curtains to block out the light so that I can sleep through the day. There are always more conversations during the day. Fake men in my drive way, staring up and waiting to be seen. I open my window and pretend to listen, but they don't speak. They don't speak. They just stare at me. You can't see me if you stare, mister, I say. Eyes glaze over and I'm all a blur. They're missing the finer details. The yellow stress in my iris is what counts, I think.
The other day a boy said that he could get lost in my eyes and I wanted to dare him to try. Instead he threw his bus cart in the trash can and walked away smiling. Like he was proud of being so frank with me. I was proud of him too, but only because he made me feel like I should be. Truthfully, I don't really know how to act around men at all. I just go with their individual flows and try to be everybody's dream girl. In certain circles I've succeeded, even where all others have failed. You'd think it would be gratifying, but it makes me feel used and stupid after they come back from being lost in my eyes. Most men fall in love with me for at least a few short minutes. It's the saddest thing in the world. People give up so easily, and I expect them to.
When it comes down to my bare minimum, you know that I'm scared and all alone...but really, there's more to it than that. Really I'm just peacefully sexual. That's my loneliness. It's the closest to real prayer I've ever been, the closest to peace, the closest to god. It's so scattered, but vivid. There could be a thousand people in the room, a stadium of voyeurs, but in my mind it's just me and my body, my body and I, no one else. That explains a lot about me, you might be thinking...but really it doesn't. It just explains why men are a necessary evil in my life. Why I'm so brittle and scared. I don't want to lose the peace. Or run away from it. drugs. everything is a drug. and I have an addictive personality.
I'm falling into myself again. It's 3 a.m. and raining in my bedroom. It slips down the walls, fat and juicybigasmyfist, and I can only think about how it looks like paint. so it turns greenbluepurpleredyellowpinkorangebrownwhiteandverrrridian until I'm so happy that I can barely stand it. My head falls to my chest and I smile and I feel like dancing but I can't move nor can I figure out why the rain-paint makes me this way. It must be a drug. Or a dream. Or a lie.
I'm perfectly sober, but I don't want to be. I'd rather be reeling in a corner than behind a desk fidgiting. My stomach feels like it;s lined with window paint again. Some strange mixture of ingredients meant to make me feel safe and content. Instead it's killing my insides. I think it is. I think there's something there that shouldnt be. I'm usually something there that shouldnt be. Should I be sorry? The garage is right outside my window. I could open it and sit outside. I could sleep out there on the shingles. Fake, plastic shingles. Cheap shingles, suburban shingles. But they'd be OK and it's not too cold. I could sit outside and stay awhile. A while longer. I could think from my head out there. Right now I don't know where my thoughts are coming from. My guts. My thoughts are coming from my guts.
Who are you thinking about asking about me? Who understands me even though he doesn't really want to and doesn;t understand why he does? That's who I would ask about me.
This is not a clue.
This is not a clue.
This is not a clue
or a piece of the puzzle.
This is how I am all of the time, you just can;t tell by the looks on my face or the things that I say, because the things that separate me from the true lunatics are the looks on my face and the things that I say. That's what he told me, and he was right. You would know that if you were here. If you knew how to get here. Three shots then straight on 'til morning. Ha. Lies.
Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?
That's how it could be between you and I, you know. Easy come, easy go. I'm easy come, if you're easy go. That's all it takes to make me crazy. Just promise to leave me and I'll do whatever you want. Ask anyone. But don't ask me. I don't know what you're talking about.
Are you the crazy silent men outside my window? Which one? They all have names. I don't know them. I give them numbers. It's less personal. I'm in love with you, number two. Number two, number two. ! . ? . ! .
Whose it gonna
I don't even care this time. Just give me something to do, some way to pass the time. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie typeofthing.
I can't sleep. Don;t be scared. I can't sleep. It's 4 a.m. and it's pouring in my room. I hate to be so informal, I hate to be so impolite, but it's my room after all. I make the rules. I make the list of things we aren;t allowed to do.
You broke them too,
you broke them
you broke them
You're it. exxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxclamation.
I don't know. There's no use in knowing anyway.