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I love you, my fellow writers.
I love to read your entries every day, to cross my fingers when your post doesn't show up on time and mumble to the computer. "You can do this. You can finish!"
I like the writers who have been around for a while, who are settled comfortably into their own style. I want to sit at their feet and watch them work.
I like the newcomers, all full of shy words and passionate apologies. I want to wrap them in my arms and welcome them to the fold.
Do you like me too?
I don't want you to touch me. I don't want you to talk to me. Call me retarded one more time, and I will break my fist against your face. Fucking little asshole.
I don't hate you. I want to hate you. I want you to hit me, to cheat on me, to do something truly evil so I can finally stop feeling like I'm the bad guy.
You always do something terrible, that I know is utterly WRONG, and then, somehow, make it seems as if you did it for noble reasons.
"You're overreacting. Stop overreacting."
Just fuck yourself.
Hot, hot water. Too hot. Suffocating. Sweat trickling down my temples. But the air is cold, and your skin is smooth, and the touch of my lips on your leg makes your fingers twitch in my hair.
We're surrounded by friends and watched by strangers. The stars are moving more than the waves. I feel heavy. I want to kiss you. Shoulder. Collar bone. Neck.
I'm so tired, but damn, I want to kiss you.
I want you. I want you.
But you would be my greatest sin, my worst betrayal. I'm so drunk, but for tonight I pull away.
It is a beautiful new world I have found myself in. A world where growing up is less about money and careers and success, and more about friends and love and happiness. It is a world full of color and paintings and laughter. It is full of magic.
We take care of each other in this world. We protect each other. We listen to each other's problems and then toast to them. We drag all the blankets and pillows to the living room and sleep in a nest of buzzed and incoherent mumbles.
I don't want to leave this world.
Everything is tangled now. The silken threads connecting us are knotted, and I can't find the ends to untie them. Too many colors blurring together, too many thoughts clambering for my attention. I am lost and stumbling in the labyrinth of my mind.
Do I? Don't I? Why shouldn't I? It's ending. Might as well, but I... I can't.
There is a pain crawling across my skin, spreading further with each beat of my heart. Is this shame? Guilt? Heartbreak?
I can't handle this. I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING!
I can't handle wishing I had.
I'm going to bed.
The butterfly effect. Or the snowball effect. Or whatever the hell you want to call it. It goes like this:
If I had not dated the Persian, I would not have stopped cutting. If I hadn't dumped the Persian, I would not have dated Tyler. If I had not dated you, I would not have learned how to rebel. If I hadn't married you, I would not have moved here, I wouldn't have learned magick, and I wouldn't have met her. If I hadn't learned magick, I wouldn't understand how this all fits, and without her, I wouldn't understand myself.
She was no pretty princess of the sea.
Her hair was ratted and tangled up with beads and shells, and yanked at her scalp when she lifted her head above the water. Small fish sometimes swam into her mass of curls for safety, and she would carefully coax them out and swallow them whole.
She liked to collect pearls by prying open oysters and stabbing their insides with lionfish spines until they vomited up the treasures. Then she ate those too.
But no voice was prettier. Many nights, her singing lured men into the sea. She ate their fingers first.
We used to sneak into the church across the street (my dad was the pastor) and hide in the basement beneath the stairs. We played truth or dare.
He dared me to kiss him. I didn't want to. He had weird orange hair and cried when he fell off his bike. He was skinny and scrawny and smelled funny because he never took a bath. But I liked his freckles.
I kissed him. It was awful. He drooled. I swore never to kiss again.
I kept that promise until a brow-eyed fool coaxed me into it.
He was worse.
We curl our bodies towards each other--our heads nearly touching, our hair intermingled. My finger brushes your palm, and a tingle flashes across my spine. Your potency frightens me. I'm afraid of what I might do.
You wrap two fingers around my pinkie, and I fall asleep wishing I was wrapped around you.
Last time I left, I kissed your cheek, but you were asleep, and I was drunk. Today I am not so brave.
At home, I have nightmares. None of them involve you, and yet, the lack of you makes them worse.
Will you remember me?
I am off balance in this place. It is an unsettling mix of open, empty spaces and tall, hulking buildings. The land here feels angry and abused. Too much poison has leaked into its skin.
But there is something in the air. A presence. A magick that brushed against mine and whispered promises. Slick, oily promises. Power... Dangerous, endless power.
"I was waiting for you." It tells me. "Are you worth the wait? Will you give me what I want?"
"Us," another voice croons. "Give us what we want."
There are so many magicks here. How will this end?
I once swam in a quartz quarry that had been flooded by an underground spring. The water was the prettiest, clearest turquoise I had ever seen. Glimpses of pink-brown quartz could be seen from more than fifty feet below the surface. I wanted to bind myself to the rocks and spend my life under that water, watching the sun cross the sky.
Your eyes are like that quarry. Clear. Deep. Unexpectedly magical. I want to sink my soul into their depths and watch your life pass by.
Consider this a love letter.
I don't like it here. It's pretty, I suppose. The mountains cut across the sky at an angle that fascinates me, and at night, the lights from Mexico make the land brighter than the sky. But I still don't like it.
I want to go home. Either home. The home with the trees and snow and quiet roads, or home with the pools and paintings and dusty desert trails. It doesn't matter. I just want to go home.
There's so much to do here. I could gain my independence in a place like this. I don't care.
There he sleeps, goofy smile on his face, green army socks halfway off his feet. There are red welts down his back and shoulders--claw marks. He seems satisfied with himself.
And here I am, the far corner of the room, hiding in the blank white space of wordlessness. I don't feel satisfied. I feel broken. Beaten. Violated. Disgusted.
What happened to no means no? Did that ever work in our relationship? No? No. Fantastic time to realize this. Really. Great timing. Awesome. Why hadn't I recognized that as a problem?
The real question is, when did
Once again I find myself alone in a silent apartment.
This time, there is light streaming through the windows. This time, the dishes are clean, the laundry is washed, and the floor is vacuumed. This time, there is hope and wonderment.
This time, I have a choice. A choice to let sadness soak into the walls and allow anger to seethe underfoot, or to shrug off the misery and push my boundaries into an entirely new, entirely terrifying, entirely wonderful life.
I have so many opportunities here, and this time, I refuse to waste them.
The tree was hung with chimes and colored glass bottles. When the wind blew, the chimes sang, and the bottles sent colors scattering across the ground. It was nearly overwhelming to stand beneath it and hear and see so many different things.
My sister and I used to wait for a storm and then rush outside to try and catch the cloud-hazy colors beneath our feet before they swung away into the sky.
A woman watched us play once. "You have a dancer's spirit." She told me.
It wasn't until years later that I understood what that really meant.
She was the most beautiful man-hater I had ever met. Actually, she was barely even a man-hater. Her hatred was still in the just-broke-up-with-final-boyfriend, experimenting-with-women stage. She was just beginning to add up the flaws of men:
"He left the toilet seat up again."
"They're so hairy!"
"They just don't understand foreplay."
"Men are gross."
She was the most beautiful man-hater I had ever met. Did I say that already? Good lord... Those eyes. Those lips. Those legs. That tight body. Damn.
She made me want to hate men too.
Today is Honesty Day. Any question asked by anyone must be answered with complete honesty. No matter how irrelevant, embarrassing, or offensive the question might be.
Do you love me?
Would you fuck me?
If you could change something about yourself, what would it be?
Probably not. Depends on how persuasive you are.
I wish I didn't need to make up a holiday in order to be honest. I wish I didn't need to get drunk or high in order to tell you how I feel. I wish I was braver. I wish I knew.
My first entries were about my youth. Innocent. Slightly bittersweet. A commentary on my naivety. By the middle of July, I was discussing being "the Worst Wife." By October loneliness and depression had tainted nearly every post.
My depression started to get the best of me. And my anger. Furious. Passionate. Gruesome and beautiful. I took pills until they ran out. Then alcohol, whenever I could get my hands on it. She started out as my means of forgetting and quickly became the only thing I wanted.
What do I write about now?
Who do I write to?
My breath flows in, out, in, out, faster and faster. And then, sloooow, as if I'm asleep, but awake. Voices poke at my eyes. I don't understand them. My heart tries to keep up with the beat of the music, but only accomplishes to beat erratically for a few seconds and then abruptly go back to its normal rhythm, sore and sulky.
It feels like only minutes pass, but each minute is stretched into an hour. If five minutes have passed, has five hours passed? Everything is spinning, rocking...
Am I on a boat? Shit. I hate boats.
The dog and the cat are fighting. The music is too loud. My brain feels foggy. I feel like I'm falling. Falling and floating at the same time.
He drives me crazy. More every time. And I love him. Love him and want to kill him at the same time.
This is mostly stream of consciousness. It won't be coherent. Sorry.
I don't like sex these days. It's really not all that great. Mostly I wait for it to be over. Would it be better with someone else? Somehow I doubt it.
Purple is a beautiful color, isn't it?
I don't do poetry
I was never any good at it.
I like to call my style
it's just prose.
Flung onto the page
like the paint
of an abstract artist.
Orange and blue and green and yellow,
but no purple,
because those are girl colors,
and I can't live up
to the high standards
of women poets.
I might write a poem again.
It might even be good.
Profound. Beautiful. Classic.
if you were to put all the sentences together,
they'd make a paragraph,
because all I write
I don't want to go to bed. I have nightmares.
A glue holds me to the bed. Stops my limbs from moving. Seals my eyelids shut.
my mind screams.
I can't. I can't. I know I'm dreaming. I pull myself almost to the surface, but then sink back under. My father dies. My husband sits back and watches while I'm raped. He chases me with a hammer, and I hide in the closet. Monsters murder my unborn child.
Even dreams simply of fear and despair--without a plot, colorless--hold me tight in their grip. No escape.
I don't have a list of all the good things I've done. I don't have a list of the bad. I don't do lists cause they ain't any fun, and I'm getting all the fun I can have.
Random song I made up while taking a shower. I really hoped it would take up more words than that. There's no time to be profound today. I have to finish packing. We're going home to visit the family! And see snow! Instead of this awful Texas heat.
Let's hope I remain blameless and without mistakes this time. The guilt is deadly.
My parents' house is so cozy and warm. I love what they've done with the place. I missed these people. And yet... I feel very confused here. I am caught between childhood and adulthood, my present existence and independence. Can a nest be a safe home once the baby bird has been pushed out? And if the baby bird left while the mother and father cried for it not to go, will it be welcome when it returns?
There is no snow here either, but it's wet and cold, and I almost miss the heat of Texas.
Merry Christmas, Everyone.
I sat on the very corner of the couch, curled into as small a ball as I could managed and half-buried beneath blankets. We watched home videos. The camera man was always Husband's father so I never got to see the man's face, but I felt the tension in the room build every time they heard his voice.
We all knew that voice would tear the family apart. We all knew the betrayal that would take place just after that last movie. We knew what hadn't been recorded.
I couldn't help but think, Husband sounds just like him...
Your hand is warm on my knee, and although--or maybe because--the touch isn't sexual, I like it there. I'm sorry I've been mad at you. Somehow, in my twisted little mind, everything got confused. Everything was threatening and frightening and terrible. Lord knows I'm crazy enough.
I will be mad at you again. Possibly tonight. Probably tomorrow. I will pout and cry and pick fights. Sorry. I will blame you for things that aren't your fault. Sorry. I will cruelly tear at your faults. Sorry.
I will love you until the end of my days. Sorry.
The lights flow out from the window like an ocean. An ocean of souls, fading and getting brighter in turn like waves in moonlight. At the edge of the world, the mountains build upon each other, up and up and up like a wall of black water. Fewer and fewer souls climb that wall, and in the end, the tips are bare and alone.
The moon bends down, her hair of clouds brushing the skin of the earth and presses her lips to the tops of the houses.
Sleep in peace, good souls. Sleep and dream and wander the night.
I remember this little ballerina, dressed in all black. She looked like a tiny shadow against the bright yellow and green in that dandelion-filled field. Her dance was mesmerizing, a spinning and twisting and complicated dance that grown women would have trouble performing.
Her mother was braced against a tree, taking puffs of cigarettes and watching with the same sort of smile that god wore when he watched his first angel take flight.
"Did you teach her that?" I asked.
"Hell no, darlin'. I ain't got the talent. That's all her. That's all my angel."
"I'll admit," she says while daintily turning up her nose at the food in front of her, "I was quite a fat child. I ate and ate and ate!"
For a moment, she pauses, distracted by her reflection in my glasses. She smiles at her perfection. Even I hold my breath and admire her beauty.
"There was a time when I thought my life was over. I thought I had no future. I thought I was ugly and worthless and disgusting, and I hide away."
"Of course," she laughs, "that changed."
I expected butterflies to be less self absorbed...
Running through the middle of the desert was a ravine--a wide, steep gash cut across the Old Man's face. During the dry season, it was lined with loose sand. Most wanderers used it as a highway to get from one end to the other. During the wet season, however, it became a bog, a dangerous land of quicksand and mudslides and floods.
I liked it best then. It reminded me of myself. Even in its most stable phases, it was still shifty and uncertain. And when storms of passion struck, it became terrible. Terrible and beautiful and wild.
There are thirty-one days in December? I thought I was done with this month, then woke up to discover my folly. Silly me.
It gets harder to feel at home every time I return. I don't quite fit into my group anymore, and because of my husband's job, I can't participate in the more... illegal activities my friends enjoy. It was even harder this time because he came along and watched with a glare he never used to have. Not around me.
I have nothing profound to end this year with, except the hope that it will hurt less.
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