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Tonight I write and rewrite thoughts that fly and buzz secretly in my ear. Thoughts of my attraction to weakness, of my selfishness, of my independence. I look back and forward and back again on my past and tentative future. I gasp and sigh. I give in but not enough to give up. I break but am not broken. I become the beautiful mosaic made up of shattered glass and spirit, held together by the faith that one day someone will understand. I reach out and feel the empty air and go to grasp my own hand. I live on.
There's a part in everyone, I think, that would rather blame someone else. A part of me wants to blame everyone else for the times I was used, for not listening when I needed them, for abandoning me. But I know that no-one used me, I put myself up for rent. And that every time they didn't listen it was because I refused to speak. I know I abandoned myself long before anyone ever left me. I could play the blame game all day, but it all falls back on me. I've let these things happen to me.
I saw her eyes as she looked me up and down, and I wanted to ask, "Am I for sale now?" A part of me blossomed under her eyes, and another part of me died. Then a thought occurred to me, and I fell into myself.
This girl knows me intimately
and a bit of shame accompanied that thought. I saw myself the way she must have seen me then. What I wore, the way I stood, the way my smile faded. I turned and walked quickly away, acutely aware of how much I had changed, and yet how little.
I sat on the lap of my sister's babysitter while she talked to her friend (who happened to be my sister's therapist). I acted aloof while they talked. "She's a cripple," she whispered, playing with my hair. "It suits them, an autistic child and a crippled girl." She laughed, gossiping of my eating disorder.
"At least she's not listening." The therapist responded, uneasy.
"Fuck you." And then I apologized for cussing infront of the children. I don't know why I've been betrayed in my dreams lately. It makes me nervous, but atleast I fight back (even if only in dreams).
There's a girl who sits beside me that writes on her arm. I read it, curiously, peek into her soul. I wonder if people did the same with me in class, when I covered my body in ink. I wonder if anyone paid any mind or if they glanced over it, unfazed. Were I more outgoing or easier to talk to, I would ask her about her words. But hers are not my screams to hear, and I will not dilute their purity with my questions. I feel like I should respond now that I've seen, but I've no screams.
It would be wonderful if I could just find someone to hold me(13). I know, that's selfish, and I'm never satisfied with what I've got(25) I can feel the pull of dependence loosening, I'm more stable(36). When I'm with someone else I get comfortable being the open wound and it becomes hard to get used to the mental bandage(59). I'm starting to get used to it, though, and I'm letting myself be taken at face value(76). I wish I could find someone to hold me and let me be more than what I am.(94) But I must hold myself together(100).
Roles in life. We all get to play every role in life. When the bell rings we drop our masks where we stand and walk to a new one. Masks are genderless. I've been the father to my sister and a mother to my mother. I have been the loving and the loved, I have been the clingy and the clung to. I only understand the world because I can make these comparisons. She feels for me the way I felt for you. You felt for me the way I feel for her. Everyone is blameless because everyone is guilty.
I don't care about cellardoors, the most beautiful word is truth. It's not the way it sounds or the amount of letters in it, it's the feeling behind it. The meanings. Eternal truths and mortal truths. Truth in its truest form does not need to be spoken to be understood. It just is, and it will always be. I say and write so much to prompt a truth. But the real truth is spread in glances and the tingle of an accidental touch. The real truth is in the sun and the moon and the stars. Everything said in silence.
It is easy to mistake my silence for indifference, it is easier to assume I think not and feel not except what is visible on the surface. I have more than two dimensions, I feel more than chill and heat. No more assumptions, ask me questions! I am not who I was and I never will be again. Don't assume you know me, I have been static since you quit asking. I have changed, I am a stranger in this frame, and yet since you met me you haven't asked my name. Find your voice in my silence.
What was the catalyst? Part of me thinks it was the tarot cards that changed my perspective so completely. I am not who I was when the school year began. I am used to changing gradually, not like this. I would try to stay the same but that would not be me. I am interested in what I am interested in, and I will not feign anything else. I hesitate to speak of my new passions, but that doesn't mean they are not there. Now 'freak' feels normal and this feels different. Soon I will feel comfortable again in my skin.
(Thanatopsis). Today we had to choose a rock for ourselves. I saw two I liked, one black, one white. I almost chose the black one because it was smooth and dark. The white one had deep crevices and I didn't like that so much, and there were scars of pink and red. I wanted the rock to reflect me, and I didn't want the crevices and the scars to be me. But I knew it was, I am everything that's ever happened to me. I am my flaws, but it is my flaws that make me beautiful. Imperfection is beauty.
I have changed my mind, I think there are roles that people play, and the levels lie within those roles. I have friends who will never know me the way my lovers have, but that doesn't mean I am fake with them. They may know me better in some ways and hardly in others. I've had lovers that could know me so completely but never really know me. Sometimes I want more, but there are only so many roles one can play well. So I've come to settle with only so much, so that I may have something at all.
I've had this inner battle with silence, lately. Silence is truth unspoken, which means so much more, but spoken truth is so much more comforting to my insecurities. At times I try to speak but nothing comes out and I struggle to find something to say. And yet at times I say too much and suffer in the end. I don't know if I should aim to be more silent or more vocal, or if I want everything thought to be said. But this silence is terrifying, as is the phantom prescence of unspoken words. Feel the silence, fill it.
A girl was put in an insane asylum today. She was first spotted on a city bench, laughing. Sometimes she would go quiet until someone spoke and then she would burst into fits of giggles. This went on for hours until a local woman on her lunch break (unnamed) strolled past. The woman asked curiously what was so funny, and the girl laughed. She asked again, more persistent, and the girl laughed harder. The woman called the police and they questioned her until-- "Your accents!" But as they agreed she was the one with the accent, she was (obviously) crazy
I look from my window out to the gray clouds tinged with sunset pink and I ask myself "Why can't I be that kind of beautiful?" as I cling to the windowsill, eyelashes against glass and staring upward into the sky at treetops, birds, and planes, "Why can't I be that kind of beautiful?" said to the shades of sky blue and the wandering clouds and the fading rays of light "Why can't I be that kind of beautiful?" and the glittering stars and the comforting moon that mocks almost pityingly, "Why can't I be that kind of beautiful?"
"You look like someone should draw you," I've been told a dozen times before. I always wondered why they never tried, or why they even said it to begin with. Laying on your bed, admiring the way your hand drapes across your stomach and the dip of your curves, I am caught off guard by the urge to draw you. But I can't draw much of anything. "You look like someone should draw you," I say, knowing you won't quite understand. But I say it anyway, and sketch in my mind's eye your tapering fingers and your belly button ring.
Someone once said she was glad I had become insecure. It bothered her when I took pictures of myself, if I wrote about feeling beautiful. Three years and she still doesn't understand why I'd do such things, assuming it was my self-confidence. I write about feeling beautiful because I know I'm not. I think I'm ugly, and I hate to see myself in the mirror because it cuts me down. If ever I glance in the mirror and see some glimpse of beauty, I want to show someone, take a picture. To prove that there's a shard of something somewhere in me.
Sitting in the car with someone I can't talk to often, I find myself filling the silence with my thoughts. Slowly reaching Truth in my tangent. "I don't think I loved her, no, I didn't love her. I didn't love any of them." And suddenly the realization hits me and it starts to hurt. "It was pointless, all of it was pointless. All that time wasted, being depressed and hurting myself and crying, all of that was for nothing." If I could cry I would have, but I was unable, so I drove, her silences verifying all my new answers.
The part of me that is dead is the part that shines the brightest in the darkness of the night. In the daylight it is buried in the tomb of my heart, and the unmarked grave goes unnoticed to passerbys. But curious minds and eyes and hands will pull the cadaver from it's casket and create a marionette, design a stage with grandma's quilted sheets and sister's childhood pillow. Each touch pulls strings that make the new marionette move as if alive. But she is dead, and in the morning, she will return to her unmarked grave in silence.
Words meant to be SCREAMED, then (whispered).
Words meant to be echoed.
"You make cheating sound eloquent." My apologies? I don't know if I'm complimented or insulted.
"Because it's not vulgar to me until afterwards."
"I read." And I'm staring at the screen asking for answers with no questions attached. What was I supposed to say? Maybe I should write things as society would accept them instead of my twisted way of thinking. Maybe I should start the process of blending into the world. What would it take to disappear? I close my eyes and imagine collapsing into myself. I just want to go away a little while, escape. Just to disappear. My apologies.
I hate having to change after I've dressed up. When I dress up I become someone else, someone who knows who she is, someone who can be alluring and interesting for a night. I become someone that others would want to talk to. Tossing aside that facade I go back to being no-one and nothing of interest. I have fallen asleep in my outfits before, too sad to take them off. But I have to change eventually, and makeup smears until it's been cleaned, and at some point everyone should know what I truly am. I am nothing special.
I've had this fantasy in my mind's eye since Friday. In it, I am sitting in the middle of a flower, much like a tulip. It's green, though I'm not sure if there's such a thing as green tulips. Regardless, I sit in the center, and I take each petal and pull it closer to me, encasing myself in the bloom. Wrapped in the petals I find my escape, I disappear into a world of comfort. What spurred this image in my minds eye? I don't know, but the urge to disappear and become nothing is strong. Most comforting imagery.
I don't go to airports, deathbeds, or funerals. I would rather not have closure. I would rather there be nothing but a short and sweet goodbye instead of prolonging the inevitable. Sometimes I feel guilty, because it's selfish not to go when it may be my last chance. But I know it's what I need to do so things won't matter as much. So I politely decline and hope that no-one asks. I never want there to be a reason to say goodbye, I never want to lose anyone forever. Please forgive me my selfishness. I'll still miss you.
There was a time when I was unhappy
and I needed more then what I had
but I was afraid, afraid of change, afraid of
being alone, afraid of losing what I had
because it was more then I had ever had before.
I was not happy, and could not pacify
my tears in the silence of the night.
And so my passions sought escape, and I
found myself with others, seeking out others
soothing my aching heart in sinful embraces.
It kept me content long enough to take another breath.
I thought it was love, but I was dead inside.
A five minute apology at 9:30 in the morning that resounded in my head throughout the day. It was not a necessary apology, there was no reason to. But it was sincere and I was grateful. Not because it was owed to me (which it wasn't), not because I was offended (which I'm not), but because something was wrong and I knew it and there was nothing I could do. You always long to do the most when you can't do anything at all, and I longed to make her smile. I couldn't then, but atleast I think I can now.
My hand reaches out as you turn away, grabbing your wrist to make you face me. "Please don't decide," you are tugging for your hand, asking to be let go. "Please don't decide just yet." I look away, your hand freed, but you do not move. You stand there, watching me, as I mumble and crumble and fall into myself. You bite your lip in silence, a witness to the fall. You are afraid, so you stand there, paralyzed in indecision, terrified of the consequences of your actions. I'm alone, and you're alone, although we are each the other's witness.
I hate when people say they've known of me like it counts as having known me, like hearing my life story second hand counts as something. I wonder what things people say when they speak of me, what part of my history defines me, what part of my personality shines brighter than anything else. What can you know of me without ever speaking to me? What justifies my existence, what makes me so interesting as to be a subject of a conversation of strangers? I half expect to find a fact sheet fall from someone's hand, a class character analysis.
"Do you think I raised you too stoic?" My mom asked me. I wasn't sure, 'stoic' had never described me until the moment before. It was not even a word she originally chose, it was the way your new boyfriend had described me. Am I stoic? Maybe now that I've reverted into myself I may seem that way. Do I? I haven't been as aware of myself in public. I've always thought I've felt too strongly, connected too easy. Suddenly misconceptions seem rather perceptive and I have to wonder. Am I stoic? And if so, is that really so bad?
Have you ever felt like everyone around you was walking while you floated an inch above ground, suspended in air, in a bubble untouched by those around you? That's the way I feel, like I am a flame that you lit that cannot be touched, just glowing in it's own warmth. What a great way to say it, that I'm glowing. Thinking of the things that you said and the way that you said them, wondering what they meant to you, how much they meant to me. I have been the unlit candle, but now you, your warmth, makes me glow.
"And that's the closest I've ever come to love." I stated, with a sigh, and she looked taken aback, said something like that it was a shame. Like I deserved more. Thinking about it, I was overwhelmed with how pathetic my life was. I curled into a ball, contemplating my past, my imminent future. Was this what I had become? It seemed that everything I had ever done had all been in vain.The fact that everyone I had tried to love had pushed me away was a hurt I could not tolerate in fear of tears. Soon I'll breakdown.
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