the snow won’t go away, my nose runs down my face
no one sees me here, it doesn’t even matter
and every step i take, i stay in the same place
i can’t begin to start again why can’t i just be perfect?
i will never recover from this
i will never believe in this again
i can never go back to the way i used to be before this started
– “ides of march” by Silverstein
You are my world, dearest babydoll. You haven’t seen me, the crazy, the depraved sick things of my life that stick to my ribs like mother’s lies.
Crazy. Something I’ve been told all my life. Maybe I have been all my life. Old life, told all life, as long as I can remember I’ve been “different” a charade of normalcy. It never felt right to me. Friends? So hard to keep. It’s the spirits that haunt me, that listen, that respond. I love it. I love my treefriends. They make me happy and feel normal. But deep down, I fear I’m not. Fear I’ll never be accepted. That one day I’m Just going to break and end up in a ward for the rest of my Life. It’s been prophecized, a demon the scourge of my mind. Myself. My own sick thoughts that have lulled me into vivid nightmares for so long now. I’ve lived in fear most of my life. But not with you, finally, oh baby not with you. You make my life a dreamland, like everything can suddenly be special again. The dark holds me but you, oh sweetness… you must be the light.
It’s thanksgiving today. I feel thankful. Mom said I’ve been making progress…which means ugh now I have to ruin thanksgiving again. I have to regress so she doesn’t treat me differently. So she doesn’t one day think I’m magically “better” and then poof I’m an adult. I don’t want to be an adult because I KNOW what that means: responsibility, mundaneness, endless work, meaninglessness, routine tasks, no magic, no innocence, no fun, no happiness….boring. Stupid. Horrid.
I don’t want any of it.
Sometimes I think it mght be ok…but those thoughts scare me. It’s like my mind is turning against me, my body has already turned against me. I remember when I hit puberty, plucking out pubic hairs with a tweezer and when they got too much, ripping them out in clumps by hand. Wearing tight sports bras to band my chest. Never wanting to change my clothing style till it became ridiculous to the point of ridicule. I still don’t like jeans.
“Peter Pan Syndrome”
We love the taste of cereal and would have breakfast at every meal if we could – cheerios and chocolate milkshakes over a pile of comic books, dreaming.
Let’s never read directions, but twist our way through streets – destination anywhere – winding our way to sunset. And it seems so careless, but I just want to let my soul drift with yours in an eternal state of wanderlust.
If you’re curious, my favorite color is violet. I sing in the shower sometimes and I read books in the corner next to the vent. I wish I could smell like strawberry candy, and sidewalk chalk was my first paint brush. I have trouble using a desk at home and I will always harbor an affinity for oatmeal raisin cookies. I have nothing to hide
Tell me your dreams over the phone and take me with you to that sun-drenched island – home base – with your library of matrices, wastelands, lost cities, and demons. In the eclipse of my sun, when my imaginary friends disappear in the darkness, please remain.
You say what you feel, and mean what you say, and say what you see, and you see love. I do too.
Let’s run away to never-never land and never, never come back.
It’s poison to the soul.
I have pushed through bodies to get to you, pushed through late nights crying over the wrong people, through meaningless, thoughtless sex, and through hopes that have always led to despair. I was mechanical. I was mostly drunk. I was dead.
I though it was normal to cry every night, to let things happen to your body – unwanted touches, and painful caresses ending in loss of myself, moment by moment, piece by piece. It does not get better than this, I told myself endlessly. I made this bed. I deserve this bedding.
mom’s the only one who cares about me, and sometimes she doesn’t understand, know or feel my pain, my loss of control, my self disdain
You showed up at the brutal parting, my forced removal from The All Knowing One, a painful distancing. I cut my arms so deep while I was on the phone with him after he said – it’s done, don’t contact me anymore, you’re poison. I cut them so hard, so emotionally. Blood dripped down my arms, blood pooled on the carpet, my mother screamed and screamed until I couldn’t hear her anymore. The world blurred as my fragile network of lies and truths, or lies that became truths, burned in my heart. Dad got the gauze. My younger brother fell silent. He’s been silent a long time now.
And in the wake of the waves of pain, deep from the ashes of my life, as I tried and struggled with purpose and loneliness. I found you. I fucking found you online. I /saw/ you. I knew.
I don’t want to say you fixed me, because I had a hand in that too. I don’t want to say you destroyed me, because I loved heroin just as much. We have had our share of tough times, just like a plethora of good. I didn’t want to believe we couldn’t be together without drugs, so I mostly didn’t… and we got sober, we got closer, we got healed and we now have each other to thank for it, to save ourselves from the misery of returning to the families we wronged, our lives we ruined, and the pain of our emotions returning to us.
I love your humor, I love your scent, I love the way you are so honest with me, never leading me on or leading me astray. You love me for me, for who I am not who I want to be or worse, who I think I am. You don’t care if my hair is knotted, I just woke up or I am throwing a tantrum because I’m sleepy and can’t find my phone and think I’m going crazy because I checked there, no, I /checked over there/ do. not. Oh ok it was over there? Thanks.
We are not the same, I learned that from you. We don’t have to be the exact same person, that’s ok. We don’t have to be in the same room, which is code for: I feel secure you won’t leave me. I can sleep without you immediately dropping everything and going to sleep too. I had to learn that also. You’ve been a great teacher. You’ve been a better best friend.
I can honestly say I /know/ you, which is almost as good as loving you. I understand, so do you. So when there’s a day we don’t kiss or sit next each other all day or I go for a walk without you, I don’t feel any less loved, any less special, in love or cared about. It’s quite the gift you gave me.
You didn’t steal my heart, you mended it and let me hang on to it for a while. The fact that you have it now? It’s because I decided you were worthy. It was mine to give. It’s mine to take back if I so choose.
Nevertheless, it’s yours now, and I love you so much.
Thank you, with all the love of my being,
To you, my Beautiful One
Why do you think it’s ok to say things like that. I am that worthless? Am I that DISGUSTING that it’s ok for you in your mind to say things like “I’m going to hit you” meaning it seriously if I don’t SHUT UP about something. If I don’t remain Voiceless and say whatever it is you want to hear. Is it not ok for something to slip out, something not about you or mean or rude, but a desperate plea from a worried girl? Something so not ok that it’s alright to threaten me and say that you’ll never care where or how I get cigarettes again if I don’t shut up right now. Shut up… after two or three sentences?
I just wrote you a beautiful love letter too. I told you about it…you didn’t ask to read it. Is that another thing you don’t care about like how you obviously care about me.
Remember how you were in the car? When we were on heroin? Remember how abusive you were then? Remember how you BIT ME in a fight for a few bags? Remember how you would make me feel like shit everyday, make me feel less than a human being? You’ll NEVER have to feel that way because you, oh you, are a WHITE MAN and I am NOT a MONSTER.
I fucking hate everything? I wonder why.
If ou think it’s ok to threaten me. It’s not. If you think it’s working? It probably is because right now I am terrified. You’re frustrated? I’m SCARED. Fuck you. You think I was crying because I didn’t get my way. Are you insane? Maybe it’s because you made me feel worthless like some piece of shit you can just kick and not worry about. I worry about you. I love you and yes, I still do yes.
I don’t want it to be this way. I said something stupid. I admit that, but really?
Not cool dude.
 just got told to go to hell, to fuckng kill myself and that I’m worth less than his cell phone. I screamed and screamed. I don’t get it… maybe I will kill myself or cut at least… I need to pour out this sadness and rage through some good ole bloodletting.Thanks for nothing. Also this is all because I asked him to ask his dad for five dollars. All I want is for him to put this in perspective.
Oh and I interrupted his “writing” too much. Get a life. Good writers can deal with families and LIFE in general. That’s fucking HOW people write.
So I left the car and walked to a graveyard. He followed. “Is this where you think I belong? I belong here don’t I?”
“You shouldn’t take my words so seriously. You know I didn’t mean that. Why are you taking it to the end that degree?”
“Hm isn’t that exactly what you did to me?”
Silence, stillness, thoughts
And all I wanted to say was I love you, I forgive you, I understand, I don’t know.