11:07 p.m.

I'm the one.
I want to be the one who breaks your heart. I want to be the one who lets you down. I want to make you bleed. I want your lips to the ground. I want you to hurt.
I want to be the cause of your torment. I want the world to stand still when you look at me. I want your intestines to twist at the mention of my name. I want the thought of my eyes to make you feel like dying.
And all this and all I'll never be. Everything I've never been to anyone. All the things I can't imagine actually being. Things that will never be.
Moments I'll never cherish, kisses I'll never share. Hands I'll never hold again, sweat I'll never feel. Trembling legs I'll never cause, shoulders I'll never bite.
Who cares, though.
I don't.
No, I don't.
I don't care if I never see him again. I don't care if he never thinks of me. I don't care that I'm torturing myself. I don't care. I don't care.
This is all just pointless, anyway.

I just want him to call.

Thursday, January 30, 2003

11:33 p.m.

modest narcissism.
It seems I can no longer write personal ramblings unless I publish them on the internet. This is unfortunate.
saying that, I continue -
there's a boy I've liked on and off now for two years. I wonder if the same rules apply now that did before? I can only assume they do. but something about the attitude says this is more than just another sleep over affair. I only say that because I'm a hopeless romantic.
oh, and because he said I should visit.
elusively, but surely, right? I don't know if he meant it. he might be scared. I think he knows something's up.
I need to stop doing this.
there's this boy I love, that I would like to say is the best thing that ever happened to me, but I'm not sure if it's my duty to make such comparisons. I think that's someone else's job.
I can't afford that kind of objectivity.
he may feel neglected, because I replaced the safety of his love with the insecurity of an out-of-stater. it's ridiculous. it's stupid. it's immature.
it's romantic.
and I don't know why the fuck I'm doing that, but now that I think about it, I'm positive that the old rules apply. I know I need to stop thinking about him.
furthermore, I know why I can't.

Sunday, January 26, 2003

01:09 a.m.

always watch for the prospects.
this is my secret.
there are my whispers.
all the things I won't tell anyone late at night, things I won't slyly slither into their ears as they sleep. no psychological torture, no subliminal message. this is mine.
and you cannot take that, no matter how you pry. this is mine. this is my brain and my dream and it will never be your's for the picking.
amplify those flaws of your's so I have a reason for my apathy. I asked someone else tonight to explain my anger. he said it so well, I can't even repeat it.
maybe if you missed me more, I'd be less bitter. nothing is ever right, in retrospect. nothing you do could be proper.
if you wrote me, I'd whine. you don't, so I bicker. if I meant so much, why'd you let me go with such ease? if you wanted me, why didn't you say so?
but I digress.
this is my place to be mine, not your's. not anyone's. let me show how I belong to everyone but the one I want the most. me.
I bet that's a familiar feeling.
so I said, "I see the potential in so many people, it gets me so sad when they waste it," or at least that paraphrased. and you know that was you. you know I don't want to hear it and you say I don't want to talk to you.
well you're wrong, because I do. I want to talk to you, to who you are, not to who you want to be and attempt to dress yourself in. the boy without tattoos or long hair. the boy who is stripped of piercings and weight. that person who is nothing of what he's made himself. that inner being that I sometimes fleetingly saw in a fingertip's oh-so-light caress. always an accident. generally just right.
I want that. not who you made yourself into.
I want what's real.
that's all I've ever wanted. just the truth. no games. no drama.
just honesty.

Wednesday, November 6, 2002

11:21 p.m.

when reality just doesn't work.
nostalgia leaves no room for the truth. not the entirety. I rememeber his eyes and lips and fingers. how they touched me, all in their own ways.
but if I keep on that vein, I run into the ways I disliked those features. the ways that bothered me and seemed so wrong. or not wrong, just .. off. out of place.
he pushed too much intimacy on me. physical, I could deal with. but the emotional? I can't deal with such sudden reciprocation.
so I could say I miss him, I miss things about him, but I'd have to stop myself there or else risk ruining the sweetness. which I do. which I've done.
as said, the truth has no place in nostalgic ramblings.

Tuesday, October 8, 2002

03:53 p.m.

more from three years ago.
I kissed him and I fucked him and he was mine.
he said he was mine. I was his favourite.
he still looks so beautiful after all the time that's passed. I know my hypocrisy in telling someone else to get over their past. I knew then, I know it now as I write this, but still-
I never had closure. I had 8 hours in an airport because he thought he would beat me up if I stayed in his apartment.
how many times can you write about the same thing before it begins to bore you? how long can you go with no closure?
how many dreams of reconciliation can you have before it starts to sink in? how long can a person beat themselves up about something that is in the past and cannot be changed?
Change.
change is what always fucks things up. and yet I love it so.

Saturday, September 14, 2002

12:08 a.m.

learning through repetition
there are things I forget about breaking up. things about missing the person, things about relief.
and with polyamory - honestly, I really miss having someone else to kiss. and talk to. and just be with in that way.
that's all.
that's all I wanted to say.

Thursday, September 12, 2002

01:03 a.m.

I am an apple, you are a pear.
cut me apart and mend my shattered fragments. gut you and take the outer pieces and put them all together. we are halves not meant for each other but placed side by side regardless.
again.
similar textures, different creatures. I will steal your romance and make it into stories. take my breath and make sweet photographs. I will miss you when I haven't seen you, as it's been since april last year.
remember april? and the snow, and the rock, and the trees? remember not kissing me?
I know I won't let you forget.
all we have are memories and a falseness we devise. I don't mind if you don't care - we can create a world that none will intrude upon.
you and me, the apple and the pear.
two halves can't always make a whole. I learned well. we sure as hell can take what we can get though.
"if you try to take what you can't have, that would be stealing" and we know I'm an honest girl.

Saturday, September 7, 2002

12:40 a.m.

pointless misconceptions.
Tired and scared can seem an awful lot alike, depending on perspective.
My sister yesterday said, "I don't see what a twenty-seven year old would want with a twenty-one year old."
"He said I was special."
The last time someone really said I was special and sounded sincere was after I'd tried to kill myself. Rob, at college, said, "you're too special for that." It sounds trite to me now. There should be better words for that.
A twenty-seven year old who doesn't know who he is. I'm sure it's not as uncommon as it feels to me. I just expected him to know what the fuck he was doing.
I thought it was he who had the expectations. Perhaps we both were guilty.
At least the physical chemistry was great. Blaming our second attempt at a second attempt on hormones, however, was way off. The first time we had sex was the best time. I wanted to reclaim that feeling. He knows that sex is more than just bodies - and after a couple times we started losing the true intimacy. That was the problem.
I wanted that back. And for one night, I did.
Then it was shit once more.
And I couldn't pretend any longer.

Saturday, September 7, 2002

01:36 p.m.

michael.
I dreamt about him last night. again. I keep dreaming about meeting him and us being in love. I haven't seen him for so long, and I don't know if I ever will again.
I dreamt we were at a school and I saw him. He was everything I wanted him to be - he loved the broadways and punk music. We drove dirt roads and talked. Back at the school there was a meeting and I sat beside him. Many of the people there talked of their several-numbered significant others. I had Mike and someone else (chris?). I couldn't remember which locker was mine, though, so I had to carry two huge heavy bags out to my car. On the way through the parking lot, I jiggled out loose teeth with my tongue and for once wasn't terrified. My molars came out and I gave one to him. The back of it was corroded and mostly gone. I could feel points of tooth root still in my gums, and didn't care.
We stood in the parking lot as Chris looked for my car. We stood there and I loved him.

I don't understand why I keep dreaming about him. It is driving me crazy. I need to find him so I can have all my dreams dissipate, so I can know this isn't how it really is.
I need to see him again so these feelings go away.
I want to know why I keep dreaming about him.

Wednesday, August 7, 2002

11:44 p.m.

first time phenomenon
sweating and moaning and moving and grinding. nothing lasts that long in real life, nothing is that loud. real people never use more than two positions, real people don't do it out of love.
I rarely did it out of love.
curiosity cost me my virginity, and I've rarely regretted that. it was with someone I loved at the time; someone who loved me back. but it wasn't love that started it, it was wonder. and it kept me from going back to that carnal act for six months.
the second time was with a guy from college that I barely knew. at least we used protection.
after that, it's most a blur. there was ian and karstan and jon and seth and tony and owen and shane and andy. most recently chris and dave. I love them.
but for everyone else, sex was about power over emotion. it was about feeling beautiful and dirty. for anywhere from 30 seconds to two hours I was wanted and desired. I could forget about my life and how I hated myself because for that small time I couldn't think about anything other than what this other person was doing to me.
but it didn't end with sex. and it didn't end with men. oh no.
there was april and elley and erin and parker and beth and rachel. but I didn't do anything more than kiss and feel with them. some of them did more to me, though. mostly I would have liked to do more as well but was scared.
there's always fear. fear of rejection, fear of desertion. fear of fear and fear of myself.
mostly fear of emotion. fear that I will want more and be unable to get it, because mostly that's how it went.
if I could cut a year out of my life, I would ask for two and take away the ages 18 and 19. I would wipe away the stupid men that I fucked and didn't love and lamented about. the stupid men that I went down on and sometimes reciprocated. many are not named here and many will never be.
sometimes I wish I could remember any of it, as though that would make it worthwhile. but I don't. I fucked all those people and am surprised I can even remember names.

Monday, August 5, 2002

11:31 p.m.

jasonbear.
I think of Jason sometimes, not quite three years ago, and walking past my table in the dining hall. I wore bracelets then, usually not many. Leather. Studded. Chains and safety pins. Always safety pins somewhere.
I think of Jason and how we kissed one day. He never wanted more than that from me, and I miss him. I hate that I might have tried to take something from him that he was too scared to give. He had every right to feel that way.
Jason, in the courtyard, kicking a hackysack with Phong and Ben. Jason at a ska show with me, skanking in a circle. He and I, hand in hand.
Jason playing Mabel. Jason hitting notes I'd never heard on a trumpet before. Jason and his red hair.
Jason walking past my table in the dining hall.
Jason turning over my wrist. Jason, so subtley noticing the bandage.
Jason saying he didn't want to see it again.
And I remember blushing, embarassed by how good it felt for someone to finally care.

Monday, August 5, 2002

10:49 a.m.

and this I know.
they always want a piece of me that doesn't exist. something ghost that I don't have. I can't take it from anywhere, I can't give it. it's never mine to hold.
it doesn't matter how close we get, how deep we are, it's not real. detached. I tell myself this to keep the insanity nearby. circles. it makes the clarity even more so.
I can always see better after my eyes have been closed.
there are things I want to find, but I won't let myself look. I miss him. I miss everyone. things are changing again and I'm not sure what to do.
I always did try to hold on too tightly to things I had no right to.
there are still my dreams that I won't tell anyone about. there are things I have to keep to myself. that is that part of me I cannot take away. I only told someone the generalities and now I don't even talk to her anymore.
why can't I remember?
everytime I think there's something secret about me, I remember that there isn't. there's nothing about me that someone doesn't know.
but there is no one that knows everything. I keep myself spread out.
even I forget who I am sometimes.

Monday, July 29, 2002

08:38 a.m.

I don't know anything.
When I was 18 and in college, sometimes I'd have a routine. It was only three years ago, but I remember so little. There was a roll of paper taped to my wall and in random places I had phone numbers scribbled. I would go down the line, calling people, being rejected one by one. After I went through the list I grabbed my skateboard and hit the campus.
Since middleschool I've always carried safetypins. I used to wear them as jewelry. I'd skateboard at night, sometimes at 2am (though generally I tried to be in bed by midnight, thanks to an 8:30 french class), then when I got too depressed I'd sit down in the grass and pull out a safetypin.
Sometimes in my dorm I did it with exacto knives.
One night, the day before I shaved my head, I got really manic and crazy and cut off my bangs with my exacto knife. I'd been trying to dread my hair and it wasn't happening, so it came off in matted clumps of hair. Green, blue, purple, orange. My rainbow of hair.
I can't remember anything unless I take specific note of it in writing. For so long I refused to make lists of anything. Now it feels like it's all I do. shopping lists, things to do, people I've fucked. I always leave a few things out. There's always more than I thought there was.
I used to be so proud of my virginity.
The higher they are, the harder they fall. I was pretty fucking high, too. I fell pretty fucking hard.
Try to do the smart thing. Let yourself down bit by bit. Don't just take it all in one jump. I'm trying that; I'm learning that. One step at a time or you'll fall.
Also, remember that the more manic you get the more depressed you'll get. There must be a balance.
College taught me that.
College taught me a lot of things in the three months I was there. The majority of them had nothing to do with the classes I attended.

Monday, July 29, 2002

01:04 a.m.

heartfelt undefinitions
why is the heart so intertwined with love and emotion? why do silent movie stars (ahhh, metrolopolis! oh, nosferatu!) clutch the left side of their chest whenever they are in love, or losing love, or terrified?
is it the thumping, the beating, the intensity that builds? the fluttering in the atriums, the ventricles, those spaces that are so oddly named? it's all just biological, it's all just highly sophisticated machinery connecting brain to blood to tissue.
but the heart adds so much weight to the issue of love.
I say I will never understand. and I won't. but I feel it, same as anyone. I feel the fluttering in my chest when I think of someone's hands on me. when I was away, and my visitor came, I remember the light heaviness inside when I ran out to his car.
over a month ago, when my other called me to tell me his bad news, I remember that feeling too. driving to his apartment, getting lost in a detour, I remember the almost-pain. the agony of wanting to be able to touch him, but being unsure how to.
I know, I know that the emotions and the body are solidly intertwined. I know there's more to feeling than nerve endings and electrical output. there's more than brain and blood.
how can it be defined?
what is it that I want to define?

Thursday, July 25, 2002

12:56 a.m.

girls girls girls
Lately I've been dreaming about women. I haven't been with one in a while, not since April. I don't mean the month, either. I mean the person.
She started breaking and I couldn't be around that anymore. I wanted to be with her, but not with what she did. I loved touching her and talking to her when she could listen. When everything wasn't just her explaining herself into circles.
She could be so frustrating.
I miss her, I guess, because I have only boys now. I did not dream about her this past week. Instead, I dreamt about girls I've never had.
I remember, years ago, dreaming about the perfect girl. We rode a bus together and then walked through the winter to my house, where we stripped our wet clothing and fed it to the dryer. She was so beautiful and perfect, so of course she disappeared.
I spent the rest of the dream in a daze, searching every where for her.
There are so many people here that I don't understand. I'm just beginning to realize that the shunning isn't all one-sided. Maybe if I could be open to them, they would be open to me. It's a hard thing to learn, sometimes, the acceptance of those to whom you can't relate.
But without that trait, life would be so boring.
Sometimes, life already is.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

12:22 a.m.

musings by the museless.
there are beautiful people I don't believe exist. when they talk, I shut my ears for fear of becoming one of them. I do not want to be transformed. I don't want to know what it is to be beautiful.
there are beautiful people that I am in love with. they would never make it into magazines or have their own talk shows. hollywood would despise them, as it would despise me, because we know about the real world. not mtv's version.
when I was thirteen I thought I loved a boy five years older than me. now I'm dating someone six years older and it is no scandal to love him. when I was younger it was wrong, so wrong. I hate him now. I hate that boy who was eighteen. and yet, and yet. pity consumes me at times. pity for a boy who needed to date someone as innocent and naive as I was in order to date anyone at all. I'm glad that is no longer my life.
through it all, from then 'til now, there are those who win me with their words. I've never admitted to anything. beauty is something I could never fit into, no matter how many mouths muttered the words. it is a word I can never live up to, but feel empty without.
like so many other things. like other dreams. unable to touch, but impossible to feel without.
live without.

he told me, "maybe you need a muse," but what I need is to be a muse. I never have been, you see, and that's what I desire. the desire to be desired. to be drawn and painted, to be written about. to have songs dedicated to me and sung for me. for anything that I inspired. true, though, that there is all this passion in me that I need to express. I need a muse. can I be one for myself? is that narcissistic or realistic? I am always there for me.
but I get so boring.
I need a muse. but as much as that, I need to be one.

I am not sad.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

03:21 p.m.

there is a problem.
certain people that bob in and out of my dreams. I have not seen him in seven years. I have not talked to him in as much time. there is a piece of me that does not believe in destiny. there is much of me that refuses the thought of fate. so much of my mind rationalizes away the idea that a person is meant for another.
tiny pieces of me that connect me to my past, they pierce me with needles that will not allow me to let go of old ideals. sew me together into a patchwork self that screams hypocricy. I don't know what to do.
I don't believe in destiny, I don't believe in fate. I don't believe in true love, I don't believe I'm meant for anyone. I just dream about this boy I've loved before I knew what love was. I know if I ever see him again, everything will be crushed. I cannot reconcile what I think to what I know.
no matter how many dreams I have, he will never live up to them. I wouldn't even know him now. last time we met, we were both 14.
so much has changed.

Thursday, July 11, 2002

01:52 p.m.

nonsense.
ignore this post. Google! DayPop! This is my blogchalk: English, United States, Fawn Grove, Fawn Grove, Emily, Female, 21-25!

Thursday, July 11, 2002

01:53 a.m.

taking out the empty places
there were spaces in previous entries. I took them out, because, while they went along well with what my head was saying, I realized they probably looked stupid to anyone else reading this.
which is all of, what? two people? tops?
it's not for you anyway.
it's for me.
just mine.
my secret.

Tuesday, July 9, 2002

01:02 a.m.

a-nother
there was a boy before that I wrote about, one with brown eyes and odd misconceptions.
he once told me that when he got rich he would pay me to walk around his mansion in just boxers and a wifebeater. it's not the only time I've heard that.
he said he loved me platonically, he said I gave him the best pseudo sex ever
I thought it was ridiculous, but I never even felt him come.
We don't talk much anymore
there were certain things I found revolting and could not deal with. hypocrisy sometimes gets the best of me and I can't stand being unable to fight. I lose so badly.
but I liked the way he bit me.
I liked the way he felt.
he used to love me too, you know.
sometimes I wish I kept a list of all the people that told me that - all the people that wanted a part of me that I've never really been able to give.
I .. I just don't trust anything sudden.
and I am frightened.
I don't mind them not understanding, but I wish they wouldn't say they do. empty empathy is worse than blatant apathy.
I hate it when people refer to their significant other as their love.
there are so many things that make me angry now ..
so many reversions.
fuck.
I hate crying,too.

Tuesday, July 9, 2002

11:56 p.m.

other dreams
I still hear music that isn't there. It speaks to me in ways no one can, with words that are not words and feelings I don't feel.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
I just want to type with my eyes closed, and do everything blind. In a way I'm already there. Thinking of nothing but get up, get dressed, eat, exist.
Exist, exist, exist.
This is all so pointless.
Someone lock the door so I'll stop trying to open it. There is nothing.
I don't even know what I want anymore.
Fuck. I forgot.
I never knew what I wanted in the first place. This is all just too dramatic for me. I need a better way to take up my time.

Monday, July 8, 2002

01:37 a.m.

sometimes I wish I could say how I was feeling in a way that didn't make me sound incredibly lame.

I should just accept that as impossible.

Tuesday, July 2, 2002

01:21 a.m.

disjointed dreams of nowness.
there are things I am feeling that I still can't get used to.
things that are pervasive yet subtle
not pushing out anything, more likely enhancing
I was fed chocolate and dreams and emotions I wasn't expecting
told things I never knew
I have been educated about myself and wanting.

and waiting

Everything I've ever wanted, I've reached out and grabbed. People, ideas, anything. I am of action and desire. They say I'm a leader; I say I am frightened. Ecclectic. At times unpredictable. Predictable by being these things.
and now-

Tuesday, July 2, 2002

12:04 p.m.

new dream.
it's as though everything suddenly was cohesive.
standing there with nothing in my arms but everything and hearing him repeat my own words
it was beautiful
it was amazing
it was indescribable.

Monday, July 1, 2002