Tuesday, July 31, 2007

but i love you

What does it say about me that I wasn't surprised to hear it? Am I supposed to feel this disquiet when someone I care about tells me he loves me? Love is such a fickle feeling; I don't trust it; not one little bit. I know he loves me. I've known for a while, haven't I? Only the statement in the head is formed more like this: He believes he loves me.
I know about believing things true making them stunningly so. Once you believe, every lie is true. I know this better than most people I know.
I still think I need to hear it, though, this lie. Why else do I try so hard to make people feel it? It is a game, is it then, O T? You reel them in and then spit them out? You collect the declarations and grade them to find the ones that are the most true? I see rows of little loves like pearls with neat card labels up on dusty bookcases. Break through all their barriers, you will, until they say it, and then there is really no more use for them, is there?

Oh, say it isn't so.
Because I do love them, I do. I could say "I love you" and not be ashamed to say it. (and I have, haven't I? "I love you". It feels like nothing else one says, and the first time is the hardest time, but every time it still feels like so much to say it)
Only, what does it mean to be able to say it to so many people?
What does it mean to say it at all?
So far it's only two.
Only. I say it as though boys fall in love with me all the time. Though the other way around happens often enough to comment on.

What happens when this fades away?

wake up, sleepyhead

New potential friends who have been warned of past performances, and a progressively more worrying morning conversation habit. What am I supposed to do, really? One weighs the current pleasure against the possibility of future misery and continues to do exactly whatever is most enjoyable anyway.
I'm leaving it all up to him now. Accountability is terribly unattractive a prospect, especially when happy lies in the balance.
Responsibility is for old people. You may have it, yes.

Saturday, July 28, 2007


they do fall away. they do. midnight conversations have lost their flavour and i wonder where we go from here. meanwhile, the world is still a bright light in the nighttime (lame rhyme!)
you are the bluest light.
the further away, the harder it is to

Saturday, July 21, 2007

well, schyeah.

he smiled! he said goodbye, and he smiled! really really!

You are a lost cause, infant.

I don't care.

Sunday, July 15, 2007


oh, how much I think


So. Of course he's right. So what happens now?
Why can't I tell the difference between being mature and responsible and being dull and unfunny? How do you? Will just thinking solve this problem? If yes, what am I supposed to be thinking about? How does one start being responsible if there are no situations to think about? Is the fact that I'm thinking so much about it a sign that I'm still unwilling to take responsibility for things?
Is thought counter-productive? What does 'voluntary' mean? What is the relevance of my sister being more mature than me? Does it matter that she is also less fun to be around?

Less drama.

Less drama.
It's an easy idea to follow, I would imagine. Surely I can manage it.
Only, what will happen to me?

And I'll let you know
When it comes

I won't be here any more.
Oh no, oh. It is Peter Pan. It is.
Didn't anyone manage in spite of it?

Saturday, July 14, 2007

no friend of mine

Funny thought - when miserable, I always attempt to do something that will probably end up making me feel guilty on top of that. This is a global phenomenon and I hate it. Maybe it is, horrid thought, because I always need the attention. This also means my mother

Also, you are an ass, and I wish I didn't still wish you were here. Glutton for punishment, yes?
The thing is this: if you're going to talk to me at all, I am going to assume you will actually talk to me no matter what. Also, I will assume you will send a couple of pleasant words my way when I'm not my usual cheery self. Instead all I get is one big ignorement and a declaration to the effect that you'll see me when I feel 'more the thing'. It hurts that you don't realise I'd rather talk to you. How can someone so intelligent be so oblivious?
But that's beside the point, isn't it? Because the point, the point is - I'm starting in with the unreasonable demands again. And once again they are expected from someone who is as oblivious to my moods as the stone floor my feet are on.

I know, I know. I do know. In the olden days, I might have reproached him with his entire dismissal of anything I might be feeling, but now I will take the high ground and ask him if he's over his tantrum yet. That is what I will do. And I will say, "Well, you were tired and cranky, so I thought it best to leave you be". And it will be his fault.
And I will stop crying over "Later. Bye."s
Yes? Yes. sounds like a plan.

Meanwhile, touch is a nice word. tutch. :) earthy, he says. what am I doing with that one?
And he leaves in less than a day, and he's here already. Best not think too much, the head is liable to explode.

guests, i said

i hate you i hate you i hate you
you are a selfish and i hate you hate you hate you

Why is it so hard for someone to wish I feel better?

Monday, July 9, 2007

yes i will yes

You lie you lie you lie
None of you has ever seen anything worthwhile in me
Does that not say something about me?
There are weddings and I am not invited.

Why do I care?

dear d

why are you doing this?

Tuesday, July 3, 2007

unless you believe in peter pan

There are so many things I want to say.
If I were to ask you a question, could you promise to answer truthfully and to the best of your knowledge? Would you promise not to evade the question? I am afraid to talk to you, because you will ask me what I mean, or pretend you did not hear, or wait until I tire of the silence and ask about hills. You hurt me with words - the ones you will not say, and the ones you will not hear. You are stone walls and locked doors and closed books; you are riddles and ciphers and poems.
I don't know you. I don't know about you. I want to be your friend. It is such a small thing. It is such a huge thing. Why will you not see how much it means to me?

I am the child here, not you.
It's funny. I say it, and I believe it, and then I feel as though I'm doing something wrong saying it; stealing your thunder, betraying your beliefs. Forgive me, I only know other people in the context of myself. And I only find myself in relation to other people.
Is that how it works for everybody?

I am afraid of words.
They can mean so many things, so many; and yet people pretend communication is the simplest thing in the world. I find it so hard to say the exact thing I mean after thinking for hours and hours, and getting a single perfect sentence out brings so much joy -
How can it mean more to make less sense to more people? How can it mean more to be ambiguous and unclear and interpretable?
How can you not want someone to know what you mean the minute you tell them?
And yet. And yet I write obscure lines in the hope that someone will recognize in the convoluted thought processes something they remember from before.

Do children learn from their mistakes? Do children know when people are not telling them the truth? Are children the ones for whom life is black and white and friendship does not need time?
What does being a child mean to you?
Being a child is wanting to grow up and being an adult is wanting not to.

Monday, July 2, 2007

of rivals

didn't mean it to happen, really.
i'm afraid of retribution. :(
but i'm so happy. it isn't fair, surely? Surely?

Fair weather conversation.
It is well that I found out now.