I want to sleep with her.
No, not like that- call me naive, but I'm still not sure how that works. I mean that I want to sleep beside her, wake up next to her.
I want to measure her breathing in the warm night, feel the soft perspiration on her skin. I want to feel the weight of her body next to me. I want to watch her sleep, count the tiny freckles that grace her shoulders like stardust.
It would be easier to love her if she weren't who she is.
Could she be some kind of queen
Pull me from this edible dream
Could she be some kind of whore
Make me pay when I want more...
I don't know if I have a right to be angry about this.
Hey everyone, I'm so glad to be back. All day long yesterday, on the long car ride home from Mississippi, I stared out at the long blue skies, listening to my music and waiting anxiously to get home and post. I'm not even going to go with my original plan, which was pretending I wasn't that pathetic. I need this place.
I think this will be my last post for a while, unless I can soemhow sneak onto the computer- if I'm ever home alone.
It's just too stressful to shrink the Oasis window every time someone walks into the living room.
And then delete this page from the Internet history.
I know it's a cliche but I'm tired of hiding from my family.
Only my mother knows, I finally got up the courage to tell her, back in September. We talked about it once or twice, both crying as she told me not to rush into this "decision."
The Monday before Christmas, and it's eighty degrees outside. A brilliantly burning blue sky, a Texas sun beating down on all the Christmas traffic. Windows down and radio loud, laughing with my sisters and I'm burning burning burning like a star behind the fallout.
Am I happy? Sad? I can't tell. I want to believe in adventure. I want to be honest and brave, like all the songs. I want to conquer the sweet pain that comes from reading beautiful literature, and knowing my own life will never measure up to those of the people I read about.
"Now it's your turn to make up a girl."
Okay... her name is Natalie. She's got long brown hair and exotic soft brown eyes. Her skin is a creamy caramel. She's not too skinny, but she's not fat... she's soft, like comfortable, like you could just curl up in her lap and go to sleep.
She's the illegitimate daughter of a British sea captain and a poor Chilean woman, born in a shack in Valparaiso. Born in blood and cries of pain, during the long rainy season, by the light of a full moon. When she cries, her tears taste like the sea, like the waters of the harbor that bore her father away from the port city.
"I like that... go on."
Sorry about that train-wreck post, I'm full of existential teenagerness. I feel like writing, and you guys are the ones I want to write to. I'm full of questions and facts and insistences, full of sadness and stars and nothing. Is there anything to say? It's like I used to tell people when I heard beautiful music.
"Do you like that? Just say you like it. Say you like that."
Here are some facts:
I don't know what to do with myself.
Sometimes I feel like an outcast even here at Oasis.
As a high-school student, I long for the glamour and independence of college.
I am so glad Oasis is back on. I feel so left behind and un-caught up with everyone! I was insane all weekend, andwanted very badly to share my withdrawal with someone, but I couldn't. ARGH. and I had a really bad day, which I need to share with someone.
That horrible thing happened again. A conversation came up- with the same friends as with the Harry Potter thing- and my friend, who is gay himself, asked me if I'd ever dated anyone in high school. I was replying that no, I hadn't, when my other friend- a straight girl- joked, "No, she's a lesbian!" I moved into Crisis Control Mode. "Shut up!" I said, laughing. Then the gay friend said, "That would explain the haircut..."
(I have really short hair.) "You're so mean to me," I said, covering my face with my hands and laughing. "We're just playing," he replied. "I've never doubted your sexuality."
Then the conversation moved on. I opened my notebook, wrote
FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT, then closed it again. And smiled.
The other day, while some acquaintances were debating whether or not this guy was gay, someone said, "He might be gay, he doesn't have a girlfriend."
I said, "That doesn't necessarily mean he's gay."
And a friend of mine actually said, "Yeah, because Emily doesn't have a boyfriend, and that doesn't mean she's a lesbian..."
Then another friend said, "Yeah, but we KNOW Emily's not a lesbian."
like at a memorial,
we gathered around
the jagged holes
to feel december's
stealing in gently-
fogging the crazed glass,
laced with cracks.
in the ice-storm noise
of the shattering,
then the silence
that for all our illusions,
we were good for nothing,
as anxious angels
peering down, breathless,
through the bulletholes in the window.
[Wrote this poem because the past two weekends have brought restless thugs to my high school, who see fit to shoot out around 30 windows during each of their visits. Beautiful to look at, but frightening in its implications.It's scary and depressing and feels like the death of innocence, so I thought I'd memorialize it.]
Sick at home, ignoring all my schoolwork, hanging out here, listening to Sgt. Pepper's on vinyl and wishing I were brave.
-reading things like that Catholic Parenting article, or the story about the little boy in Louisiana who learns shame at an early age.
-pretending that posting comments on everyone's blog entries will somehow make me feel better. And it does, for a while.
-moving up to the 50 mg pills of my antidepressant: feeling dysfunctional that I even need medication to make me happy.
-WHY CANT I BE NORMAL?
-is anyone normal?
I'm back! I need this place so badly, especially after a SUCKFUL day like today. I need a place to whine to someone. So if you hate whiners, don't listen.
I should be using this time to start on my mounds of homework, but as I'm finally alone with the computer for the first time in days, I'm not passing up this opportunity to rant about my suckful day.
I'm having lots of fun with the word "suckful," can you tell?
really? me too!
and dana laughs
like a rock
thrown at a window at midnight
(and i said, hey dana
do you dream in color too)
she'll call me by name
when we talk about fear
(though it's more like a swearword
than a name)
"baby girl," she'll say
and she'll look out the window
eyes hollowed out
by all she's done
and all the things she'll tell me soon.