Monday, September 26, 2005

The sheer number of blank pages here is terrifying. I have decided to begin filling them since I can't fill my stomach. To have a conversation I can't, because I have no one to talk to. Isn't it supposed to be true that you appreciate art more when you're hungry because artists usually create when hungry? I've heard that, anyway. I am not an artist but maybe I can appreciate each word and letter more this way. I see blank pages to be filled. My life is empty. I came to school today after a weekend of play and couldn't even occupy myself for an hour and a half. I am now resigned to this aloneness; before I somehow thought I would make friends. Now I do not make the effort to smile as I pass people, my classmates, and I do not want to make eye contact. My ninth grade self again, it's true. A weekend of play, but not really pleasure. I don't know how to have a good time anymore, I guess. Stupidity overcomes me and I choke. I smile, I laugh, I answer, "I'm okay" and I do not tell the truth. I'm lying to everyone and you're the only one who notices. I don't understand why you listen when they don't, why you care, why you insist, why your wind blows a different tone. My jaw aches from clenching my teeth, my smile is a stretch of hell across my plagued face, I want no one to look at me. Baby, this is the truth. I love you, I do. I know it so certainly now. I can't think of anyone who understands me better, or who I would rather stay with until I can't stay anymore. We're not traditional, we like that. When I talk to you, I know we'll be okay, no matter what I'm saying or what you're thinking of me. I can keep it together long enough for us to be okay, I promise that. It's the fifth day of fall. It still feels like summer and I'm already fucking falling apart. In 3 weeks I'll be with you. Then 2 months after that. We'll be able to live together in a city above water soon? Tell me it can happen, that we can make it and do this biggest thing. I don't know how to live, but I know where I want to be. I'm sick of people looking at my thin bird legs, hairy and misshapen, short and unwilling. I stood in a full-length mirror for the first time in years, and I saw what my mother always said was true. My ankles, as thin as bird bones jutting out and setting off the balance in the poetry of a foot.

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