recently i sat down to think about all the lines, hellos, goodbyes. the friends i betray. the lies i tell. the rumors i spread. the hearts i break. papercuts. midafternoon televsion. waking up on a friday. going to sleep on a sunday. the epitome of everything i've always hated has grown into a woman who isn't ready to face a harsh world. she is hiding. she is running away. as much as i think i'll learn, i probably won't. everyone is telling me to grow up. everyone is telling me to be a lady. everyone is telling me to take responsbility for my own actions. and all i want to do is lay on the hood of a car fucked up listening to the smiths. and i really think i need someone who understands that. or would that only let my problems manifest easier? or would that just be bringing someone down with me? to the personal hell of failure. i need to be driving right now. i need to be away from everyone who thinks they know me. i need to be looking into untested eyes. on a beach. with ocean waves that think they're skyscrapers. i need cocaine or speed or heroin, but i'll settle for headphones hiding in a dark room. yeah, yeah. pity me. i'm such a sad, confused kid who can't help herself out of a six year rut. i just want to be something more than nothing. i stole that. with all the words i say...it's plain and simple. if it's such a fucked up reality, why can't a fuck up like me seem to fit in?

on my way to the moon by inspiration. hollowed out vegetables and hot vinyl. dead alive under headphones. the wax spinning and springs me, turning something inside of me. true words and true hearts. true moments. true nights where we can feel new again. observing the world as they know it in our movie seats. laughing off their ignorance, we slide into the sun under guard of the new elitists. after a kiss, i slide my hands across your handgun. you mix it into napalm. we blow up abortion clinics and set fire to churches in our world, in our chests. we are the black and the white. with our fine definition and good contrast. colors have nothing on us. we are the unrainbow. rejected kids with loose wrists. sarcastic sadistic modest overjoyed expensive words. put me in an electric chair right now so i can kill this happiness and this positive outlook. the nra digging graves for accidental suicides. rock star diaries on my table top. get me out before he gets too deep. inside. something i'm considering a dream. at 4am on dirt backroads, antenna moves me high into the sky where it's always freezing. if i can ever get down i will show you life like you've never known it.

i am closing my eyes and writing letters and feeing skin and yes, i think i may have found a piece of myself here in whispers and sighs and sounds and shrieks. nestled between sand and concrete or sheets and arms i feel so full and there are these late night moments with half closed eyes and a slow beating heart when i can't help but indulge in it. place myself on the couch or the floor or my bed your bed and feel so incredibly aware of every inch of myself. we are talking with noses pressed together and i swear sometimes my loss for words is truely frightening, sometimes my head is just swimming with all these statements and sentences and declarations and i open my mouth and i just want it to flow on out to you but i am so small sometimes in that quiet room with my tiny hands and uneasy stomach. i didn't know what to say at 3:45 this morning.

i think i am beginning to understand that there is truely consequence in silence. [something in me is very alive this afternoon]

i check your pulse, you check my style. we both got our headphones, we both got our bloody lips. we both got the songs that make us dance in our mind. we might be drunk, we might be high, and in a rare occurence we might even be sober. it's all about the tension building, it's all about the magnestism between our bones and throwing earth of it's axis with our toucking, our feeling up and our falling down. the way you shake your hair around seems to be a bit like the boy who could also say his words right, but i figure it's just too good to be true. the way you pull off cotton, pressing your lips against against my failure, my embarrasment. you can easily forget all of this, you can just turn on that belle and sebastian record, that one that changed my life and turned my mind around...then i'll kiss you so hard it hurts. until you scream - until your body falls apart. boy, you've got to know all the right buttons to push. you've got to know all the right phone numbers to dial that chris didn't. you've got to have style like flypaper eyes, without the long drive. you've got to own the right records and wear the right clothes. i think of the boy in atlanta, the one i only met for twenty minutes-or-so, and all his style and grace. i think of how i wanted to eat foreign food with him. i think of how he doesn't even know my name, but maybe he will if i talk to him on thursday. i'll ask him for a cigarrette or undress him, it depends on which option comes into my hands first. it all drives me so crazy, the teenage desire, the undending quest to tackle the unknown. why do we do the things we do? it's a question i've asked a thousand times over with no response or reply in sight. i'll lay content, as long as we're between your sheets with me in your arms. i'll lay content, i'll feel just right. it's self explanatory though - give anyone the drug they crave and they'll feel fine. if you feed addiction, you feed the malevolence of evil. you're feeding what needs to be fed. you are the problem, you are the cause of war. you're throwing breadcrumbs to the animals at the zoo, you're dragging yourself across a sex addict's chest. you are temptation, you are frustration. you are spit across my computer screen. but we took ourselves to bed, or we will soon enough (whichever has passed) . pressed bodies, constellations, and all the right metaphors.

if anything, it's an excuse to go dancing.

i hate poetry. i hate it with such a fucking passion, but i love the anarchistic structure of it. i hate it, but i don't really know why. maybe because the majority of it is so tiresome and cliche. it's just a song without the melody, like sex without penetration. it can be beautiful but for the most part it's just a waste of time. but i can't help but love having the right; to write, like this. incorrect and illicit. like late nights off back beach where i'd catch a glance of my first love. you know, the love that can make you feel timeless power, yet it can demean you to the worst extent. it is all knowing, and it has murder on it's mind. it is reality's worst protagonist; the enemy yet lover of all mankind. it's a bitter bitch on the way our nature works, with it's loose ends and loopholes. you never know where you're actually headed, or what you just did. actions preformed with decisions regretted. there's no relief. there's no help sent. there's no red cross. my mind falls apart, and i forget where i was going due to that hint of ft. lauderdale vanilla. the gruesome event of understanding i can lose, and be rejected. but it doesn't phase me. it doesn't even create a light. i dont know where i am, or why i write words. i just know that i'd feel a lot better if i was on the abandoned bridge in tyndall glancing nervously across the roof of a silver car, choking down pine needle gin. kissing the boy outside his car. running around the sharp edges of my heart like an animal foaming at the mouth. oh, the sweetness of rememberance. oh, the shittiness of this entry.