Wednesday, May 28, 2003

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I hate this town. I fucking hate this fucking, shit-hole of a town. I'm sad and I'm tired and I'm lonely and I'm fighting the urge to cry. It's pretty outside and I don't even care. It's like I'm looking out at a drab, boring canvas that doesn't hold much interest for me. And unlike in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, stepping through the windowpane will not land me in a wonderful new world. It will just give me a broken leg.

Which is still better than a heartache.

I will never date anyone in this city again. Ever. I don't even want to talk to anyone new in this city ever again. I don't want to hope and want and feel the lonely go away and then have it shoved back down my throat. God damnit, now I am crying.

I couldn't sleep. I'm all alone in this fucking house. I can't exactly take the mice out to cuddle. Jason's asleep. Martha and Katy are at work. Anyone else, I have to walk the line of how much I once wanted them, or how much they once wanted me, or how many scars we share together that we haven't figured out how to meld. Or how much I want them now to where I can hardly stand it.

Look at where I am again, everybody! That same fucking place where I have to hide away until it all heals over because it just hurts too fucking much. I'm so fucking smart when I write. I tell myself the whole truth. "Aren't you a lover who has not yet learned to love in time?" Oh, isn't that me? Isn't it just? Why can't I ever see it in time? Why do I do this to myself?

When I was in France, that first time, I thought that I would just take my backpack and walk off into Europe. Just walk off and disappear and never look back. But, I'm not made that way. "I've still got the scars that the sun won't heal" - Bob Dylan. I want to just walk away from it all. I want to go insane and do drugs and rot out all of it. I did that last summer, though. I can't really do that again. I should, but I can't. My body is starting to feel too strong again despite all the hurt I've poured into it.

If only something could work. Just once. Just one little time. Is it really too much to ask? I know I'm not such a bad person. Why is it that I fall into three camps: sister, friend, mastabatory fantasy? And, fuck, even when the last two come together it doesn't mean shit. All it means is that someone is willing to drool over me at a distance, fuck me if they get the chance to, and pretend it didn't happen. Yes, it sounds crass, but that's all it ever seems to boil down to for me.

Who are these women that men will die for? Who are these women that men love? Who are the ones the poets write to? I am a poet. I write to these women, myself. And to the men, too. But, what of that... even those people who make me burn the brightest, who make me write myself to flames... they think nothing of it. Nothing. I write beautiful things for them and they do not care. Doesn't everyone want to be immortalized in art? It's not everyone I can do that with, just the ones who catch me the right way. Just the ones who have that beauty that I need to taste. I always feel like Yeats writing to Maud Gonne. He wrote things to make my heart break. And she never blinked an eye.

It is no one's fault and I'm sorry for my hatred and my rage. I am. It's not going to fester this time. The air's already been cleared. But how nice it must be to have someone care for you so devotedly, to know that they are there waiting in the wings! To know it and still have some other rush in to see you like the cavalry. Tell me this isn't what everyone longs for. To know that when one person leaves, that other one will still be there to make you feel special. No matter the cost to her own fucking heart.

With a few liberties for changing to the feminine, this seems all I can say right now. I'm going to work on a fucking, sad story. And laught at this fool who just send me a note on the Onion. Don't even waste my time.

When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one woman loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid her face amid a crowd of stars.