2004-08-03 - 11:25 p.m.
Do you think that if I cut my tongue out I'd get this bitter taste out of my mouth...
Oh yeah. This is probably going to be one of those entries where I dredge up my assortment of crap, and y'know, roll around in it.
No, it isn't. Fuck this. Fuck you! Fuck me. Fuck your mother and her best friend. Fu--
I'll have to start bleeping myself at this rate.
I'm sorry. No, I'm not. I want to make some noise before I lose my voice again.
Because it's my goddamn party and I'll cry out if I want to. Aren't I allowed that much?
No, sweetheart, you aren't. Because you aren't pure enough, or pretty enough, and you don't bleed enough, to warrant our attention. Did I say our? I meant anyone's.
I know I'm not supposed to swallow this. But it slides down my throat like a poisonous fog, seeping into my bloodstream before I can even think to cough it up. And it ends up floating in my head, right back where it started from. It's made a home for itself there. I practise self-defence and I change the locks and I think about moving, but it's all ultimately ineffectual.
Part of me gets off on dating misery. No other pain can even look at me sideways while he's around. Although grief likes to sneak into my bed when no one is watching.
I don't know how to end it. I banish them for periods, longer and longer each time, but they come back, and I let them. If I ever got strong enough to kick them out, I suspect significant parts of me would leave with them.
And I know that, in some complicated way, for some complex reason, they're meant to be with me. Just by letting them in, by not doing enough, not being enough, I've earned them.
And I accept this.
Some girls do swallow.
Oh yeah. This is probably going to be one of those entries where I dredge up my assortment of crap, and y'know, roll around in it.
No, it isn't. Fuck this. Fuck you! Fuck me. Fuck your mother and her best friend. Fu--
I'll have to start bleeping myself at this rate.
I'm sorry. No, I'm not. I want to make some noise before I lose my voice again.
Because it's my goddamn party and I'll cry out if I want to. Aren't I allowed that much?
No, sweetheart, you aren't. Because you aren't pure enough, or pretty enough, and you don't bleed enough, to warrant our attention. Did I say our? I meant anyone's.
I know I'm not supposed to swallow this. But it slides down my throat like a poisonous fog, seeping into my bloodstream before I can even think to cough it up. And it ends up floating in my head, right back where it started from. It's made a home for itself there. I practise self-defence and I change the locks and I think about moving, but it's all ultimately ineffectual.
Part of me gets off on dating misery. No other pain can even look at me sideways while he's around. Although grief likes to sneak into my bed when no one is watching.
I don't know how to end it. I banish them for periods, longer and longer each time, but they come back, and I let them. If I ever got strong enough to kick them out, I suspect significant parts of me would leave with them.
And I know that, in some complicated way, for some complex reason, they're meant to be with me. Just by letting them in, by not doing enough, not being enough, I've earned them.
And I accept this.
Some girls do swallow.
