DEAREST PETER,
IN YOUR MIND, WHAT IS SOON? I MEAN, SHOULD I EXPECT TO HEAR FROM YOU IN TWO MONTHS TIME, AGAIN? SHOULD I EXPECT THE CALL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT? WILL WE CONFESS OUR FEELINGS ALL OVER AGAIN, AND THEN YOU'LL ASSURE ME YOU'LL CONTACT ME SOON, WHEN YOU'LL ACTUALLY GO BACK TO FUCKING YOUR MOTHERFUCKING GIRLFRIEND AND PLAYING VIDEO GAMES?
I MEAN, JUST GIVE ME A HEAD UP, BECAUSE BY CALLING ME EVERY NOW AND THEN, YOU'VE REALLY SECURED FOR YOURSELF THAT I WILL ACTUALLY WAIT AROUND FOR YOU FOREVER.
OR MAYBE I SHOULD JUST CALL THIS EMILY AND TELL HER YOU TOLD ME THAT YOU LOVE ME.
BECAUSE IT WENT OVER SOOOOO WELL WITH THE LAST EMILY, REMEMBER?
SINCERELY,
VIRGINIA
I like to remember you. It is a favorite pastime of mine—the dip in your throat, the softness in your eyes, the set in your jaw. I like to remember the way you bit your nails to the quick or how you stroked my cheek in the yellow light of winter. I like your body. I like your face. I like the movement of your muscles, quick and precise. To touch you was one of my finer delights.
Time is cruel. Memory is crueler. Habit is the cruelest. I lost you to these devices—the weight of time, the blanket of memory and the hatefulness of your habit. Your love for me was constantly dwarfed by your love for small blue pills that tinted your lips and fouled your mouth when you kissed me.
In your absence, my mind creates a shadow of you, a vivid hallucination that manifests itself in my dreams. I remember your hands. You had hands like tree branches, with vines the curled and crept between my own to take root. You brought me green apples on afternoons in late spring, and I remember the pads of your fingers, warm and rough and moving up the curve of my elbow, tracing translucent blue veins. It was a time of swinging feet, flower crowns and scab picking. It began like that.
When I try and remember you now (eyes shut tight, lashes against the rise of my cheekbone and hands clasped over the roll in the center of my stomach) there are two instances that I can recall more vividly than others. In one, you are small, just taller than me and thrown backwards. I remember that there was red dirt under my fingernails from the baseball field I had dragged you through so that we might reach a spot in the woods. Hands clasped, we’d hopped the fence and run across first base, pausing to catch our breath and jump about on the pitchers mound before breaking back into a run. My toe caught on third base and I fell forward, one hand outstretched, the other still clutching yours, pulling you down and into the descent. We fell, and I scraped the heels of my palms on the deep red gravel, russet and the color of that summer. We laughed, and you jumped up, spry and half-awkward, coltish and joyful. This is how I like to remember you, in shades of red, brown and green, your chest heaving and cheeks colored and stretched. I remember you like this—with a half smile, delighted and reaching down to me to lift me from the soil.
If I close my eyes tighter to remember again, press my lashes to the bone and curl inward on myself, that second lucid image of you unfurls from the place where I had it pressed and tucked away. Curled and crying, I remember that the air was cool, even though it was an especially stagnant May. I remember tracing the arch of your spine with my fingers, concentric circles on the small of your back, and the pad of my thumb at the nape of your neck. Your arms were stretched in front of you, long expanses of flesh like a canvas in child’s pose or prayer. I told you that I was not looking at the gouges that stretched from your shoulder to the soft place under your wrist and onwards to the start of your palm that I had held a summer ago. I promised I was not looking at the bruises, dark serpents from the damaged veins in the crook of your elbow and creeping down and around your arm. I told you I was not looking and I traced concentric circles on your back, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared into nothing and then started all over again.
I shake my reverie now, and I love you (in both moments and in all moments). You blew through my like bullets, leaving stains on my sheets and on my soul. I cannot reclaim this time from the void.
Perhaps you are not my greatest loss, because at night, before I sleep, I see my grandmother’s yellow, wax hands cupping my chin as she kissed me on the fore head one last time. I see my mother’s face reflected in a bottle of wine. But when I curl inwards, press my eyelashes to the rise of my cheeks and place my hands over the roll in the center of my stomach, you certainly feel like the most potent and pressing hole in my life. I would bring you back, would I could. I would gather up all the parts of you that you’d left behind; wrap you up in a napkin and put you in my pocket. I would collect the fingerprints on filmy teacups, ash between carpet fibers, raspberry seeds, and every eyelash that you wished on and blew away. I would carry you about like a little universe of my own and maybe then, I wouldn’t be quite so lonely.
I remember you. So please, remember me. Remember the way my hair fell about my shoulders. Remember me, smearing frosting off a cupcake on your cheek in the same baseball field where I held your hands two years earlier. Remember the way I stutter when I’m exited, or the way I looked, soaked and dripping, wading in the lake after you’d shoved me under that glass lidded, green gaping maw of the water the summer that we were 14. Remember sleeping on lazy afternoons or drunkenly playing Rock Band instead of attending lectures. Remember my battle, the war my disease waged against my mind. Remember the way I cried on your lap in the early hours of morning. Remember cleaning the shards of glass off the floor after I threw the dishes in our kitchen against the wall. Remember the way I clung to your shirt at night and begged you to stay, or how you left anyway, walking home in the cruel February air. Remember the way my hand slipped from yours in the hospital or the desperation in my voice when I begged you not to go, bleeding and aching and mad. Please, remember me and my misery because I will never forget how it lost me all I wanted.
Time is cruel. Memory is crueler. Habit is the cruelest. I lost you to these devices—the weight of time, the blanket of memory and the hatefulness of your habit. Your love for me was constantly dwarfed by your love for small blue pills that tinted your lips and fouled your mouth when you kissed me.
In your absence, my mind creates a shadow of you, a vivid hallucination that manifests itself in my dreams. I remember your hands. You had hands like tree branches, with vines the curled and crept between my own to take root. You brought me green apples on afternoons in late spring, and I remember the pads of your fingers, warm and rough and moving up the curve of my elbow, tracing translucent blue veins. It was a time of swinging feet, flower crowns and scab picking. It began like that.
When I try and remember you now (eyes shut tight, lashes against the rise of my cheekbone and hands clasped over the roll in the center of my stomach) there are two instances that I can recall more vividly than others. In one, you are small, just taller than me and thrown backwards. I remember that there was red dirt under my fingernails from the baseball field I had dragged you through so that we might reach a spot in the woods. Hands clasped, we’d hopped the fence and run across first base, pausing to catch our breath and jump about on the pitchers mound before breaking back into a run. My toe caught on third base and I fell forward, one hand outstretched, the other still clutching yours, pulling you down and into the descent. We fell, and I scraped the heels of my palms on the deep red gravel, russet and the color of that summer. We laughed, and you jumped up, spry and half-awkward, coltish and joyful. This is how I like to remember you, in shades of red, brown and green, your chest heaving and cheeks colored and stretched. I remember you like this—with a half smile, delighted and reaching down to me to lift me from the soil.
If I close my eyes tighter to remember again, press my lashes to the bone and curl inward on myself, that second lucid image of you unfurls from the place where I had it pressed and tucked away. Curled and crying, I remember that the air was cool, even though it was an especially stagnant May. I remember tracing the arch of your spine with my fingers, concentric circles on the small of your back, and the pad of my thumb at the nape of your neck. Your arms were stretched in front of you, long expanses of flesh like a canvas in child’s pose or prayer. I told you that I was not looking at the gouges that stretched from your shoulder to the soft place under your wrist and onwards to the start of your palm that I had held a summer ago. I promised I was not looking at the bruises, dark serpents from the damaged veins in the crook of your elbow and creeping down and around your arm. I told you I was not looking and I traced concentric circles on your back, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared into nothing and then started all over again.
I shake my reverie now, and I love you (in both moments and in all moments). You blew through my like bullets, leaving stains on my sheets and on my soul. I cannot reclaim this time from the void.
Perhaps you are not my greatest loss, because at night, before I sleep, I see my grandmother’s yellow, wax hands cupping my chin as she kissed me on the fore head one last time. I see my mother’s face reflected in a bottle of wine. But when I curl inwards, press my eyelashes to the rise of my cheeks and place my hands over the roll in the center of my stomach, you certainly feel like the most potent and pressing hole in my life. I would bring you back, would I could. I would gather up all the parts of you that you’d left behind; wrap you up in a napkin and put you in my pocket. I would collect the fingerprints on filmy teacups, ash between carpet fibers, raspberry seeds, and every eyelash that you wished on and blew away. I would carry you about like a little universe of my own and maybe then, I wouldn’t be quite so lonely.
I remember you. So please, remember me. Remember the way my hair fell about my shoulders. Remember me, smearing frosting off a cupcake on your cheek in the same baseball field where I held your hands two years earlier. Remember the way I stutter when I’m exited, or the way I looked, soaked and dripping, wading in the lake after you’d shoved me under that glass lidded, green gaping maw of the water the summer that we were 14. Remember sleeping on lazy afternoons or drunkenly playing Rock Band instead of attending lectures. Remember my battle, the war my disease waged against my mind. Remember the way I cried on your lap in the early hours of morning. Remember cleaning the shards of glass off the floor after I threw the dishes in our kitchen against the wall. Remember the way I clung to your shirt at night and begged you to stay, or how you left anyway, walking home in the cruel February air. Remember the way my hand slipped from yours in the hospital or the desperation in my voice when I begged you not to go, bleeding and aching and mad. Please, remember me and my misery because I will never forget how it lost me all I wanted.
all I want is peter back. that's all I want. I don't need to go to college. I don't need to have a future. I have a hard time envisioning one without him. It's bleak. If I have to live every day for the rest of my life the way that I'm living right now, I won't even make it to my predetermined suicide age of 27.
He was everything that I knew. It was like I was wrapped in a cocoon of him with his hands over my eyes--keeping me safe and warm and ignorant. He's been at the back of my mind for five years and now he's just walked out of my life. Like I'm nothing. Like I don't matter. Like I never did.
How am I supposed to cope with that? How am I supposed to take that in stride? This is like a car wreck and while he was safely strapped in, I was ejected through the windshield. I'm bleeding and broken and wounded and angry.
He was everything that I knew. It was like I was wrapped in a cocoon of him with his hands over my eyes--keeping me safe and warm and ignorant. He's been at the back of my mind for five years and now he's just walked out of my life. Like I'm nothing. Like I don't matter. Like I never did.
How am I supposed to cope with that? How am I supposed to take that in stride? This is like a car wreck and while he was safely strapped in, I was ejected through the windshield. I'm bleeding and broken and wounded and angry.
when the night falls soft and quiet
is when my heart sinks heavy, stone and surfbound
I place it in my pocket and shuffle shorewards, your mouth on my mind
your hand on my thigh in the corner of my eye
i will fall soft and quiet as well, wet and fluid
falling forwards to the womb of the sea (there
was a lake once, we walked on the shore, shoulders brushing
with a shock!
of electricity and you dragged me to the water
feet ankles knees calves thighs drenched
until you pushed me under and i arose
from glass lidded green gaping maw
baptized and new)
is when my heart sinks heavy, stone and surfbound
I place it in my pocket and shuffle shorewards, your mouth on my mind
your hand on my thigh in the corner of my eye
i will fall soft and quiet as well, wet and fluid
falling forwards to the womb of the sea (there
was a lake once, we walked on the shore, shoulders brushing
with a shock!
of electricity and you dragged me to the water
feet ankles knees calves thighs drenched
until you pushed me under and i arose
from glass lidded green gaping maw
baptized and new)
I need to draw circles underneath the place where you sleep
to keep you here, to ground me ( I went fluid, water broke burst forth
and I rock forward and backward to places that I have been
and this is transit! The motion and the struggling and the pulling
and it hurts ahhhh. It makes me bend in places that I should not
and I curl backwards to kiss my people goodbye)
because when you are inside of the circles you cannot go anywhere
and I am tired of winter and goodbye and all things sharp and blue
like January (the homeland that I had that I forfeited was far better
than this rift.
But I loved you with fingers like spiders that crept and wept
between my own, like spring! New in the world and you were covered in water--
but what is there to say when I gave up a homeland and a people and now I
walk towards that horizon?
and I move and twist and turn and transit
and ahhhh how it hurts to love you
when the vines come upwards and plant you down.
I twist and turn and move and transit and you shushed me
because what would you ever know about a homeland)
a circle underneath your bed will do it, keep you here with me, ground me
because I move forward and you are not with me anymore
and for your fingers, long and made for piano strings, for your fingers
I grieve because in the twist and turn of transit
they let go of my own.
to keep you here, to ground me ( I went fluid, water broke burst forth
and I rock forward and backward to places that I have been
and this is transit! The motion and the struggling and the pulling
and it hurts ahhhh. It makes me bend in places that I should not
and I curl backwards to kiss my people goodbye)
because when you are inside of the circles you cannot go anywhere
and I am tired of winter and goodbye and all things sharp and blue
like January (the homeland that I had that I forfeited was far better
than this rift.
But I loved you with fingers like spiders that crept and wept
between my own, like spring! New in the world and you were covered in water--
but what is there to say when I gave up a homeland and a people and now I
walk towards that horizon?
and I move and twist and turn and transit
and ahhhh how it hurts to love you
when the vines come upwards and plant you down.
I twist and turn and move and transit and you shushed me
because what would you ever know about a homeland)
a circle underneath your bed will do it, keep you here with me, ground me
because I move forward and you are not with me anymore
and for your fingers, long and made for piano strings, for your fingers
I grieve because in the twist and turn of transit
they let go of my own.
please just stop (a dreaming thing of half moons
that I saw in a sunny orb, a thing that melted when
I exhaled and then malted into nothing.
and you, ahh ahh you
you caught on my eyelashes and I blew upwards
to free you from a spidery tangle.
you did not melt and I caught what was left in a cage of
limbs and loves and leaves pressed between pages
(once a goodbye for this I am sorry sh sh
oh god shh)
we wilt
made for summer and spring and you do not
melt when I exhale so press down right there! ah! yes!
a pin to the corner of the bits that try to fold under.
keep me from the river that flows to the mouth of a
sea. I have pockets full of stones
and in January I walk towards the horizon.
keep me here because you are waterdrinking
flowerloving handholding and all of the things that make me bold.)
holding your breath in the morning
the curve of my waist will not melt beneath your
fingers.
that I saw in a sunny orb, a thing that melted when
I exhaled and then malted into nothing.
and you, ahh ahh you
you caught on my eyelashes and I blew upwards
to free you from a spidery tangle.
you did not melt and I caught what was left in a cage of
limbs and loves and leaves pressed between pages
(once a goodbye for this I am sorry sh sh
oh god shh)
we wilt
made for summer and spring and you do not
melt when I exhale so press down right there! ah! yes!
a pin to the corner of the bits that try to fold under.
keep me from the river that flows to the mouth of a
sea. I have pockets full of stones
and in January I walk towards the horizon.
keep me here because you are waterdrinking
flowerloving handholding and all of the things that make me bold.)
holding your breath in the morning
the curve of my waist will not melt beneath your
fingers.
sto provando a trovarlo!
qualcuno, mi dici dove devo andare. mi sono persa. non c'e' piu' tempo. non sono giovane piu'. ho perso mi stessa e' ho perso il tempo. i mie mani sono vuoti.
He had hands like tree branches, with vines the curled and crept between my own to take root. He brought me green apples on afternoons in late spring, and I remember the pads of his fingers, warm and rough and creeping up the curve of my elbow. It was a time of swinging feet, flower crowns and scab picking. It began like that.
When I try and remember him now (eyes shut tight, lashes against the rise of my cheekbone and hands clasped over the roll in the center of my stomach) there are two instances that I can recall more vividly than others. In one, he is small, just taller than me and thrown backwards. I remember that there was red dirt under my fingernails from the baseball field I had dragged him through so that we might reach this spot in the woods. Hands clasped, we’d hopped the fence and run across first base, pausing to catch our breath and jump about on the pitchers mound before breaking back into a run. My toe caught on third base and I fell forward, one hand outstretched, the other still clutching his, pulling him forward and into the descent. We fell, and I scraped the heels of my palms on the deep red gravel, russet and the color of that summer. We laughed, and he jumped up, spry and half-awkward, coltish and joyful. This is how I like to remember him, in shades of red, brown and green, his chest heaving and cheeks colored red and stretched. I remember him like this—with a half smile, delighted and reaching down to me to lift me from the soil, smiling.
If I close my eyes tighter to remember again, press my lashes to the bone and curl inward on myself, that second lucid image of him unfurls from the place where I had it pressed and tucked away. Curled and crying, I remember that the air was cool, even though it was an especially stagnant May. I remember tracing the curve of his spine with my fingers, concentric circles in the small of his back, and the pad of my thumb at the nape of his neck. His arms stretched in front of him, long expanses of flesh like a canvas in child’s pose or prayer. I told him that I was not looking at the gouges that stretched from his shoulder to the soft place under his wrist and onwards to the start of his palm that I had held a summer ago. I promised I was not looking at the bruises, dark serpents from the damaged veins in the crook of his elbow and creeping down and around his arm. I told him I was not looking and I traced concentric circles on his back, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared into nothing and then started all over again.
When I try and remember him now (eyes shut tight, lashes against the rise of my cheekbone and hands clasped over the roll in the center of my stomach) there are two instances that I can recall more vividly than others. In one, he is small, just taller than me and thrown backwards. I remember that there was red dirt under my fingernails from the baseball field I had dragged him through so that we might reach this spot in the woods. Hands clasped, we’d hopped the fence and run across first base, pausing to catch our breath and jump about on the pitchers mound before breaking back into a run. My toe caught on third base and I fell forward, one hand outstretched, the other still clutching his, pulling him forward and into the descent. We fell, and I scraped the heels of my palms on the deep red gravel, russet and the color of that summer. We laughed, and he jumped up, spry and half-awkward, coltish and joyful. This is how I like to remember him, in shades of red, brown and green, his chest heaving and cheeks colored red and stretched. I remember him like this—with a half smile, delighted and reaching down to me to lift me from the soil, smiling.
If I close my eyes tighter to remember again, press my lashes to the bone and curl inward on myself, that second lucid image of him unfurls from the place where I had it pressed and tucked away. Curled and crying, I remember that the air was cool, even though it was an especially stagnant May. I remember tracing the curve of his spine with my fingers, concentric circles in the small of his back, and the pad of my thumb at the nape of his neck. His arms stretched in front of him, long expanses of flesh like a canvas in child’s pose or prayer. I told him that I was not looking at the gouges that stretched from his shoulder to the soft place under his wrist and onwards to the start of his palm that I had held a summer ago. I promised I was not looking at the bruises, dark serpents from the damaged veins in the crook of his elbow and creeping down and around his arm. I told him I was not looking and I traced concentric circles on his back, getting smaller and smaller until they disappeared into nothing and then started all over again.
Society;
I am sorry I do not look the way that you want me too. I am also sorry that this forces people to regard me differently, think less of me, judge me unfairly, and make me feel worse about myself than I already do. Society, I am sorry that I am a slave to you. I am sorry that I place stock in your sick standards--I am sorry for purchasing your beauty magazines, and putting on makeup in the morning and not eating when I am hungry. Society, I am sorry that I have dirty fingernails, a short neck, thin hair, broad shoulders, hips and breasts. I am sorry you don't want them. I would wrap them up and tuck them away if I could. I am also sorry that things do not work this way.
Society, I am sorry that we cannot coexist. I am sorry that I broke my mirror because I do not want you to look at me every time I want to look at me. I am sorry that I will not buy your magazines anymore and I am sorry that I am going to eat when I'm hungry. Society, I am sorry that I will not put other people down to validate myself when you tell me that I am not good enough. I am sorry that I am empathetic and I am sorry that I care about everything that breathes if I decide to think about it for too long.
I am very sorry that I will not let you tell me how to feel anymore. But, Society, I know you'll be alright, because I am just a number.
Society, I am sorry that I am not quite ready for you yet. I respect everyone who is, because I am just not strong enough to be a part of it right now.
Kindly think no less of me for it. Surely, I'll come around some day. We all do.
Regards,
Ginny.
I am sorry I do not look the way that you want me too. I am also sorry that this forces people to regard me differently, think less of me, judge me unfairly, and make me feel worse about myself than I already do. Society, I am sorry that I am a slave to you. I am sorry that I place stock in your sick standards--I am sorry for purchasing your beauty magazines, and putting on makeup in the morning and not eating when I am hungry. Society, I am sorry that I have dirty fingernails, a short neck, thin hair, broad shoulders, hips and breasts. I am sorry you don't want them. I would wrap them up and tuck them away if I could. I am also sorry that things do not work this way.
Society, I am sorry that we cannot coexist. I am sorry that I broke my mirror because I do not want you to look at me every time I want to look at me. I am sorry that I will not buy your magazines anymore and I am sorry that I am going to eat when I'm hungry. Society, I am sorry that I will not put other people down to validate myself when you tell me that I am not good enough. I am sorry that I am empathetic and I am sorry that I care about everything that breathes if I decide to think about it for too long.
I am very sorry that I will not let you tell me how to feel anymore. But, Society, I know you'll be alright, because I am just a number.
Society, I am sorry that I am not quite ready for you yet. I respect everyone who is, because I am just not strong enough to be a part of it right now.
Kindly think no less of me for it. Surely, I'll come around some day. We all do.
Regards,
Ginny.
all i need to hear is that you're not mine, you're not mine.
I should be researching Leibniz in relation to Faulkner for thesis.
Instead, I will look at Lord of the Ring parodies.
Hi Ho College!
uncanny
December 2008:
"I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind, though you're nothing like I've found or will find!"
December 2009:
"I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind, though you're nothing like I've found or will find!"
"I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind, though you're nothing like I've found or will find!"
December 2009:
"I'm just crazy enough to leave you behind, though you're nothing like I've found or will find!"
i am mediocre.
The sea of your skin was a handsome prize
ripple of your fingers a current on my back and
I am delighted! Made love by handholding
Flowerpicking and waterloving, my mouth is full of you and your dirty crevices.
Your praised me and I was made man, made new sorts
of flesh and bones in the wash of the tide
of the pull of your eyes;
the sea of your skin was a handsome prize and an accidental farewell,
crouched on the ground in early December, fetal and wailing (made of leather)
with leaves all up to my kneecaps,
was a rift.
And you flowed inwards, cascaded into the
canyon of goodbye and I would patch it (would I could)
with a sorry, a flower in a vase of water and a kiss
on the sea of your skin, a drop in the water
on the back of your hand to pull you forward.
You flowed inwards.
My mouth is full of sand.
ripple of your fingers a current on my back and
I am delighted! Made love by handholding
Flowerpicking and waterloving, my mouth is full of you and your dirty crevices.
Your praised me and I was made man, made new sorts
of flesh and bones in the wash of the tide
of the pull of your eyes;
the sea of your skin was a handsome prize and an accidental farewell,
crouched on the ground in early December, fetal and wailing (made of leather)
with leaves all up to my kneecaps,
was a rift.
And you flowed inwards, cascaded into the
canyon of goodbye and I would patch it (would I could)
with a sorry, a flower in a vase of water and a kiss
on the sea of your skin, a drop in the water
on the back of your hand to pull you forward.
You flowed inwards.
My mouth is full of sand.
saysginny: I am green eyed
iamnoparenthesis: of my work ethic?
saysginny: if only I were a prodigy too
saysginny: but, alas, God could not kiss every forehead
iamnoparenthesis: in a perfect world
iamnoparenthesis: no one will get teased for being good at anything
iamnoparenthesis: also, I need to decide who I'm taking to soup day
iamnoparenthesis: because you won't be in school.
iamnoparenthesis: i'll need to scout around
iamnoparenthesis: OH
iamnoparenthesis: ANDREW
saysginny: TOUCH ME THERE, YEEEEA
iamnoparenthesis: THAT is who i'm desirous of
iamnoparenthesis: of whom i'm desires
iamnoparenthesis: desirous
saysginny: pseudo-intellectual jerk-off sessions aren't enough for you?
saysginny: OH GOD I'M SORRY it's a compulsion
iamnoparenthesis: of my work ethic?
saysginny: if only I were a prodigy too
saysginny: but, alas, God could not kiss every forehead
iamnoparenthesis: in a perfect world
iamnoparenthesis: no one will get teased for being good at anything
iamnoparenthesis: also, I need to decide who I'm taking to soup day
iamnoparenthesis: because you won't be in school.
iamnoparenthesis: i'll need to scout around
iamnoparenthesis: OH
iamnoparenthesis: ANDREW
saysginny: TOUCH ME THERE, YEEEEA
iamnoparenthesis: THAT is who i'm desirous of
iamnoparenthesis: of whom i'm desires
iamnoparenthesis: desirous
saysginny: pseudo-intellectual jerk-off sessions aren't enough for you?
saysginny: OH GOD I'M SORRY it's a compulsion
INSECURE GINNY IS INSECURE
he said "hope. may you find a blind husband with a face like that."
am I that ugly?
am I that ugly?
today
is the closest I've gotten to a breathing episode in a long, long time. I felt my throat getting tight and my palms were sweating and my heart started going and it was sick deja vu. but, then it stopped.
just when I was starting to think it was gone for good
just when I was starting to think it was gone for good
I'm having premonitions
I don't understand the chaos. Voltaire tells me what it's not, but he doesn't tell me what it is.
"Cultivate your garden," he says. This land is salted--nothing shall grow here.
"Cultivate your garden," he says. This land is salted--nothing shall grow here.
and having worshipped for my doom, pass ignorantly into sleep's bright land
I don't know anything anymore.
1. let's go to Iceland.
2. why aren't you talking to me?
3. please forgive me.
1. let's go to Iceland.
2. why aren't you talking to me?
3. please forgive me.
KEYS602: i miss everyone too. i could share so much more with you guys than i could with people back here
KEYS602: somehow...they just dont get it
saysginny: indeed
saysginny: they don't get that a few months is all it takes to change
saysginny: and not even just in Italy
saysginny: I've changed so much since I got home, too
saysginny: like, the process isn't over
KEYS602: definitely not
KEYS602: I'm still changing
saysginny: will it ever stop, or will we just keep perpetually moving away from the people close to us, until we drift into solitude entirely?
KEYS602: I don't know. Ive definitely cut down from many friends here to like, 3, but maybe well meet other people too, who DO get it.
maybe that's all this is, and I should just move with the tide.
KEYS602: somehow...they just dont get it
saysginny: indeed
saysginny: they don't get that a few months is all it takes to change
saysginny: and not even just in Italy
saysginny: I've changed so much since I got home, too
saysginny: like, the process isn't over
KEYS602: definitely not
KEYS602: I'm still changing
saysginny: will it ever stop, or will we just keep perpetually moving away from the people close to us, until we drift into solitude entirely?
KEYS602: I don't know. Ive definitely cut down from many friends here to like, 3, but maybe well meet other people too, who DO get it.
maybe that's all this is, and I should just move with the tide.
I thought I was bigger than the sound.
again! silly me. one of these days, I'm gonna learn a lesson, I swear!
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