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| home from an outing
quiet, empty
i shut the door, paced
before
i was between you and the wall
noses touching
that tangible pressure
as you slipped your hand
below my collarbone
against the ruched gossamer
i would say we rested there
but resting is not the word for it
we were awake
aware
conscious of our actions
and their consequences
repurcussions of the being
in front of me, along my side, between my legs
the contact, pressure again
like a heroin needle
except with one cruel flaw --
release is immediate
and fleeting
the paradox in physicality,
the shortcoming in sexuality. [read: i could screw myself to sleep all i want, but i would always still wake up and feel crappy the morning after because i wouldn't have you. sleepless dreaming is so much better] | | |
| today i watched two separate dance recitals in a row. after a while the music just sort-of melted away and all i saw was how the dancers executed the choreography. this seventeen-year-old girl did a jazz solo with a chair, slinking around it and sliding down to the floor without any sound at all. she picked herself up off the floor without even using her hands, her muscles working seamlessly to lift her limber body. her costume was cut down to her hips, and when she turned around you could see her shoulderblades and sculpted back pumping in and out to the beat. the nutcracker was the best by far. a dozen girls in jewel toned tutus, all bare legs and arms and long necks and prominent collarbones. they'd glide across the stage and perform perfect pirouettes. circle the leg back, left onto tiptoe, turn around, spot, land with outstretched arms. "lithe" is the perfect description. a word that rolls off the tongue as if it were made for the effortless grace of a ballerina. i'm not anorexic or anything, i just know how to enjoy the subtle art of dance, is all. where other people see pointed toes i see dexterity and suppleness and complete control of one's body. since i worked so hard to achieve it but always came up short, i can appreciate it more than the average mary sunshine. | | |
| please stop talking about your ex-girlfriend.
i know you're stuck on her.
i know you still love her.
please stop flirting with me relentlessly.
i know you don't want anything from me.
i know we're just really great friends and all.
please don't lead me on like everyone else did.
i know i've got this crazy infatuation with you.
i know how bad i am at controlling my "romantic" impulses.
i miss you so much that i can hardly stand it. help, i have done it again. | | |
| life is filled with such juicy, delicious ironies. like the fact that my little sister is in fact taller than me, and meets more cute boys on vacation than i do. or maybe that before my ex-boyfriend was with me, he was with one of my friends and told her that he made a girl orgasm eleven times, and now he's going into the priesthood. that the girl whom i thought i was in love with at one point is now making passes at me and i want nothing to do with her. when i sat and talked with him for hours, he told me that he hadn't been kissed for years, and a week later he started a relationship with someone else. i still maintain that my life's events, when pieced together properly, would make the perfect soap opera script. drama may be the spice of life and all, but it hurts regardless. it's just becoming more and more apparent to me that there's so much that i have to do. i've got to face my fears. i've got to learn to drive. i've got to find someone other than him, or fess up to him and make a commitment. i've got to do something with my life and it scares the shit out of me. i am so afraid to commit, but i missed my chance so awfully last time and i don't want to do that again. the next time someone complains to me that they haven't been kissed, i'm going to grab them by the collar and do something about it. i swear. | | |
| i feel so strange today. restless and really itchy. squicky. like one big muscle spasm waiting to happen. it might be good to sleep, but i couldn't if i wanted to. people are aggravating me but being alone bores me. it's a weird day. i hate how on jared leto's iMDB page, it says " Jared gave up sex for two months when he was preparing for his role as a heroin addict in the movie Requiem for a Dream (2000). He ... denied himself the pleasure of Diaz's bed for two months. Leto admits that playing the part of Harry Goldfarb was "sadomasochistic... the hardest thing I've done". "
you know what, motherfucker? try going without it your whole friggin' life without it, while all of your friends do it. you think it's hard? you think you're masochistic? that's preschool shit.
if i were a fruit fly, i'd be dead by now. what a swell life that would be. on a separate note, apparently my ex-boyfriend hopes that i die from "gonorrhea of the eye".
i guess i had this coming to me, considering the massive number of herpes outbreaks i wished on him and his arm-candy. this is karma coming back to bite me in the ass, i guess -- but it's not a bite, it's really more of a nip. actually, it's kind of a joke. it might even turn me on a little.
maso-maso-masochism. mastur-mastur-masturbation. muscle-muscle-musclespasm. one two three, one two three. somebody find me a microphone and a tambourine. i should really be over this manic depressive arrogant self-righteous teenager bullshit by now. how long are these phases supposed to last? | | |
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