October 18th, 1998
Run
It was empty; The road was. As if I were the only one on Earth Who dared to greet the sun. The animals, too, were silent- Too silent And hidden. There were others Besides myself Alive at that hour, Comfortable in their dream worlds; Cotton pajamas and linen sheets, Newspapers, Coffee. They don't know that The stars are still out. Invincible; That's how you feel.
As I pounded the last mile, I watched the ink run off my hands, smearing lusciously until no longer legible. I beat the rain yesterday. I ran until I got sick (I vomited right there in the street). And then I ran some more. The water collecting in large shiny puddles on the wet, dark street were disturbed by my insistent feet. The garish street lights cast an orange glow towards the end of my trek for salvation. I dared god to strike me as he threatened with empty words through flashes of lightning that neither terrified nor inspired me. I cursed the sky until it wept great dollops that fell, fat, against my tired body. I stared without seeing. I didn’t need to see, the raindrops running into my eyes; sweet with sweat. I listened only to the sounds of bitter breath and a song that I would go to great lengths to become or be rid of.
She tried to break through. She tried to cry her weak tears but they were all used up, adding nicely to the liquid pain coming from the sky to my body to the cold, wet pavement slick beneath my feet. And as my body began to scream in pain, I forced so much power and will into my legs that the pains seeped through my shoes and into the asphalt. I run so I don’t fall. I sweat so I don’t cry. I ache so I don’t bleed. Get it? I don’t just run. I am a runner: an elite group of people who push their bodies because they enjoy testing their limits. We are the strong.
October 19, 1998
I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted. I’m sorry I take life so seriously. I’m sorry I take love so seriously. And I can’t remember what your voice sounds like, or your favorite flavor of ice cream, or what it feels like to kiss you, or exactly what shade of blue your eyes are. I forget which songs you played on the piano for me and the words to the “Ugly Pillow” song we wrote together. What kind of pasta did you cook for me?
I miss being in your arms. I miss hearing you wish me sweet dreams. I miss your gorgeous hair, your laughter, and your tears. I even miss you reading your homework to me over the phone. I miss helping you with your stupid, simple Geometry, and talking you to sleep. I miss the sunrises and sunsets. I miss hand spiders. I forget how your name feels on my tongue. I can’t remember holding your hand, or your face, or your body. I’m sorry for being so prudish. I’m sorry for letting you slip through these weak hands. I have too many problems. I shouldn’t have told you.
October 24, 1998
You always smell of cigarettes, leather, and your car. You always hold me the same way. I want the Chris who used to pick me up from school, who used to cook for me, write songs about me, and wake me up at five in the morning to watch the sun rise. I want the man willing to miss a sunset to wipe my tears. He picked out my clothes, told me not to wear make-up, cared when I was upset, and showed up unannounced and kidnapped me for the day. He read my poetry. He gave a damn. I think he has killed you, Chris. Sometimes I still see glimpses of you when certain songs come on the radio. I can sense you when you tell me to have sweet dreams. Every time the phone rings, I think it’s you. Every time I hear a car outside, I think it’s yours. It never is.
October 26, 1998
I’ve never wanted you more than I want you right now. I want to give you the last and only thing I have that is pure. I want you to stay with me so that I'm not just a game. I want you to do whatever you want with me. Anything and everything you want. It took so long for me to trust you that I can’t believe the lies. I have to continue to trust you because the betrayal I would feel if I accepted the truth would be insurmountable.
October 27, 1998
Silence and solitude; purity; night water. I bathe in the waters of your eyes. I bathe in the nightmares of your soul and pour from my nakedness the dream waters that will turn corrupt and dirty on their way down. Bare, whole, and yours. To dream of you and I, and the waters that will cleanse us both. Beautiful waters- tears. Tears burning from your eyes to my flesh. They are the sky to me. They are the sun I see, the air I breathe; from the sky that is yours to the waters that are yours to me. You touch me gently in the rain. You take me, taste me; taste with those eyes. I can see the filthy reflection of mine in yours.
Make me clean. Wash me in the blue-grey waters of your eyes. Pretend it’s your first time and I’ll pretend that it’s not mine. We’ll wash each other in that boiling lake of passion. The sky weeps for us. Your sky is dry now; it is mine that sends rain back down my flesh and through my nakedness, dirty and desecrated, to your hands that touch me take me taste me leave me. Leave me in the silence. In the solitude, caressing my memories.
You are not the refreshing afternoon showers of the summer, but rather the black, pregnant clouds that taunt us from above but give no relief. I wither. This hot naked body of mine grows parched and cracked. I beg for anything- a drop. The precious water will not come. My mouth sticks. I have nothing to sustain me. And then there is silence.
The children of the night rain down; reign down, down upon me as the dreams fall down and the nightmares spring up. I stand in the still waters- the stale, stagnant waters of all that is you, and I drink. I bathe in your silence. If you would just open your eyes and let me drink, you would see the truth. I fear the pieces of me that I see reflected in you and I fear the pieces of you I see reflected in me. But I am yours, so do with me what you wish. Touch me. Be careful with me or at least take your time with the agony. This is the only thing left in me that is pure- I want to enjoy ruining it. I’ve forgotten your lips. I can see myself shimmering in your oceans. My nakedness is covered by the bruises your hands left on my flesh. I see the marks from our lust.
If you close your eyes, you remove my only source of light. When you close your eyes, I cannot see. I am lost without you. Darkness overthrows what once was light. I, once, was the light. Now I shy away from the silver dancing teasingly on the wavelets of your soul; skipping from crest to crest. Shining like tiny sequins on the portrait before me. Distorted figures make for distorted beauty- grotesquely misshapen forms, grinning. Always grinning that same hideous, twisted smile. But I cannot see the ugliness. I am blinded by the light.
I used to be the light, but now I cannot see your light. You’re light. Your portrait. The heavy black clouds rain on the painting and everything runs off the canvas. The light runs. The darkness runs. The ugliness runs, the beauty runs, that smile runs- melting off the canvas onto the ground where I lie. Globs of paint plop into the puddle of filth and grime, destroyed before it could begin. It is running into me, becoming me. I become it. I become the filth and the grime and the ugliness, the darkness that is ‘life without you.’ I grin. The puddle grins. The filth grins. You close your eyes.
October 28, 1998
I was thinking about my quest for love today and I came to a conclusion. Love does not exist for me. I decided that it’s pointless, fruitless, and stupid for me to go on believing these fairy tales. During this ridiculous search I have seen both lust and affection, and I accepted neither because I wanted ‘love.’ Now I look back at all the time I’ve wasted grieving for what does not exist when I could have been having fun. I could have been enjoying what was offered but I was ungrateful and demanded more.
I take everything too seriously. And even at the deepest, truest meaning of romantic love, it still amounts to so little. It is distracting. Why do I fool around with Chris? Because it makes us feel good. What’s wrong with that? Yes, it is lust for him, but so what? Better to have him this way than to not have him at all. I don’t think anyone else goes any deeper than that so what’s the point?
I’m tired of searching for something that does not exist outside of myself. I refuse to let it continue to make me miserable! I’m ready to have fun. I’m ready to mess around. I’m always searching for a deeper meaning to life but I keep forgetting that I’m a teenager. I don’t want to care. I want to be shallow and stupid and happy. I’m here, so I might as well enjoy this life. I mean, it’s not like anything I do is going to further condemn me. Hell is Hell. I hope I have fun.
October 30, 1998
I’m glad it happened like this. I’m glad I skipped school and I’m glad I got caught. I don’t regret messing around with Chris. In fact I enjoyed it maybe a little too much. It’s like I’ve never been touched before. I’m glad I went to rehearsal and lied to Dr. Evil and had tachycardia. I’m glad that my mother and I bitched at each other for two hours. She got out what she needed to say and I didn’t break down or lose it. She put her arms around me and said, “My children are the best thing that ever happened to me.” That’s a sad statement and a lie. Chris used to treat me with love but now he just wants to fuck me- and that’s all it would be. A fuck. It wouldn’t mean anything to him. It had been so long since I had kissed him. My god, he’s so beautiful. We’re so beautiful together. He strips away the ugliness clinging to me. If only I could forget him.
November 2, 1998
I think of how he used to touch my face; cradling it in his hands. He would tell me I was beautiful. So carefully, he traced my lips and whispered his love like he would break it if he said it any louder. I believed that they were soft, careful hands.
November 3, 1998
It aches less (my broken heart). I feel empty. I want you to take me in those arms one last time and never let go. I didn’t mean to die. It was murder. And I never want to see you again. I don’t want you to kiss me or look at me or even think about me. If only I could forget what it was like to be with you. How you cradled my face in those strong, careful hands, and held me with your eyes- hypnotized and paralyzed. I believed every word that you spoke, not because they were true but because they came from your lips. If I could forget the lies I want to believe. Forget your face.
November 4, 1998
I am discovering power. I can give someone emotional or physical pain simply by willing it. The forces of the universe must be more sensitive to power of the great than to the suffering of the low. Your hand is my hand. I took it from you because you were not guarding it well enough. You are mine. This new ability intoxicates me. Sink, sink down into your chair and check behind you. I must continue to hone my skills. Right now it works only through intense hostility or unconditional love. I must exercise and develop it until I can perform at will. I think I can put vague images and ideas into their heads too but that takes more concentration. It is a lot of fun to mess with the feeble, pathetic minds of those around me. I see you. I see it all. I look back at my emotions. There is no place for weakness here.
November 6, 1998
I wish I knew exactly where he stood with god. I don’t want to get in the way. Wow. I remember when I wouldn’t even consider dating someone who wasn’t a “strong Christian.” I was strong. I thought I was strong. But no matter what I did, did not, or pretended to do, I was living a lie. Those walls fell down and I have over thirty scars to prove it. I wanted to be the (stereo-) typical Christian who is happy and perfect in god’s work.
In reality, I was bleeding. I was dying. Christianity DESTROYED me. All these people were telling me that god saves, god heals, et cetera and he couldn’t even help me. No- he chose not to help me. He abandoned me. God, if you’re out there somewhere, please don’t betray Chris or Johnny like you betrayed me. Don’t hurt them. Don’t leave them. I’m required to pretend that I’m something I’m not, but I refuse to give thanks to god for the blessings in my life and then not hold him accountable for the curses. It goes both ways.
November 7, 1998
This stick is beautiful; stripped of its an-aesthetic protection. It is completely naked, tender, green, clean, and still somehow whole. It bends without breaking. It sits in its most gracious state; strong, slender, smooth and white. We all break. I could be beautiful. My left side is beautiful so I must find a way to become her. I must find a way to live forever and to stay strong. To bend always and never turn brown and ugly and brittle. I must find a way to remain young. Love with reckless abandon. Scar.
November 8, 1998
At 9:12 this evening, I realized that no one understands how depressed I am. It’s not that they don’t care; they really don’t know the severity of the situation. My father uses the terms down, sad, and depressed interchangeably. I don’t think you can understand being suicidal unless you’ve experienced it. How do you explain something like that? It’s like an amputee trying to describe his loss to people who are whole. The months-long periods of depression I experience are incomparable to anything else. They don’t understand that it is not triggered by conflicts and external factors; I look to external factors to blame, which helps. Sometimes I create them just so there’s an identifiable problem instead of wanting to die for no reason. After February all Hell breaks loose. Or rather, the spring rips me from my contentment and drags me into Hell where I bide my time with great pain and suffering. Who understands that? And thank god that they don’t. It’s easier now that I understand that it’s not because no one cares; it’s because no one knows.
November 9, 1998
I hear your song. I sing it. I sing it even as my lungs reject it and I feel your eyes slide over me. My lips protest in rhythm with your hands peeling away my clothes. Every fiber in my body yearns for you and the last shreds of my soul go wantonly toward you. I know that when I fall into your arms, I fall. I fall and fall and fall and fall. I discard reality and pursue my fantasies. Sing the song that destroys me; that pushes me over the edge. You know you are killing me. Murderer. You play on.
November 10, 1998
Actions, words, looks, souls, and all that is not a being, but has a being-ness is beautiful. Beautiful things rub off on us; that is what ‘inspiration’ is. Last night, something reached into my heart and took something from me. I got this weird feeling where I wanted to scream and cry and shout just for the sake of doing it. To be a part of the Song, I guess. It borrowed my soul, and just as it has become a piece of me, everyone who hears it also collects a toll. A toll. We must all pay at some time or another. It was a sweet, graceful, enjoyable sort of pain. Today I am going to pick something else beautiful to become. I must have been at some point.
November 11, 1998
I’ve finally figured out that the only thing I’m good for is sex. So be it. More fun for everyone. No guilt and no regret.
“Only flirt with those you intend to refuse; then you develop a reputation for invincibility, whilst slipping safely away with the lover of your choice. A poor choice is less obvious than a dangerous choice. Always make sure they think they’re the only one. Win or die.”
- A Lesson from Aloes
It’s like, now that I’ve lost, I can finally win. You can win so much more when you’ve already given in. If you want to play games, then let’s play games. For so long I’ve begged you to stop playing. I hate the silence. And I believe her. And I believe Raven, and am grateful to him for his bravery. As for you… I have no words. I stay with you because, now, there’s no way you can hurt me. Not after this.
November 12, 1998
I am ashamed at my inability to enjoy life. It is humiliating to be the way that I am and to feel the way I feel. There’s supposed to be so much joy and fulfillment out there, and I’m supposed to have fun and enjoy life. It is disgusting to me that I don’t- that I can’t. I have no reason to be upset about anything and yet still the pain comes. I fight it as well as I can but it is never enough. It mortifies me that I’m not strong enough to do it myself and that I have to go running to you. I am ashamed of my scars. I am ashamed of the rest of me that is not yet scarred. And then, with one last, pathetic, final effort my heart gives its closing argument in a flash of passion.
November 13, 1998
I felt it die. I felt my heart sputter and die. We take for granted its consistent beat. I submit to Hell; a whipping post for the gods. Jesus Christ, what have I done to deserve such a sentence? I feel nothing but hate for god now. A new hate. A hate bred not from anger but from pain. Hate is merely wounded love. I bleed. Until it clots. Until it scabs and leaves a rude, ugly scar. I am branded for life like a runaway slave. Everyone will know my sin. They will see them and know that I am damned and should be treated with disdain. The degree of rage- of pitiful fury, so pathetic and delusional; all I can feel. All I can know. I am damned to a life of beauty and passion that cannot be had without penance.
November 14, 1998
To My Youth Group Pastor
I am disappointed in the way my prayer request was handled. It wasn’t even a request; I just had a different interpretation of the Word than you did. The potter who creates a decorative vase has every right to throw garbage into it. That’s Romans 9:21. I understand your concern but there is a reason it was anonymous. I trusted that I could make it clear that something is not right between god and me without having it broadcast to the entire youth group, however tactfully or well-meaning. It saddens me that I no longer have faith in the confidence of the church. You knew who wrote it. I knew you would. You should have come straight to me and asked me. I realize that my father came forward from the crowd of parents after it was mentioned and I was furious when he confronted me. However, I’ve given myself time to think about it. There will never be another chance for this to happen, ever again.
November 15, 1998
Just being here, listening to these hymns; it makes me so bitter. I am not Your child. You deserted me! You left me! Through the tears He stands, silently; my thin, accusing finger extended towards the Savior of Man.
Stark beauty, seeping from the warm Earth to embrace the forest in arms that are not comforting. A forest. I speed through the twilight, stalking my prey like a vampire en rage. I give you five seconds; now RUN. Faster than the tree shadows cast down by the moon, you cannot see me. But I see you. Oh yes; beyond seeing- I penetrate the weak fibers of your soul and tear them away. I take you apart as a child removes the thin foil wrapper from a piece of candy. I relish it. It is nothing for me. You are nothing to me. I shift from molecule to molecule in the air. I am the frostbite that eats at your fingertips. You know this. And you know there is nothing you could do to stop me.
November 17, 1998
Chris looks really good today but I’m having an ugly day so I’m going to try to avoid him. You know- those days you wake up and see yourself in the mirror, and just think, “Damn I’m ugly.” I didn’t wash my hair last night so I feel greasy and disgusting, and I’m breaking out. Even worse: the new district superintendent wants us to wear uniforms! Us! As in the arts high school, the school famous for not having a dress code or ‘behavioral problems’ that supposedly accompany that kind of freedom of personal expression.
When I first got here I was shocked at the freedom we were allotted, and in return, the respect with which everyone treated the school and faculty. We have no graffiti- we have brilliant murals, no fist fights (except those two cafeteria ladies who got into it). Our only real problem is drugs and I don’t see them bringing in dogs. We have the freedom to be who we are and it is not taken for granted, nor is it misused. We can say what we want, dress how we please, color and style our hair however we wish, and we have remained reasonable, dedicated young artists.
What is unreasonable is the fact that I got detention for having fringes on the part of my pants that I step on when I walk because my legs are so damn short. There are kids in school who are dealing heroin and we’re talking about uniforms?! That freedom is part of why I attend this particular school. I would love to show up to school in flip-flops and cutoffs and have the teacher just be happy that I showed up. Does it really matter what I wear?
And they give all the girls this patriarchic bullshit about “tempting” the boys with our exposed shoulders. Give me a fucking break. They do have power over their penises, you know. It doesn’t work like a divining rod, leading them all over the place to girls with questionable morals. Women are not responsible for the stupid shit that men do all the time. Maybe people should start teaching their little boys self-control and respect for the opposite sex instead of how to avoid sinful, tempting women. Besides, half the guys here are gay.
Then we get this ridiculous “Well, in the real world” bullshit. This is an arts school and the majority of the students here plan to make a living out of the arts. Now, just in case you’ve forgotten: dancers walk around in leotards and tights. Actors wear sweatpants and tank tops (or leotards) every day for rehearsals and movement classes. Visual artists can wear whatever they want because they always work for themselves and it’s basically the same with writers. If you want to enforce ‘real life’ dress codes, put the vocalists and instrumentalists in tuxedos all day. If you’re going to give us this ‘reality’ bullshit then you had better be prepared to give us every right that adults enjoy. Just because our dress code is noticeably slack compared to other high schools doesn’t mean we dress inappropriately; it’s simply more convenient not to have to change clothes three times a day.
November 18, 1998
Stress; distress, of an ugly life. A life without love. No air. Rather, to drown in your own personal version of hope until it, too, suffocates and dies. Of an ugly mind, corrupted and filthy with truths wrenched into perversity. Of an ugly girl; self-esteem rotted away into conceit, which falls off like the skin of a snake. Only it reveals no virtue or beauty. Nothing- just a snake. Pretend you don’t see her.
November 24, 1998
How I’ve longed to wake up to your voice; your touch. As I lay naked in your arms, I realized my fantasy has become my reality. My virginity partially unfolded. You have been too much for me in all manners of speaking. I felt so whole and so safe in those arms that hold me and will eventually break me. I will coax love out of you.
November 25, 1998
To Joy Thomas
I remember that note you wrote last year to warn me; begging me to never do it again. Thank you for trying. I always felt so angry at myself for not taking heed to what you told me. Pride disappears when you think removing it will save someone’s life. I found myself doing the same thing the other day. I told her to be careful and she blew it off just like I did. I knew she would ignore me but I had to try. So I showed her my scars. It frightened her, that was clear, but I knew she could become an addict. She cried. I know it upset her but I hope she remembers it the next time she reaches for a razor. I hope she will not regret not listening to me just as I regret not listening to you.
Thank you for trying. Nothing I’ve ever done has fucked up my life as badly as this has. It will haunt me forever. I tried to be a shining example of Christianity but I am so angry with god that I cannot continue on with the façade. Please don’t look to me as an example. There are plenty of people out there who are. I thought I was strong enough but I failed. I apologize for the fact that you had to watch me fall. I should have said this a long time ago, but better late than never, right? It’s nice to know that I’m not alone in all this.
November 29, 1998
It’s coming. I can feel it coming; this… melancholy. The utter inability to feel any version of physical or psychological pleasure. I cannot taste my food. My eyes are dying. And I don’t want to go with it. I won’t go with it. I don’t want to be empty. My heart is still and quiet in my chest. Oh god, and I KNOW! I know what’s coming and the irrationality of it all angers and embarrasses me.
No, I will not go with it. If it’s going to take me, it’s going to have to drag me kicking and screaming because I refuse to do this. I will fight this accursed brain that throws me into Hell at random. I refuse to accept this as my lot in life. If god won’t heal me, I’ll fight it. I will fight him. I will fight the god of all that is good and right in the universe- the god of all that is evil and corrupt. Both sides of the universe turn their backs on me; so be it. But I will not live in misery because of some damned chemical in my brain. It’s an injustice to myself and to those around me.
It is humiliating. What kind of freak does this, anyhow? I will not sacrifice my happiness to this ridiculous disease. “Disease;” isn’t that a lovely way of putting it? It makes it sound so clean and pitiful and acceptable. “Disorder” is a better term. I’m stronger than this. And though I’ve failed before, it is worth trying again. Even if I can’t kick this thing’s ass, I can still get a few good licks in.
I’m not going down. No, not this time. Maybe my parents are right. Maybe I do just need an ‘attitude adjustment.’ And yet, even as I write these words I feel it ignoring my resolution and seeping slowly through my veins. It doesn’t care what I think. I can’t afford to hope for healing when it is going to be stripped away by a cold and uncaring god. This is not the way it’s supposed to be.
November 30, 1998
Why can’t I just hate you? I have a million reasons to: you don’t treat me the same at school as you do on the weekends, you kiss your female friends on the lips in front of me to provoke me, you play games with my head, and you say awful things to me just to see me cry because it pleases you. Somehow, that is not enough. I feel so ugly; not just ugly… but ugly. You don’t appreciate my love. And if my will could take back those words- oh that they would.
This rage is not a part of me that you want to see. I don’t take anger well. You tell me the awful things that other people say about me, so that must be what you think of me. Sometimes you talk about marrying me. You say that I am the type of girl you marry, not the type you date in high school. Other times, you talk about our inevitable end. You say your words and try so hard to bullshit me but they give me no comfort. There is something wrong, dear, when I find no comfort in you. I don’t love you; I fear you. What cold and awful truths.
Later:
I have to write an essay to switch majors from music to acting to submit with my audition. I’m going to say that I want to be able to give more than just my voice. You give the audience everything you have as an actor- you give the audience everything you are- everything that you are is not enough. I don’t think I will grow in the music department. The theatre faculty always made us feel valid. You respected us and our talent, and in turn, we respect you- that kind of thing.
And that’s a lie. I’m leaving because once I had this incredible hope in music and I had to sit here and watch it die out of my life. My passion is gone. I have no desire to sing for myself or for anyone else. I haven’t touched my piano in weeks. If I stay where I am, I am being forced to live with a carcass; the rotting, filthy carcass of what was once the only beauty and truth in my life. That which was gold is now dirt. What was wine is urine. What was once a castle is now a stinking pile of shit. I cannot stand by and watch it rot. My sanity flickers. I cannot tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
I lived for music. It was my first thought when I awoke and what I dreamed about all night. It is such an intrinsic part of me that I don’t even write about it. I think of music as I think of my shoulder-blade or femur. When I couldn’t sing or play, I listened to music constantly (literally or just in my head). I remember every word to every song I have actually learned- in English and nine other languages. Now I cannot bear to hear a chorale on the radio. The garden is cold and silent. We sleep, blooming secretly beneath our protective death. Preparing, dreaming- so much hiding within our frozen shells, waiting for the spring.
December 1, 1998
Where are you? The man I saw on Saturday was not the Chris Miller that I fell in love with. The terrible things that you said to me were not your words. I hope they were not your words. It frightened me to writhe under your eyes as you said things just to see me cry. You say you can’t afford to love me. You say you’re so confused that you can’t say you love me because you don’t know what love is. You say I don’t love you. You say I don’t know you.
I don’t know if I should be cautious, reckless, or just keep my mouth shut and let you think what you think. Sometimes I wonder if you have any idea how much you’ve hurt me trying not to hurt me. Just live. Just love and stop trying to reason with your heart. When I lie in your arms I can hear your heart beating. It calls to me.
And maybe you’re right: maybe I don’t love you. Maybe I’m too young to know what love is and what I feel for you is really just an intense affection. Perhaps I don’t want you but rather the feeling I have when I’m with you. Maybe what I feel is actually a benign form of hate that I can’t recognize. It is possible that we could hate each other but we’re so overcome by the hating that we can’t tell. Maybe you’re a terrible, terrible person and I never wanted to be with you in the first place. Do you want to be right? What if you’re right?
December 2, 1998
Laugh; they laugh. I watch them and I hate the laughing; spinning, circling laughing. White sharp teeth, sharp tongues, I hate the laughing. Grudges against god- I made my apology. Justice. Justification. MURDERER. Where is my stage? Where did everyone go? I can see them but I am not with them. Null set; too much alike. Learn your lessons well. No one really knows what the fuck is going on or why they’re here.
December 4, 1998
Come fog, come Night, come all-consuming darkness to take the pain away. Come and hide my shameful face. I’m so lost and I can’t walk these streets, these lonely barren streets without you. Everything is damp with the night cloud from the heavens kissing the earth so gently. Swathing all that is light in dense, wet grey. I walk, pushing through. I cannot see what is ahead of me. It’s like breathing under water; drowning drop by drop, molecule by molecule. The air is heavy feathery; sticky. It clings to me and now I am wet too. It sticks to my face like I’m walking through cobwebs.
The water clings. It clings and tugs and pulls so hard I’m scared that my skin will come right off. It tries to get inside of me. I’m so scared. So I walk. Step step step one step at a time to get away from it. Not home, just away. The dampness hesitates. The moon glances down at me, step step step, coldly watching. I tremble. Wipe away a layer of water on my forearm. It stays.
I wipe again. The moon stares. I scrape, furiously. I claw and scratch, and yet still it remains. So I take off my skin. I rip my skin off. The moon laughs. I curse as the water attaches itself directly to my soul. And it’s so bright. I have to squint to see clearly. The moon smiles. Coldly. I search the ink-black; eye-black; soul-black sky. The moon is so bright that I cannot see the stars.
The moon blinks. It sneers. Everything is glazed with silver, like day without color. The moon growls. I walk fast. It snarls- big steps. Double steps. The sky shrinks as the road grows so long and so wide that I can’t see it all at once. I run. Stepstepstep faster. The fog on me, the fear in me, grabbing and clutching at me. The thick smoke reaches out for my ankles. Run. I fall. The moon disappears. The streetlamps disappear. The fog- the fog. The street disappears.
I stop. I touch my skin. I touch the lack of skin. I touch the skin that is gone and the muscle that is gone- touch, touch, try to touch beyond the skin muscle bone all the way down to my soul. All that is left there is the fear. I do not move. I do not breathe in the darkness that is not darkness because that would imply that there was somewhere that was not darkness. There is no light. It is blackness; nothingness.
And then, slowly, it all comes back. There is the moon, taking its place in the newly existing sky. A street forms to reflect the darkness. It is not the same moon. It is not the same street. It is not me as I reappear on the asphalt, piece by piece. I have skin, again. I am alone. There is no presence; just matter. The moon exists only as a moon.
I am still on the ground where I had Fallen. So I stand. The fog is gone and I wish it were back because now I can see. There is blood from where the gravel tore into my hands and knees, and I can see the end. Behind me is a wall of fog. To my left, fog, and to my right. Fog. I am alone. I shiver and search for the moon- the moon that is dying. The moon that dies… now.
As the sun pulls itself up onto the edge of the horizon, dripping its filthy colors all over the landscape, I look ahead. At the end. And I crawl. Scrap scrape scrape; I crawl toward it.
December 5, 1998
I don’t know what I think. I love him. And I’d rather be used by him than not have him at all. That’s why I haven’t said anything. He’s so fickle and quick to anger that I’m scared to say something.
December 6, 1998
So this is it. I have this tiny little secret hope that you will drop by and my parents will tell you I’m at Shelly’s and you’ll find me here with my journal and we’ll go to the beach and you’ll kiss me just like you used to. I know it will never happen. I know that it can never be the same as before. How am I supposed to do this? Everywhere I go I see your face and hear your voice. How did I let this happen?
It makes it worse to know that you love me but want to get a few fucks in before you commit. The waiting. I promised I would wait if you promised you would come back. As long as this ring is on my finger I am yours for the taking. The days run into weeks- faceless time that is not Saturday or December but just time I’ve spent without you. They are of no value to me so why should I differentiate? I lived without you before. So why is it so hard to do it again? There is a very attractive young man at the table across the room but he does not move me.
I should have told you I would not wait so that I wouldn’t be dangling from this thread. There would be no dragging out the pain; just a swift, clean cut. It would have been easier if we had broken up as enemies, but even though we’re not together, we are still lovers. I hate waking up and seeing the sun. I hate going places because wherever I go, I go alone. It’s just how I live my life. The majority of my life is centered around fear and yet it has not protected me one bit. I’m tired of being a coward. I’m doing the same thing you are! I am hiding from what is good in life. I really have nothing to lose. It’s kind of liberating. I have no god. I have no passion. My lover is gone and I have nothing. So I’m sitting here at the coffee shop, grinning like an idiot and laughing under my breath like a lunatic. Freedom.
December 8, 1998
Death is the answer to all that is desecrated and painful in life. It is the purest thing a man could be part of.
December 10, 1998
You played that song for me. Well, not really for me; for yourself. I wish these arms could give you comfort but there is no comfort here. Or that there was some word I could speak that would give you hope again, but there is no hope here. I mean, who am I? What a weird question. It would be more accurate to ask what I am, to which I would reply: I am all there is to be, just like everyone else. I’m grateful, bitter, brave, cowardly, cold, affectionate, modest, conceited, kind, cruel, cynical, trusting, good, evil, extroverted, introverted, soft, hard, emotional, intellectual, trustworthy, manipulative, naïve, cynical, secretive, open, generous, stingy, popular, strange, and so on unto infinity. Limitless.
You think it would be easy to live a life of love, beauty and happiness, but it’s not; not when it fucks you raw every chance it gets it’s not. It’s not hard to victimize yourself. It’s not hard to hurt people. It’s not hard to let yourself become so absorbed in vengeance of those crimes committed against you that you lose all compassion. I would think it would be clear how easy it is to kill yourself and everyone around you. To abandon your humanity in exchange for protection from pain. To sell your soul in exchange for a vacuum. It’s not hard.
December 14, 1998
We’re there under the stars; so many ‘cuz the moon isn’t out tonight. We’re there in the sky and we are stars. Burning up so fast. And there’s pain and sand and blood and you, everywhere. “I’m sorry it wasn’t how you wanted it to be,” you said. “It was with you; that’s how I wanted it to be.” You say I’m beautiful. I say I love you. You say you love me. Your love makes me beautiful- nothing else. It ended where it began. The first time we kissed and the first time we made love, both on the beach. Same place. Same people.
I went home and washed it all away. I lay there under streams of hot water, reluctant to wash off your scent. I rid myself of hope for days to come. Wash away the pain and the sand and the blood. I know you’re watching me. A promise. And there are, truly, no regrets. Love really does exist in me, for me. For you. And I will wait. There was so much finality in it that I think I can actually live the rest of my life.
Try to wash. Wash away all the thousands of tears that have fallen from me to you, because of you. I think of your wounds- so deep. And I think of mine- so many. And I have to cry. I will be here when you get back, though I know you’re just changing and not leaving. And I try to wash away the scars. The stars. We were stars- hot. Two hot black holes. We won’t wash away. We will never wash away. I love you. And I chain those words to these pages until you want to hear them again.
December 15, 1998
PASSION? NO PASSION?! What the fuck do you know about passion? Do you have a reason to wake up every morning? Then you know nothing about passion, because passion is finding a reason when there isn’t one. I love music; it is the only thing I love that hasn’t betrayed me until now. And I won’t let it. I can’t or I’ll die. That is why I’m leaving the vocal department. I can’t afford to let this hurt me so I’m getting out before it has the chance. I live for my art! Passion is giving up what you love the most for the sake of that which you love the most. I died for my art. The twisted words that sprang from your mouth are the most blasphemous, damnable words- the dirtiest lies I have ever heard. How dare you.
December 19, 1998
I want to love like I could never even begin to figure it out. I want to believe in it. I want to feel; feel because I’m used to being so very numb. So god awfully inhumanly numb. I stand, looking at the place in the sand where we first made love. And I know why I wanted to pay two days later- because I enjoyed it without guilt.
I was scared because I wasn’t scared. I didn’t feel bad, or remorseful, or sinful. The Bible says that our conscience is our guide in life and to follow it. Well my conscience is telling me that this is my soul mate. I still don’t regret it. How can something I’ve been taught my whole life is wrong feel so intrinsic and right?
I want you to know that I know everything about you that is essentially good and everything that is essentially evil. I still love you. It is important to me that you are whole and happy and that you deal with it in whatever way you need to. My virginity is the greatest gift I could think of. Yes it hurt, and I did get torn up pretty bad, but I’m glad I did it. I want to do it again. Yes, I wish it lasted longer and that I came but for my first time, I don’t think being under the stars on the beach on a cold winter’s night is too shabby. That’s pretty romantic. Yet, there is still a small part of me that insists it was dirty. I refuse to let that part of myself continue to control my life. This tiny, insignificant voice in my head would rather me abandon all human connection, permanently scar myself, and make me ashamed of this beautiful body I’ve been given than enjoy a moment of passion.
What a perfect ending. Sex has such finality to it; I’d always thought of it as being the beginning of something. I couldn’t have written it better. What taught us to be ashamed? I love your body. I’m tired of hating my body. I’ve been starving and running it into the ground for years. I’m tired of pretending to hate yours. You want me to see other people so that you can see other people. I hope it occurs to you that I can’t. I can’t get intimate with any other man because he will see the scars and he will Know. Not everyone is going to be as accepting of them as you are.
I love you so much that I’m willing to give up the romance until you are ready. I’m going into this knowing that you are going to be with other women; knowing that you are going to touch them like you touch me; that they are going to do whatever you want, and that I have to let you do it in order to keep you. I believe that someday you will be ready. I want to give you every pleasure known to man and I want to experience every pleasure known to woman. I want to live and love, and I want you to be able to do the same.
December 21, 1998
There is nothing to do on winter break, which is frustrating and suitable for my situation. There’s nothing around to light on fire. It’s been such a long time since I cared about anything at all. To think of all the wishes I’ve wasted… After a while, you just stop wishing. You give up and just wait to see what’s going to happen. So go to sleep and dream of beautiful things. None of this is important.
January 1, 1999
Have I really been on Earth for so long? I resolve to enjoy being, enjoy others, and to lighten up. When I start to get pissy, I’m simply going to remind myself that I am the one who continues to live and that I have a choice in the matter. I would also like to be, at least, semi-human, and I resolve not to wear purple because I don’t own anything purple and it’s good to have one in the bag. I think that’s pretty good. I would’ve added running in there too but that’s not something I need to resolve to do. I do that anyhow. Running should not be something you force yourself to do- you should look forward to it. Oh, and I’m going to party… like it’s 1999.
January 4, 1999
How do you love me? Let me count the ways…
“Only on the weekends.”
“Sometimes.”
“When your parents are out of town.”
“When you’re naked.”
A lot of truth is said in jest. Maybe we’re both just good for sex. Our love thing is broken. I do believe what you tell me. For instance, I do believe that you only love me sometimes; when it’s easy, or the wind is right or whatever. That is not love. But I believe that you think it is. I wonder what is going on in your heart. I can’t live in the past. I can’t live like I have wounds. I have scars- and that’s different.
January 6, 1999
I allowed it to happen. I KNEW it would. When I met you I knew it would happen. I should have protected myself. I regret allowing myself to love you and saying it out loud and writing it down so that I can’t look back in retrospect and say “I didn’t love him- I was just a stupid kid.” I knew you would, and I knew I would hate her for it but still love you. My chest feels as though it’s going to collapse but it is only containing my tears. I want to scream and rant and sob, YOU WANT TO GO FUCK A SLUT THEN FUCK ME!
I am a slut for you. I’m your little slut and I love it. If I didn’t love you I wouldn’t be so upset. This is not mere humiliation at being rejected. I can’t save us. If you want her then you deserve her. I hope you date her so that you can see how selfish and petty and mean and totally unoriginal she is. But I still love you, it just hurts it hurts like Hell it hurts.
The heart can only break so many times. After a while you can’t put it back together. It’s too shattered when all the little tiny pieces get caught in the floorboards and get crushed underfoot. I love you more than love, more than life, more than air or the night or food. You never loved me. You used me and fucked me- yes, Chris, you fucked the Hell out of me and it was great. I allowed all of this to happen.
January 16, 1999
So, tell me, Chris. Tell me about it. Tell me about ‘us.’ Tell me how you’re not like all the others. Either you are lying to me or to half a dozen people. Tell me how it’s easier to keep up with six than to keep up with one. I have to hear it from your mouth. I have to hear those vicious words float so delicately from your mouth of sweet poison; the mouth that I drank from so often. So greedily. So thirstily. And I refuse to give you the mercy of hating you. I love the poison so slowly and steadily creeping through my veins. I watch as my body begins to die the painful death you have given me.
It courses through my flesh. My hands grow numb. I cannot see. I cannot speak. Crippled, I sink into despair and vomit until my blood, my black tar blood spills out, documenting my astral agony. You reach my heart- the hemlock tightening its grip around it; biting down, hard. Draining me; sucking me dry. And somewhere deep within my chest, my heart gives one last desperate squeeze so that it can once more taste the sweetness of your venom. And I love it.
January 17, 1999
A Copy of a Letter from my Mother
“A moment doesn’t go by during the day that I don’t think of you and what you are going through. What has happened? I thought you were my child who was going to be so self-confident and not subject to the darkness. You were the one I never worried about, because you were strong. Now I see that I was wrong and that you really needed us. I want to rescue you, but know that you have to help yourself. It is so hard for me to understand how a child who has so much can be going through this. Real pain is when you watch your father die in your arms. Real depression comes when your mother tells you that, “You killed your father.” So you see, I am having a hard time understanding your problem when you have a family that loves you. How can you see things so negatively? I had to start with setting goals and not letting people defeat me. I rose up and became stronger. You have a little sister who is watching every move and looks up to you so much. I am angry at you for this. Our whole family is suffering. We’re walking on eggshells trying to help you. When will you begin to help yourself? Why do you want to go to a doctor and be labeled for life? What kinds of people are influencing you? Sometimes just the fact that the sun came up is the best part of the day. That’s the way it is. Sometimes I want to run away so that I don’t have to feel pain, anymore, but I don’t. I have had to learn coping skills. You have to learn them, too. You are tearing us apart and I want you well!”
My response:
You will find me dead, one day,
Filthy with my own blood.
January 20, 1999
Special thanks to Raven: the only one who had the courage to tell me the truth. If it had been anyone but your very best friend, I would have dismissed it as hearsay. You yourself said he knows you better than you do. And don’t worry- it didn’t hurt my feelings. I can’t feel anything at all.