also

the most amazingly funny site ive seen in a while:
http://icanhascheezburger.com/

back in.

sorry that this post is a bit belated, but he and i are back together. i dont feel like explaining it here, or anywhere online. i'm not sure i'd explain it right now anyway. i'm not far enough away for the perspective or understanding that it would take to effectively communicate everything i went through for those three weeks or everything that was said in that late evening when he offered the bracelet back and i cried and pushed him away, and cried and finally took it and tied a shoestring back on his wrist. it's a bit of an open wound at the moment. quite tender, and not ready for the eyes, ears, and judgment of others. this part of me is raw, and held close to my chest; protected from an acidic world.

i love him more than i could begin to tell.
i miss that heavy, comforting feeling of his presence;
like standing beside the ocean with your eyes closed.
like feeling dwarfed by the ground you stand upon.

written sometime in june...

i'm out
it's over
i wish i could forget
after a few days, i was willing to try again.
i hate myself
he won't change
i need him to change.
needed.
i feel so alone now.
all i can remember is the night he held me.
he told me i'd be a wonderful mother.
he told me i was beautiful when i cried.
i cried for happiness.

it doesn't matter that his plans and my plans were once our plans...

the hem had moved from her knee to her hip, with little left to the imagination. she'd thrown up on the sidewalk outside the majestic. the lights were on and her keys locked in the car. we were standing outside the majestic, some smoking, attempting to find a distraction of some sort in the city in which we were strangers. they asked our help. we're not good people, mind you...we just have exceedingly loud consciences at times. she smoked a clove to get the acid taste out of her mouth. i took one and breathed the smoke in through my nose. we sat on the pavement by their car, waiting. they were strange people. perhaps because they were normal...the kind of normal jokes are made about. it was interesting to realize how different my friends and i are. not just different looking...but different. something elementally different from "the world" or "society" if you will. anyway, we stood there, then sat, leaned, and stood again; waiting for the arrival of AAA. We'd lied and said we had been riding with them. Better than them sleeping in the park i suppose.



it doesnt matter than his plans and my plans were once our plans...
i dont believe in being in love anymore.
i believe in pain
and an ache in that red fist
pounding away beneath my breastbone
and wanting to be with someone
when you cant stand them
just to be next to them
i believe in cynicism
sarcasm
and shitty cars,
betrayal
and wanting to believe so badly
that you sell yourself
to people who just want something
to shove their dick in,
or kids who would say yes
to a whatevernumber-some
to be accepted
to be loved.

love is a terrible lie
told by hollywood
there's something so much bigger
than being in love
or in lust.
i'm sick of it

i believe in two people
working hard
not giving up
or giving in
i believe in maturity
and strength
and the confidence i get
around the people
who used to intimidate me.
they are real
i havent seen real
in so long...

a meter strangely similar to mine

I do this thing where I think I'm real sick
but I won't go to the doctor to find out about it
Cause they make you stay real still in a real small space
As they chart up your insides and put them on display.
They'd see all of it, all of me, all of it.

All the good that won't come out of me
and all the stupid lies I hide behind.
It's such a big mistake
lying here in your warm embrace.

Oh, you're almost home.
I've been waiting for you to come in.
Dancing around in your old suits going crazy in your room again.
I think I'll go out an embarrass myself by getting drunk and falling down in
the street.
You say I choose sadness
that it never once has chosen me.
Maybe you're right...

(rilo kiley - the good that wont come out)

his hands were hot on my legs
the wine was dulled by the cigarette smoke
still hanging in my lungs
and throat
the smell of sulfur
and charcoal
lingered in my hair and clothing.
i was the one who looked
naked
in the light from the city below.
i was the one who was
naked
tonight.
and it burned with the sharp
searing
of fire from their fingertips
coaxing her from the machine

if tomorrow i asked you a question, would you answer?
if i asked for a beat or two, would you spare them?
if asked to name you, i couldnt
i'm no good at making things up.
the only thing i'm good at is feeling
the ache, the longing
that twists in my chest
shooting down my arms
to the palms of my hands
and pressing there
painfully
until i press my hands together
completing the circle
creating release
without escape

have i lied to you?
have i misdirected
empathy?

my heart is hard right now.
and far from God.
and this voice inside
says let go
when the longing comes
it says deal with it
when the anger comes
surging, hot on my nerves.
it says stand
do not kneel
and the flood washes around my ankles
stinging bits of sand and shell
cutting my feet
letting the stinging saltwater
bleed into my flesh

i never meant to keep your voice.
and i wonder at the fairness
of losing you
but keeping your criticism
losing your love
and caring
and comfort
while keeping the pain
and overbearing voice
with me.

that which i would wish forgotten
stays
despite repeated tearing
hardening
and distraction
your eyes when you smiled at me
your words that comforted and loved
through my tears and doubt
i wish it all forgotten.

{in your trunk, there was something for you...i dont know if you found it}

mendacity is a system we live in

so that disgust with mendacity is really disgust with myself.

just a few more hours

just a few more days

patience...

currently:

enjoying two very broken people yelling at each other to not be so very broken.

sticky feet from human waste all over the bathroom floor.

an hour and a half and it's still not clean.

emotional breakdown.

cue exhaustion.

what i think i believe, written in the pauses.

how can you see anything if the mirror reflects the mirror?

the truth is there, so sharp. finger pressed firmly against the knife...at the threshold of pain; and knowing. is it better for the blood to run? or for us to be left with the red, raised scratches on our arms...from the back of your head to the base of your shoulders. is it better to bleed under the surface? to bruise or to make a mess of things? yes it gets everywhere...and it's hard to clean up...and it's a bitch even with stain remover.
then again...i've felt a sharp pain before, and it was only nerves twinging.
i wonder how many people understand the minute heart attack and the emptiness of that lost beat when the speakers flicker...even when you're not expecting a call.
what a strange place this is.




yes, i believe in love,
yes, i'm a dreamer.
but i'm not alone
there are more of us than you suspect
and we've got bombs.
truth and beauty bombs.

{i didnt mean what i said...i'm sorry}

something i heard once...or twice

If you hate the taste of wine
Why do you drink it until you’re blind?
And if you swear that there’s no truth and who cares
How come you say it like you’re right?
Why are you scared to dream of god
When it’s salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on

In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground
And all day it seems we’ve been in between the past and future town

We are nowhere, and it’s now
We are nowhere, and it’s now
You took a ten-minute dream in the passengers seat
While the world it was flying by
I haven’t been gone very long
But it feels like a lifetime

I’ve been sleeping so strange at night
Side effects they don’t advertise
I’ve been sleeping so strange
With a head full of pesticide

I got no plans and too much time
I feel to restless to unwind
I’m always lost in thought
As I walk a block to my favourite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned
But she never says a word
Just turns the jukebox on
And we hum along
And I smile back at her

And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur
She says these bars are filled with things that kill
And you probably should have learned

Did you forget that yellow bird?
How could you forget that yellow bird?

She took a small silver wreathe and pinned it onto me
She said this one will bring you love
I don’t know if it’s true but I keep it for good luck

so i just might get addicted to xanga again. you should see the new stuff they've come up with. it puts the new layout thing that blogger/google has to shame. check mine out.

ehiley

Brick: And what is the victory of a cat on a hot tin roof?

Maggie: Just staying on it I guess, long as she can.

fin.

i would really appreciate prayer right now. even just a little one. like right now, every time you read this...just a little prayer for help and for me to be focused on God.

thanks.

i have come to consider that perhaps the lauding of masculinity is the greatest indication of the lack of it.

translation please...

The death, this is the death
but love, this is love
The death, this is only the death
but love, this is love

just a few things...

there are a few lyrics that just seem to say something they never said before.

This is no great illusion;
when I’m with you I’m looking for a ghost or invisible reasons
to fall out of love and run screaming from our home.
__

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
That’s why I’m here on your doorstep,
pleading for you to take me back

And the phone is a fine invention—it allows me to talk endlessly to you,
about nothing, disguising my intentions,
which I’m afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue.
It’s a sleight of hand, a white soul band,
the heart attacks I’m convinced I have
every morning upon waking.
To you I’m a symbol or a monument,
your rite of passage to fulfillment,
but I’m not yours for the taking

But you are what you love,
and not what loves you back.
So I guess that’s why you keep calling me back.

I’m fraudulent, a thief at best,
a coward who paints a bullshit canvas;
things that will never happen to me.

La mort, c'est la mort
mais l'amour, c'est l'amour
La mort, c'est seulement la mort
mais l'amour, c'est l'amour