the delusion

well look at these

photos. this was the

week where I felt

so fat that I wore the

same blue sweatshirt

every day and to

parties. i told him

“this is the sweatshirt

I wear when I feel

too ugly to wear anything

else.” it took a LONG

LONG time for him

to draw any significance

from moments like this.

conversely i look rather

pretty in these photos

and,

as to the "stealing" of friends, it was

not your fault but hers. one of those

glittering impervious people who acts like

all's equal, pats you while you cry, saves

perhaps so much as your very life and then

this is not the same as being friends

(to her). won't meet your eyes in a hallway. just

another reason not to trust people who

never look bad. or anyone. forgive me for

not being a fake fucking liar who could

act like this doesn't upset me.

A Letter Back To A Friend

I can’t feel happy for people. It’s true.

I am anxious and self-conscious. I am no actress and I have no grace. I have on occasion been treated poorly by people and took it too hard.

It follows: I am self pitying. You are brave and brutal. Like a day with a strong wind, you inflicted yourself into my life. We live together, but not, “Together.” I never know who is keeping whom at arm’s length. You never thank me.

I am sorry for following you in your escape. I am sorry (for myself) that you think you’ll be the one avoiding me; I’ll pretend not to know you if you want. But do you want me gone or don’t you? I stay here and you run away with skinnier people with shinier hair, who are not so drunk and not so pitiful as me. I leave, and you look hurt.

I hate that I can’t feel happy for people. But I can’t. I am mean and brittle. Like you, I’ve never had any money for things that I want. Like you, I’ve hewn a life out of rocks and I don’t always like what I’ve got. I am stingy. I cling to the things that are mine. I always believe that this number is small. I resent all the things that are not mine.

“At least I’ve got you,” I said to him. I curved into his stomach. He loves me. I could say I am just lucky, but you don’t see this in yourself either. Is this not the result of putting myself out there. Is this not the result of my willingness to look stupid. Your boys don’t love you, because you won’t admit that you might need them. Like me, they know when they’re not wanted. Which is the same as not knowing that they’re wanted. Your glasses may be heart shaped but this is not the equivalent of your heart.

version one

grumpy little boy goes to
bed without saying good
night properly and little girl
gets a stomachache and then
has a slow cigarette even
though the clear air tastes
better. something about the twist of
hips that she’s trying to bury
completely and crush with the
trowel. life-preserver lipstick
is an exaggeration she likes
to cling to. grumpy boy will
wake up and forget to brush
his hair and forget to send any
messages to the girl who will
decide he doesn’t love her. they’re really
just people.

monday morning, influenza

i'm a little tired of

viruses, the dirty things

that pass between

people. i'll swallow

my sneeze to help out but

you should have stayed

home. i think we're trying

hard enough already.

don't you know these doors

are too heavy for

girls who don't eat breakfast?

dormitory diary

...the thing I want most is

to crawl into his

sweatshirt so I am inside it and

pressed against his warm

chest. When I am at school it

seems like I can

never really get warm. It

can take hours for my feet to

get feeling back. My heater works, but

it’s next to the window that

doesn’t properly close. The

showers can never quite get

up to a hot enough

temperature, but one that is

frustratingly close...

my dry hands

what am I going to do? Well:

I’m not finished. So I guess I’m

going to do whatever the

opposite of being finished is.

Like hearing the water

under the grate and

just not knowing where

to go to find it.

But I can cut across the

grass now. Like everything else

I thought would never happen.