My notebooks

My notebooks
“The need to document my insanity is an affliction I have not yet cured myself of...” Lydia Lunch

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

The Incredible Edible Adventures of Kendra and Jane

This morning, after second period had started and they were safely alone, Jane decided she needed to lose weight, and promptly shoved two fingers down her throat in the girl’s bathroom.
It was, of course, Apology Monday. After spending two days straight getting stoned and drunk until four in the morning, Mondays were the days Kendra and Jane spent making amends. They did everything they could to balance out the damage they did on the weekends: getting facials, doing homework, and sometimes eating nothing but fruit and granola in lieu of all the junk they ate on Saturdays and Sundays.

It had been this way for almost a year, after Jane transferred to Kendra’s high school from Saint Anthony’s, a private academy clear across the other side of the state. For over a month, Kendra wondered what this meant for her. Jane was very pretty, the kind of tiny, vulnerable pretty that made guys trip all over themselves, offering to carry her books and walk her to class. The sudden shift in attention threw Kendra off, and for a while she couldn’t help but feel jealous. But after she found Jane hiding in the school computer lab, eating lunch alone, she realized what they both needed was a friend.

Dreamguy

(I wrote this back in high school. Published in the Metro Bridge, February 2001)
(PS Don't judge me to harshly, I was 16 and the rose-colored glasses were still firmly on).

I want him to be nice
And sweet
And to hold me like no one before
I want his smile to prove my safety
And his eyes to prove his love
I want him to be strong
Because I am weak
I want him to be certain
Because I am not
I want him to be positive
Bringing laughter despite my tears
I want his joy to
Let me know he is here
I want to be able
To bear my soul to him
And for him to learn everything it holds
I want him to touch me
And feel the body he now owns
I want him to inhale me
To enjoy me
To drink me
To spend hours learning every inch of
My body an what it is capable of
I want his temper to be
As strong as his mind
But he will be fair
More like the father figure I never had
I want to be able to close my eyes
And lose myself in him
And to fill all my six senses
With his presence
I want him to be the wings
That will help me fly
I want him to always
Challenge me with his mind
I want to be able to trust
My judgement when it comes to him
I want to be with him
And not be afraid of what comes next
But trust him completely
With my all
I want to be able to fill my head
With only images of him and his voice
To be able to kiss
Bite and love him roughly
Or with all the time in the world
But most of all
I want to be his pillar
Like he will be my stepping stone
And to be there when he is sick
And to be his pride when it falls
I want to cry
And laugh
And plead
And dance with him
And share with him what
I know
That is what I want
Most of all.


Friday, August 6, 2010

Today

I caught myself writing a poem today
What do I do? What do I do?
completely out of the blue
What is that? Is that you?
I wrote it down with paper and pen
What do I do? How can this be?
and hid it in my shoe.
My heart has got the best of me.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

time

time does not stop.
it continues past love, past pain, past experience.
a constant reminder of our own mortality with the thumping of our hearts.
you would think that time would have the decency to stop during the most dire situations,
and let us pay some semblance of respect.
let us mourn our loss
let us capture the moment and savor it, taste the reality of the moment, roll it on our tongues and say, " I understand."
but time does not stop.
it's a constant reminder between moon phases
when the leaves turn and the first snow starts to fall.
time is constant,
the one variable that remains the same in this experiment.
even after death time continues.
the body decomposes while time moves on.
And you lay there
forgotten.
our enemy is time.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Me

(old poem from 2006)

I'm the girl who's always late,
waiting at the bus stop
with everything I own strapped to my back.
And sometimes it rains.

I burn my fingers when I cook.
My yellow rice comes out orange and I put ketchup on everything.
Sometimes I pay my bills late.

Often I press ignore when my father calls,
and I always hope its someone else calling,
not you, Dad, because you didn't love me when you should've.
I want someone who can.

I cry when I read sad stories
and laugh to myself when I think no one is watching.
Sometimes I foget myself and talk too much about sex.
I never say the right thing or laugh at the right time.
I don't have the answer and I over react.
But once in a while I get it right.

think of me

Think of me as you wake
and know I'm thinking of you too
for you my body aches
and no one else will do.

Think of me as you wake
yearn, obsess, dream
hunger often ends
but until then, think of me.