067; Untitled.

I wrote this in December 2010, but it still holds true.

Lately I've been craving skin, affection, protection, safety, a warm-blooded body next to mine. But I can't, for several reasons, and I feel I might never have anyone. I might never be able to let someone in, let myself go, give in. I feel like there might be some trauma hidden beneath all this skin and neural tissue, in the marrow of my bone, the very core of me.

I have far too many insecurities--I might never be satisfied with myself.

060; That's just me, thinking of you.

You write "there's 'her' and then there's everyone else", and it brings tears to my eyes, makes me nauseous, and my heart flutters. And I think, why? Why do you get to me when no one else does? Why do I even think you're referring to me? WHY? It makes me sick, and I wish this would just stop, I hate you but I love you but I hate you but I love you but I hate you but I need you. You drive me fucking insane, and I hate that you're right, that you will always be right, and I am still your hostage, always will be, can never escape these chains. You came back, and I left. I ditched you because I can't handle rejection, I can't handle these feelings, I can't handle shit. It scares me to fucking death. I left you, and still I feel like you gave up on me. Everything is a contradiction, and I can't make heads or tails of anything.

"But you still feel me like I'm right there at your side."

You told me I was the most difficult woman you ever met.

Fuck.

057; Always.

I told him everything and I hoped that it would hurt. (It must've, I heard him crying.) I read him old journal entries out loud while he held his head in his hands and trembled. I told him about my scars. He kept asking why and when, as if that mattered. I told him I hated him, and he told me I was a bad liar. Minutes dragged on for hours, days. He begged for forgiveness, and I said I needed time. I told him that I'd been waiting for him for eight years and it needed to stop. He told me I hadn't been the only one waiting, and I asked him if he meant it. I told him I didn't know if I could trust him. He told me he'd wait. I told him that if he fucking lied to me, I would make him regret it. He told me he loved me. I told him to give me time.

We still love each other even though it's more like a knife fight.

052; (Falling in love just makes me blue.)

Love is a universal migraine.

I. Tomorrow Is A Long Time, by Bob Dylan.
II. Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down), by Nancy Sinatra.
III. I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You, by Tom Waits.
IV. You Will Miss Me When I Burn, by Palace Brothers.
V. Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown), by The Beatles.
VI. Still Got The Blues, by Gary Moore.
VII. Since I've Been Loving You, by Led Zeppelin.
VIII. Love Her Madly, by The Doors.
IX. Hallelujah, by Leonard Cohen.
X. Ruby Tuesday, by The Rolling Stones.
XI. Kentucky Avenue, by Tom Waits.
XII. It Ain't Me, Babe, by Bob Dylan.
XIII. Say You Love Me, by Fleetwood Mac.
XIV. Wild World, by Cat Stevens.

(Fourteen songs because that's how old I was when I first fell for you.)

040; A promise of a new year.

“I want to taste and glory in each day, and never be afraid to experience pain; and never shut myself up in a numb core of non-feeling, or stop questioning and criticizing life and take the easy way out. To learn and think: to think and live; to live and learn: this always, with new insight, new understanding, and new love.”
—Sylvia Plath

It's a new year and I am not going to fool myself into thinking it's a fresh start because nothing ever is, because the past will always still be there, and there is nothing you can do about it. This past year was a year of self-discovery, of broken glass, of strength, of hopelessness, of dreams, of escape. There were more bad days than good, but without the darkness the light wouldn't have been nearly as bright. I travelled, I met new people and saw new places, and though I always returned, I went somewhere. It might not be much, but it was enough then.

There was a moment when I was in Camden, London and I was sitting down with a couple of friends when this beautiful stranger walked past and I was captivated; I couldn't look away. The stranger noticed, smiled and blew me a kiss, and for a moment, everything was beautiful. It wasn't love or lust or anything; I was just completely floored by the radiance of this person. It felt like I could see their heart glowing. I keep this moment in a box that stays in my secret drawer; a wooden box carved with flowers and words, a box meant only to contain the brightest of things. So far, it doesn't contain much. (Another thing I keep in it is the way I light up whenever he calls me 'jerk'.)

But this I take with me from two-thousand and eleven; that strangers are beautiful, that you should cherish fleeting moments and try not to hold on too long, that if a person makes you smile they are worth keeping around, that it's okay to make mistakes, that it might not be your year but that doesn't mean it's all bad, and that you have to learn to accept yourself, and not try to be someone you're not. Be true to yourself. Trust your heart, and never give up hope.

List of desires:
† Be more myself, and to be okay with that.
† To be open, to show myself vulnerable, to let new light in.
† To lose weight and work out.
† To be happy with myself, if I can.
† A pair of Doc Martens.
† To hang out (and go to Gothenburg) with Layla.
† To dye my hair lilac.
† To read new books, see new places and make new friends.
† To do something, even if it's not much.
† To exist in the best terms I can.
† To dream, to hope, to let go.
† To be in his arms.

(It was also the end of an era.)

003; I would sleep in your shirt, and hibernate away the hurt...

"When I am lonely for boys it's their bodies I miss. I study their hands lifting the cigarettes in the darkness of the movie theaters, the slope of a shoulder, the angle of a hip. Looking at them sideways, I examine them in different lights. My love for them is visual: that is the part of them I would like to possess. Don't move, I think. Stay like that. Let me have that."

— Margaret Atwood

Lately I've been craving closeness and familiarity; red wine haze, silent understanding, warm skin under covers. I'm nostalgic for skin and strong arms, someone to hold me, I need to feel safe. But as soon as I talk about these things, I hate myself for wanting them, for being so pathetic. I don't function in relationships--I lose myself in love, I depend so completely on the other, I crave affection, I stop existing. And in an instant, I'll need to be alone, I'll fight and scream, push the other away, I raise the walls back up. Because I know you will leave, you always do.

But I need an escape, someone to disappear into, a body to hide in, skin to trace with my fingers, freckles and moles to explore, protection from the world.

Songs I've been listening to a lot lately:

† Breathe Me by Sia

† Poison Oak by Bright Eyes

† Ginger by Lovers

† Mr. Gaunt PT 1000 by Soap&Skin

† Baby by Warpaint