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.

046; You make me break all my rules.

I'm tired; of the past I can't leave behind, of all this back and forth, of the way you act, of how you make me feel, of my insecurities and my sudden mood swings (one day I'm afraid I'll give myself whiplash.) All I want is to lay in your arms, your body surrounding me--a safe haven, somewhere to rest, and for you to whisper in my ear that you care, you care and you love me, that you won't let anything harm me (not even myself), that I need to stay with you or you'll die, that I'm too good for this, that you want to keep me safe. Keep me in your arms, and in your heart.
If I could have this, then maybe nothing else would matter. Maybe the self-hatred would simply fall away, fall off the edge of the world, like the sun beyond the horizon. Maybe you could heal these scars with your fingers and lips. Maybe your embrace would keep my nightmares away. Maybe your voice could still my demons. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

(Maybe I'll never stop hating myself for feeling this way.)

039; I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.

“I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks accidentally and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.”
—Augusten Burroughs, Running With Scissors

This is what you reduce me to; a lovesick creature, always craving your attention. I would do anything to be the centre of your world, yet you can never convince me that I am. Always two sides to everything, never enough. To see myself through your eyes; you tell me I'm beautiful, that you love me, despite all my flaws, despite my manic freak-outs and self-destructive behaviour. Despite that I am who I am. I ask you, time and time again: why? Why me? What could you possibly see in me? Why do you love me? You answer, "I always have and I always will" and how can you know that? All I can think is whywhywhy.

All I know is that there's an end.

033; Come on, I know myself by now.

There's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me.
"'Cause I don't trust that there won't be another string of manic freak-outs if I stick around. Come on, I know myself by now. It's not an easy realization to come to. I'm not the best thing for you. I'm not the best thing for you."

I. Goodbye England (Covered In Snow), by Laura Marling.
II. Seven Years, by Lovers.
III. You Will Miss Me When I Burn, by Palace Brothers.
IV. Lua, by Conor Oberst & Gillian Welch.
V. Hug Me Tight, by En Kopp & En Knapp.
VI. About Today, by The National.
VII. Walk It Off, by Angus & Julia Stone.
VIII. Heavy In Your Arms, by Florence + The Machine.
IX. O' Sister, by City & Colour.
X. Wintering, by Laura Gibson.
XI. Enchanting Ghost, by Sufjan Stevens.
XII. Chocolate & Cigarettes, by Angus & Julia Stone.
XIII. Stephanie Says, by Emiliana Torrini.
XIV. Possibility, by Lykke Li.
XV. Dead Deer, by Lovers.
XVI. Love Will Tear Us Apart, by Broken Social Scene.
XVII. Little Hell, by City & Colour.
XVII. All Alright, by Sigur Rós.

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