“you’ve stooped to my level, i am your mangy little whore”

You have stooped, indeed. To my level, yes. To the level of throwing angry words across cyberspace, vindictive, cruel and truthful words.
But I am not your mangy little whore. You do not want me any more, I suppose. I wouldn’t want the girl you described. I wouldn’t respect her, much less love her. When I read your words, I want to kill her, in fact. She doesn’t belong on this good earth. “She” does not exist, however. You have taken all of my bad qualities and condensed them, and implied the whole is the sum of those parts. It worked for a while. I believed you. It hurt. I suppose that was the intention.

But I have good friends, wonderful, wise women who know the truth. They reminded me that I know it too. I am a whole person, flawed and perfect, exactly like everyone else.

You are a whole person too, and as much as I want to resent you I can’t. You are a good person, as much as those same friends tried to tell me you weren’t. You are. You may be manipulative, a snake-charmer, a little bit robotic. But these are your flaws, only your flaws. You are kind, observant, incredibly thoughtful, caring, considerate. You are honest, exceptionally so. You are demonstrative. I cannot begin to thank you for all you did for me, for all the ways you loved me and made me know it.
As for this, those true words you wrote… it was not the first time I had heard those things. I am still not immune to the pain they cause. It is low of you, very low, to turn like this, from kindness to anger, love to ostensible hatred, but you were angry, and I was cruel. You feel awful and it is my fault; there is no denying this. I did not do this to hurt you – it would have hurt you more if I pretended like everything was the same and I loved you and then you found out it wasn’t true. At least, I think it would have. If I am wrong I am sorry. Because I hurt you, I am sorry anyways.

Does that change anything? Does that make anything any better? No. I know this as well as you do. You resent me and I want to resent you. But I desperately want to be forgiven. I desperately want you to be happy again. For a selfish reason, yes. I am selfish. Everyone is selfish. I want you to be happy so I don’t have to feel guilty. But I also want you to be happy because I care about you.

I hurt you. I had to. That’s that. You turned your strengths, the ones I had feared, against me. I knew you would. That’s that. You don’t respect me any more, it seems; you don’t love me any more. I find it harder to respect you because of this. Nonetheless, a long time ago you told me that we would be friends after this happened. You told me, when I told you I was afraid to lose you, that we would not lose each other. I respect you and I care about you and I trust you. Much as the words you wrote make me feel like I can’t respect you or trust you anymore, I still care. I want to rebuild and repair and you said you won’t help me.

You and I are not constants; our minds and hearts are always changing. Soon I hope we will be able to be friends again, you will be able to respect me again, I will be able to trust you again. Forgive me. Please. Gods and goddesses have done worse and they are forgiven, they are venerated. Judas is only chewed up by Lucifer, and that could be worse, and he sold out Jesus Fucking Christ. All I sold was your ticket to a dance, and hardly even did that.

I am not sure whether I am asking for another chance, but if I am, don’t grant it until you’re ready. If you are never ready, then you are the one who’s turned, by breaking that promise of closeness and caring and friendship.

ambivalent

dear girl.

you are frustrated not because they are bitches, not because the world is against you. you are frustrated because you are being petty and superficial and not — I hesitate to say “yourself” because I can only really pretend to know who that is but — not the girl I believe you to be. And yes, I am frustrated. I am frustrated because you don’t talk to me anymore. I am frustrated because you are getting involved in confusing, dramatic, painful social circles that you’ve been in and out of, that you KNOW are more trouble (a lot) than they’re worth (not much at all). I am frustrated because I want you to be happy and I think you would be happier if you didn’t feel like you had to deal with them, and because I have no say in what you do. I don’t want or need or deserve it, yet I wish you cared what I thought. I wished I wasn’t mad at you. I don’t think I’ve ever been mad at you quite like this.

I miss you. I know I still love you because if I didn’t I wouldn’t feel this crappy about you being unhappy, or about how blunt I am being to you. But look: you complain about things even though you have had a great part to play in causing your troubles, and you don’t seem to notice that. You also don’t seem to want to change anything; you want the world to change around you. We’re all guilty of thinking this way. But please. please. please.

I want you to do what’s actually right, or at least decent, or healthy, or sensible, or something better than what you’re doing now! because this just makes you unhappy. And even though I’m pissed at you for ignoring my existence, I don’t want you unhappy.

friends don’t let friends write about love campaign 2008

“I’m very much in love. Someone this morning asked me with what, with whom. Why one thing? Why one person?
I think if people read that I’m ‘in love’ they’ll think I’m taken. Why do people assume that love is a subtractive thing? If I’m in love with one thing or person, I don’t have enough love for something else? Bullshit. Utter bullshit.”

I am not in love with anyone. There just aren’t words for what I am, besides “overflowing.” You know the way that having one crush, one person you like who likes you makes you feel? Like there’s this stream inside you flowing at high speed of adrenaline rushes waiting to happen when they touch you, of words about them waiting to come out of your mouth, of smiles, of, uncertainties, of being known, of intimacy and strength. The more people for whom you feel variations on this theme, the more full of the stuff of this stream you become. At three it is not a stream it is a river, rushing me. I’m tempted to give in, to fall, but I don’t think I will. I think I will wade, frustrated, upstream. It’s kind of nice to be overflowing with feelings of affection and desire. It’s also getting me into deep shit, or something that feels like it.

I am really sorry. I couldn’t lie. I’m a fuckup, don’t know when to shut my mouth. I’m sorry but you know this and you kissed me. That was low and I shouldn’t say that. I just– “when a man engages in clandestine dealings, he has his preference for things bein’ smooth. She makes things…not be smooth.” I do, I do. You probably shouldn’t touch me, I might be contagious. Or you might be, your teasing addiction to humanity. Your fucking teasing. I would tell you to stop because I can’t take it but I think stopping might be worse… Anyways it is all partly my own fault. So here’s to us.

Here’s another snarkastical ironical (can’t decide, not enough energy) toast to the girl who doesn’t know what she wants from me but keeps coming back to try and get it again, and again…Dear girl, just ask. Just take. I like you, you’re pretty and sweet and your skin is soft and your words are so sincere. But it’s frustrating because no one wants to hear the ways that you are driving me crazy and I want you when you latch your body onto mine and I have no one to tell these words to.

On top of that on Sunday I think I will be tempted to just…run and hide because I am too nervous that I will make more of my usual mistakes. See? I’m crazy. I tell them all that I’m crazy and they tell me it’s cute and then decide not to handle it anymore or not to handle it right and everything comes a-tumblin’ down. I am honestly, honestly scared because we’ve built this invisible tower and darling, you haven’t seen the girl inside it in a year and what if the words that come from my lips are not the same as the words that come from my hands and what if … ? Do you see? Do you see why giving me the power in this matter might not work out so well, etc? Also…I miss you. What on earth are you doing to me, boy?! In your words…”get out of my head.”

Gushing with feelings like these feels so, so good. I really am an emotional masochist but loving them all is so wonderfully bittersweet!

“Teenagers shouldn’t write about love, ever. They sound like pineapples in a blender on Christmas morning.”

moonlit memories of a year

“Last night was one of those moments that sticks with you.”

Have you noticed that the stickiest memories are the night-time ones? Especially for us. The night is when we both end up being the quintessential crazy teenage girl, impulsive and sexual and romantic and hopeful and silly and painfully sincere.

one

september/october?

It is evening on the first day I’ve actually struck a vein and caught your interest. You’ve stalked me down on the internet and said hello and begun an interrogation into my self-destructive habits. You confess to your own. We rant and ramble for hours, every few moments finding instances of frightening similarity. I write poetry and begin to crush because I am fourteen and ridiculous. We talk until it is late, later, too late and we finally go to bed. This is the beginning. This is not something we will forget.

two

battle of the bands

I stalk. We are both wearing fishnets and you comment on this. I watch you from a corner of freshmenz and you smile and wave at me once or twice and the music is mildly good from time to time. You get in trouble for the quantity of cleavage you are showing. I put my voting-bead in my bra and people giggle. You agree vehemently that this is sensible. This makes me smile because you are crazy and you approve of me. I lie and am obvious and silly and even more ridiculous and love it. This exemplifies me. This is not something we will forget.

three

october__(?)

It’s raining and I’m lonely and I tell you so and you offer to help. It’s 45 degrees, raining, and you meet me in the woods in a sweatshirt and rolled up pants and no shoes. The sky is orange; it’s eleven-thirty at night on a Thursday. You still have smeared stage makeup on your face. We sit for hours in a tree for hours, talking about everything possible. I almost kiss you. You almost kiss me. The rain in the glow of streetlight looks like ghosts; you are certain there are vicious animals and axe-murderers in the darkness below us. This is when I become certain that you know I am crazy for you. This is when I become certain that I am crazy for you. In a two-a.m. lull in too-fast traffic we run across the street holding hands and go home. In the morning you will tell me that your fairy girl thinks we are crazy and that this was magical, crazy, yes, but something special. This is not something we will forget.

four

may 3

It’s spring and warm and blooming. We have taken part in one ridiculous ritual and intend to take part in another, this one less official. I lie in the grass eating a tortilla and you meet me. Again you are barefoot. We hop in a car with a boy who looks like a man and buy cheap, sweet red wine and drive around our city. We walk by the river and along the tracks. We end up in a field where we drink till we can’t stand up, till we can’t keep our clothes on, till I can’t be bothered to use all the syllables in your name when I scream it. Our lips repeatedly swing abruptly away from each other as some variation of the words “monogamous relationship with tb!!” come out of your mouth, or bitterly out of mine. You promise you will kiss me before I die because I ask you so many times (it feels like once). I drunk-dial (and text, and im) everyone I can before and after throwing up. We grope in the grass and then in your big bed under the fluffy comforter. I fall asleep there and leave early sunday morning, slipping around your father’s line of sight and out the door. I walk home singing, leave you sleeping on your couch. This is not something we will forget.

five

june 7

It’s our birthday and it it is unbelievably hot. I am dressed but you redress me so we are equally skanky-looking…almost. You put eyeliner and other makeup on me and I feel dressed up. We document everything. We hit far too much traffic and miss most of what we came to see. That doesn’t bother us terribly because within fifteen minutes of arrival we have taken advantage of the darkness and your teeth are in my shoulder and your hands are in my corset-y shirt. We take pictures of ourselves and the bands. We tickle and touch and laugh and bite. You pull my hair they way you’ve started doing, to move my head so you can bite my neck. Our hands dance at the hems of skirts, then at the edges of underwear. Occasionally people notice us and we giggle. I fall into sadness after an awkward not-kiss but it isn’t guilt or wanting, neither of these things specifically. It is just something I do, lose hold of adrenaline rushes and joy. This evaporates and eventually pretenses disappear and we hide in the back row and I sit on your lap and we accumulate marks and we move to the floor. I kneel between your legs and you give up and I give in, for once stop worrying and then you pull back and look into my eyes and tell me “no dying now, though, okay?” I promise I won’t. I feel sparkly and your lips taste like salt and I like to know how easy it is to make you moan. Suddenly there are security guards and I am walking down the stairs and you are somewhere behind me but I have got to just keep walking and not be embarrassed and then we sit on the curb and put on cover-up shirts and chapstick and giggle more. There is heat lighting and you pretend to sleep in the car on the way home. I have to bite my lip to keep silent. This is something we will not forget.

Because it is night we can let go of inhibitions and rules and all these things we cling to in the daytime, our excuses and precautions and practicality. Because it is night we take leaps of various sizes. This always, always results in things we will not, cannot forget.

little bits of burning paper.

I want to write him a simple, analytical essay that will fix their relationship. I can cite sources and write an annotated bibliography and lay it out in a sensible manner and prove an a+ thesis, will that make it okay? Will that make this clear to his 2400 brain? I just want to scream and shout, really, but I could do it in writing. With logic and poetry. If I tried. If I thought he would listen to me.

I would show him this.

taking care of each other, of your community, of having lots of kinds of lovers and friends. That every relationship is a relationship, even if it is not what a lot of people would call a relationship. That you should honor your friends and your lovers equally, that your friends can be more important than your lovers, or can be your lovers, or not be your lovers, and that all of that is okay. That you can have snuggle friends and romantic friends and hold each other’s faces and it is not a fake relationship, it is not something to mourn or fret over — it is something to celebrate…

And this.

They are, formally, monogamish. Monogamish enough to make room for your hijinx; monogamish enough that there’s a point where you have to stop and pull away, adjust your shirt, her skirt, your pants, refasten bras, and remember that you only get to go so far. Monogamish enough that even though this is hot and you trust her affection you have to remember: they are not just primary partners in the practical way, the checkbook brushing teeth together way. They are actually in love, incredibly in love, stunningly in love, right down to the bottoms of their soles. You are secondary only because everyone is secondary — secondary not as a judgement. Just as a statement of fact.

(thanks, Ariel)

I would explain to him that teenage girls are horny and lustful and that theirs is an anomaly of a relationship, “backwards,” gender-role wise. I would tell him that she has wants and needs she won’t tell him about because he’s scared of touching her, plain and simple, let alone hurting her or being hurt. Sometimes thoughts like

I want to be taken, to be thrown around and kicked down and tied up and fucked and spanked and twisted and slapped and bitten and pinched and pulled and made to endure. But I don’t want you to worry about what I want. I want you to know what you want, and I want you to take it. Without asking. I’m along for the ride, I can let myself go, I can be yours to play with. Trust me, I want you to.

go through her head, and sometimes thoughts like “I bite her shoulder. I want to leave marks on her, my marks, teeth marks and red blisters. I want her to feel this for days.”
(thanks muse, sinclair)

But it isn’t just about sex, about him not giving and her seeking. It’s about fear, and fears that don’t line up, and it’s about love, and him putting so much less into this, it seems, than her. It’s about the fact that he’s driving her insane, that he’s an unconscious tease and that it doesn’t just affect him when he says no. It affects her. And through that it affects all of her friends because she’s crazy and whiny and lost and loving and confused and frustrated.

What I am not saying is “just fuck her for the common good kthxbai.” I am simply saying, notice her. He is supposed to be caring about her but it doesn’t seem like he is. He is guarded and he doesn’t see that she isn’t threatening him, she’s asking and she’s offering.

“The thing is, you only get as much out of a relationship as you put into it…. If you put in too little, and the other person puts in too much, it’ll be good for a while, but the other person will be all ‘grarr fuck this’ and leave the relationship.” She’s not going to let go, though, no matter how much she wants to scream “grarr fuck this” (although she might be a bit more articulate). She’s in love and she’s loved him and it matters to her. This relationship matters to her and it should matter to him, common happiness should matter.
(thanks, charlottesville)

I wish I could explain this to him. Because suddenly it matters to me, too.

an attempt at explanation [old]

Dear you,

I want and I want and I want but I am scared. You know this. You are the same way but different. I want what you want but my fears are different and overwhelming. I am not afraid to ruin our friendship because in my experience that doesn’t happen. Friendships do not disappear. They evolve and devolve and slip in and out of all kinds of awkward. I am not afraid of this.

I am afraid of other things.

I am afraid of the unknown, and the current situation is full of unknowns. I am really just a little girl trapped in a young woman’s body. In so many ways. I am afraid to be laughed at. I am afraid to take responsibility. I have just gotten new toys and only after making a mess discovered that they are dangerous. Like a child, I think I know what I am doing – with my legs, my clothes, my hips, my eyes, my mouth, my voice – and fail to realize the full effects of my actions. And all of a sudden there is this great convoluted knot of sex and friendship. And my reaction is to run and hide. Can you tell I was the girl who would spill paint all over the couch and then hide in the bathtub for three hours, waiting to be found? I am still naive enough to firmly believe that this is an effective strategy. Obviously, it isn’t. Nowadays there are people to pin me down and make me confess, make me explain.

I can’t explain.

I have nothing to give as an explanation but a childish curiosity and an equally childish embarrassment. These explode when combined with teenage desire. But that doesn’t solve anything.

Nothing is concluded. I am inconclusive. My apologies.

I think I cannot act because I do not know how. I think I am not averse to finding out, or I wouldn’t be if I weren’t so scared of everything in the whole world. I’m amazed I’ve ever done anything at all. Everything scary or new I’ve ever done I’ve either been forced into or it’s happened too fast for me to think. Ex 1. ropes courses. Ex 2. wine bottle. Either way I am past these points but– I don’t know what.

How does this get fixed? I keep making these messes that I can’t clean up, and just waiting for them to go away… I don’t want to wait for this to go away. I don’t want you to think that I am cruel even though I do cruel things. I don’t know. All I know is that I want but I fear.

I leave it to you to get what you want, or not.

Editor’s note (the editor is also the writer): This is sort of old, and certain lines and/or paragraphs are now null and void. Especially the last bits.