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but i don’t want that.

April 21, 2010

…time to grow up.

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every time i’m with her, i love you a little more.

April 18, 2010

i don’t know what to do. she’s pretty and fun and i do like her. but…

also she wants in my pants and i don’t know how long i can make excuses. although today my stomach honestly did hurt.

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April 11, 2010

i hate crying but it’s all i ever do. that’s a lie but it’s how it feels. it feels like i’m never going to stop. it feels like i’m never going to get to be happy. so i might as well just keep on crying.

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i think i will be posting here a bit more.

February 8, 2010

i am trying to avoid directly overloading leah or any of my friends with angst. i am trying to avoid making my tumblr an emotionpit – i like to separate interesting/intelligent content (hopefully?) from meaningless teenagerventing.

that said, i am needing a lot of that lately.
i have not been this lonely in a long, long time.

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it’s been a while since i’ve seen you smile that way.

February 6, 2010

I don’t really want to post this here; because I know that Leah still checks this occasionally, and maybe other people too. That said, keeping it to myself, or between myself and “untitled 4” in openoffice, really, is not working out. I don’t know what to do. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this perpetually bad. I feel kind of like I am losing something- an argument, a battle, a war. I feel even worse saying so, though, because admitting failure is a sign of weakness. Acknowledging pain feels like ceasing to fight it, ceasing to try to feel better. It feels like I am whining. I think I am whining. I think I am pathetic, for being so introspective and useless. I just want to go back to bed, though, but if I do that I am surrendering. I refuse to surrender- but isn’t writing this whiny acknowledgement a form of surrender? I don’t want to surrender even though I know I am losing. I am being overtaken.

I don’t want to say this publicly or aloud because that’s shameful. It’s shameful to want to give up, pathetic to be weak enough to feel beaten. But not saying it is proving impossible.

I will not I will not I will not let it beat me. I will not I will not I will not tell anyone how close I feel to being beaten. I will not spend the rest of the day in bed with my own sadness. I will not. I will myself to be okay.

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September 20, 2009

Sometimes the only thing between me and suicide is the fact that  I don’t want my parents or friends to come up here looking for me and see the squalor in which I’ve been living the past few weeks. Dirty clothes everywhere, mixed in with schoolwork and a travel mug and all sorts of shit. Sheets that haven’t been changed since late July with blood and marker stains.

Other times the only thing between me and suicide is sheer laziness: I am too lazy to go and get pills from other parts of the house or too lazy to cross the room and find sharps hard enough to dig in deep or too lazy to find a way to describe the particular dress in which I’d like to be buried.

Other times the only thing between me and suicide is vanity. I don’t want anyone to see my skin in its current state, and I doubt that it’s easy to put makeup on a corpse.

Other times the only thing between me and suicide is the fear of failure. I don’t want to go back to the hospital and if I do it wrong that’s where I’ll end up.

Very occasionally but honestly less often than all the above the only thing between me and suicide is the image of Leah or Emily crying, after. I can’t imagine Anna or Mary or my parents or sister, though. They’d all be fine eventually, anyway.

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fourth period.

September 8, 2009

In class with boys I always end up staring. Their skin is different- a softer, doughier white, or a harder, drier deep-brown tan. Their fingers are thick and sturdy and I imagine putting them in my mouth, grasping one big solid brown hand with my two small white ones and slipping a finger or two between my lips, between my teeth and my tongue. I want to be explored and in my wooden chair I practically feel cool bitter-salty fingers probing the smoothness of my cheeks and the wetness of the bumpy soft flesh under my tongue. I want to draw them in till fingertips reach the back of my throat, tickle and force. I want to see the look in their eyes when I push their hands back out with my tongue and my lips. I want the stubbly scruff on their faces under my hands and my cheeks and I want to tangle my fingers in silky brown curls or grasp short dark hair. I want muscles covered in golden skin and hair surrounding me. I want fingers, tongues, penises in my mouth, muscles moving in their own ways, curling or thrusting or throbbing as I clench when he comes and I can feel the desperate pushing out into the dark deep parts of me.

This is what coeducation does to me – awakens this wild animal passion for what my body thinks I need but I don’t really want.