I fell in-love for the first time in the 8th grade with an older man. I used to stare in the mirror with superior confidence and dream up a magical life complete with fame and fortune and that man. In the 8th grade.
I can admit that I lost my real innocence at age sixteen with his hands and his regret, and I sincerely wanted to taste death on my teeth every month afterwards. I don't want to know what you say about me when I leave the room. Or how many times you've thought of me naked. Or what you thought when I actually was, sitting on your couch, CD on repeat in the background. I don't want to know the exact amount of time you've spent giving a damn. It will never compensate for my time.
Darling, I don't want to know if you'd still hold my hand or kiss my forehead or tell me that I'm beautiful. We will never know the debt I've accumulated. Or how many times I've lied out of cowardice, out of spite, out of pride. I don't want you to see how many times I've cried to the same songs, driving home from work, driving home from school, driving home from dropping you off. Or how certain songs on the radio always remind me of the way you smelled or felt lying beside me on the grass on the hill in the afternoon pre-summer. In the passenger seat, leaning over the steering wheel to hug me goodbye with a relentless grip. Please don't remind me how I sometimes wish unhappiness upon you. Don't make me admit that I have written about you, and me eliminating you, and you having some kind of revelation about how you treated me like this and that and me feeling better about it all.
Sweety, don't point out how I came over to your house and collapsed on your bed, Easter Day, and bawled my eyes out in pure selfishness, in pure blindness, in pure helplessness.
Let me tell you that I fell in-love for the first time in the 10th grade with the idea of having someone to love. I used to dress to impress and enter the classroom, looking in your direction, looking to your seat, looking forward to your utter avoidance. In the 10th grade.
I can admit I lost my real virtue at age eighteen with your hands and your regret, and I sincerely wanted to reap revenge with my arms and legs every month afterwards. I don't want to see you when you're getting high alone in your bedroom. Or when you're sitting at the bar alone, with a White Russian, nursing a crossword puzzle and a broken sense of purpose. I don't want to know what you say about me when I leave the room, or how you'd wish I'd disappear when I make a surprise appearance five days later. Don't scribble on my skin or ask me about school with the intention of being my friend. Don't buy me coffee and save me a seat with the intention of being forgiven.
Don't ever forget that I still have pages and pages of pain hidden underneath my bed, and you are producing words and feeding the fuel everyday. Don't forget that someday I can walk right into the restaurant and shoot you in the fucking heart, so you can feel this shit that I feel.
I am not kindred soul. I am a young woman full of rage. Emotions are inconvenient and mine especially. I have an emptiness that you are free to sample at any time, if you take the time, if you want my time.
I can admit that I lost my real innocence at age sixteen with his hands and his regret, and I sincerely wanted to taste death on my teeth every month afterwards. I don't want to know what you say about me when I leave the room. Or how many times you've thought of me naked. Or what you thought when I actually was, sitting on your couch, CD on repeat in the background. I don't want to know the exact amount of time you've spent giving a damn. It will never compensate for my time.
Darling, I don't want to know if you'd still hold my hand or kiss my forehead or tell me that I'm beautiful. We will never know the debt I've accumulated. Or how many times I've lied out of cowardice, out of spite, out of pride. I don't want you to see how many times I've cried to the same songs, driving home from work, driving home from school, driving home from dropping you off. Or how certain songs on the radio always remind me of the way you smelled or felt lying beside me on the grass on the hill in the afternoon pre-summer. In the passenger seat, leaning over the steering wheel to hug me goodbye with a relentless grip. Please don't remind me how I sometimes wish unhappiness upon you. Don't make me admit that I have written about you, and me eliminating you, and you having some kind of revelation about how you treated me like this and that and me feeling better about it all.
Sweety, don't point out how I came over to your house and collapsed on your bed, Easter Day, and bawled my eyes out in pure selfishness, in pure blindness, in pure helplessness.
Let me tell you that I fell in-love for the first time in the 10th grade with the idea of having someone to love. I used to dress to impress and enter the classroom, looking in your direction, looking to your seat, looking forward to your utter avoidance. In the 10th grade.
I can admit I lost my real virtue at age eighteen with your hands and your regret, and I sincerely wanted to reap revenge with my arms and legs every month afterwards. I don't want to see you when you're getting high alone in your bedroom. Or when you're sitting at the bar alone, with a White Russian, nursing a crossword puzzle and a broken sense of purpose. I don't want to know what you say about me when I leave the room, or how you'd wish I'd disappear when I make a surprise appearance five days later. Don't scribble on my skin or ask me about school with the intention of being my friend. Don't buy me coffee and save me a seat with the intention of being forgiven.
Don't ever forget that I still have pages and pages of pain hidden underneath my bed, and you are producing words and feeding the fuel everyday. Don't forget that someday I can walk right into the restaurant and shoot you in the fucking heart, so you can feel this shit that I feel.
I am not kindred soul. I am a young woman full of rage. Emotions are inconvenient and mine especially. I have an emptiness that you are free to sample at any time, if you take the time, if you want my time.
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
eddie:
ooh la la! That was one sexy comment!!! 
vestril:
basically touching myself all too much.