index | archives | notes Thursday, Mar. 23, 2006 8:08 p.m. << [ This Weird Old Lady Safety Pin Thing I Stole ] >> Here I am drinking, smoking, swearing, hating everyone and everything and telling anyone who'll listen that I wish I were dead. The only reason I'm not dead yet is because I still think there's something to extract from the people around me, even though they're all gone. Dried up like so many resources. Because, let's face it, that's how I view people these days. How useful they are to me. This week, what used to be four fingers held up when demonstrating how many I had left has turned into an accusation, the index finger pointing at whoever's around. I'm trying to flip through my brain and find some evidence that I was loved at some point. There's his drunken confession, there's driving two hundred miles to reject a boy that said he wanted me, there's this little girl that made me lunches, the reason I should clean up my act but can't. There's falling asleep next to her after calling everyone we know, there's his half-hearted attempts at listening to me; everyone's half-hearted attempts at listening to me. There's that time she showed me where they'd bled all over the pavement, so proud. That time when she laid her head in my lap and we listened to the rain behind my favorite band. That time she leaned over and kissed me in her pool while her parents were home. But there's nothing I can't contradict, nothing I can't justify and turn around because that's what I do. No matter how much someone loves me, it will never be enough. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org