leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.
-marty mcconnell

I don't even LIKE dried fruit!

with her mouth making movements to introduce thoughts, i sat
deafened by trust on that sofa across
quietly calculating
the logistics of lust, of when
unspoken things could then
happen between us, and once
all those were done and we got
through to love, we would
shoot through the hip, reacting
off of the cuff, splitting
up at the fork when the going got rough,
with a plan
for a point to rejoin on the road further up
our windows thin where the ice
carved its flowers, i would
hold her, let the wind beat
back those hours, and then
standing on subway trains, clutching her dress,
dependent
on her balance, since the walls were useless, and while it's
alright to hold tight, please don't try to hold on,
cause it's a
homerun we hit, love, cause it's going and gone
and then the world turned so fast,
it was astoundingly still
and it must have been that moment
made of midnight on the hill, right when the
cataraxed alleycat
spat back at the moon, thrown out
into the nighttime nine
life times too soon, we had
come such a ways, and knew just what he meant
there's a picture of the three of us at the gate
to the garden of eden

you can get home, but you can't
get in
locks are like longing;
an everchanging thing
and keys are just clouds
made of
metal and spark
we knew exactly who we were, and yet
couldn't quite say who we still are
i saw it all hapenning in one grand epic sweep, from that
first sight that we wouldn't
get to sleep for a week
and generations would follow
the course that we'd charted
from that sofa across,
i couldn't
wait to get started.

I miss math. I miss knowing the answer is within reach, knowing there's a way to work the problem. I miss the frustration of not getting a concept, I miss the fresh explanation that makes it all click. I love it. I hate my major and I'm stressed the fuck out about money right now, which makes it hard to discern whether my realization is just the result of me missing something that's out of reach, or maybe me just wanting to change things because it all sucks. I hate my major, and I've hated it for the last year. I graduate in a year. I don't know what to do. I don't have the time or the money to change. But I should have been a math education major. I know I should have.

My dad's talking to my mom about the layoffs at work. Friday was the last day for people they laid off, and he said it was really emotional:
"It didn't really matter, whether they were a good employee, an okay employee, the best employee. This was their life. This was what they got up every morning to go do. A lot of these guys had been there longer than I had."
My dad has been there for over 10 years. There was one woman who had been there 16. God, I hate how close this is getting. These are real problems.

How I hate the rain but love the warm so days like this are so twisted, but in the end I come home and can't stand the clouds. So I close all the blinds and just pretend like it's night when it's really only 3:30.
How I love my cat and I love Dan but some days I can't stand being touched.
How I still listen to Bright Eyes and Modest Mouse so much.
How my stomach hurts but I can't stop eating, how all I want to do is sleep.
How I can't decide on here or there, or with or without.
How my grades are getting worse and I only care because I think it's symptomatic of my stunted growth and that dreadful mediocrity.
How I hate strangers and newness but equally loathe the boredom and ease of staying the same.

That's what I think about.

It was an odd walk home. I passed Anthony Fabbricatore as well as Liz and her boyfriend. I was creepy college girl in sweatpants and grandma slippers with her meowing cat in a bag over her shoulder. Then I passed a porch and saw two people cradling a third sobbing guy between them, having this conversation:
"It's all gone."
"I know man, I know what it's like. To have people expect things of you."
"No, my whole fucking life. It's gone."

It was sad. Sad and weird. He was obviously drunk, but still. To feel like that, how awful.
.

I have leftover chinese food, and I forgot I had a microwave so I heated it in a skillet and then remembered about the microwave, but I think I just like it better this way anyhow.

Some days I drink coffee, some days I don't. My apartment is a mess, my life is equally disorganized. There's a single macaroni noodle in my bathroom sink, I found it in my hair. I'm afraid to be 50. I'm afraid to be 40. I'm afraid to be anything or anywhere other than where I am, and at the same time, I can't stand it. I feel suffocated and bored and unfulfilled. I think if I were in love, it would fix things, but that's probably not true. Winter and Spring make me unproductive in completely different ways. Winter says stay in bed, stay warm, don't wake up, don't, don't, don't. Layers upon layers, so heavy, don't get up. Frozen fingers, runny nose. Spring says up, up, up! Let's get this done, no not the homework, leave the homework. Take a walk, clean this apartment. Don't work on that, wouldn't you rather take a deep breath and close your eyes in the sun? Let's do the crossword. Spring smells like love and green, and it makes me want to kiss and be kissed. Skirts and hair, I want to be pretty. Let's drink a beer on the porch, let's forget Winter and all the bad things that happened. That's why Spring came, to chase away the big bad winter, to hold you in her warm arms and say, "You knew I'd come, you knew it. Why didn't you remember? Why did you doubt me, why have you ever doubted me? Look what I brought you!" Oh, daffodils and daisies, I'm ready for you. I've been ready.

I ate dinner even though I didn't want to. I really want to sleep but I don't think I can. So I got on my computer and I decided I would watch shows online. Grey's Anatomy. I knew exactly what episodes, too. I know which ones will make me cry. Is that pathetic or weird? I need to. I just do.

I'm lonely.

A chapter should never be ended,
with tears and threats,
you said, “it’s all water under the bridge now.”
but, there is no bridge,
because we burned it.
I never thought I could live without you.
The lessons have taught me that anything that can be done,
can be done on my own,
with my own volition,
blood, sweat, and tears
But I can’t say I never stopped and turned around,
to see if you would look back,
and I know, you didn’t,
and it felt like, a cigarette burn
to my heart,
leaving a small scar that I will see
whenever I look back there.

A chapter should be ended,
with courage and respect,
with a calmness like the waters,
after it rains.
The bridge should never be burnt,
maybe closed off temporarily,
but still there to be crossed and cherished
and to stand on when you watch the water,
flowing underneath of a past that never made it.

Instead, many stories are ruined,
by the turmoil of something that couldn’t be fixed.
and the bridge, that can be rebuilt,
once burned will never be the same.

I feel like I have a lot of thinking to do. Like spring cleaning for my brain.

I remember in September, when I was saying goodbye to Mikey and Ashley for the last time. We were at Sara and Courtney's, and I was so close to crying. I hugged Mikey, and then I couldn't look at him anymore. Ashley came over to hug me, and I was sitting down. I hugged her. She's so tiny. I remember thinking that. So little. Like hugging a child. And I was hugging her, and my head was at her chest level, and I could hear her heartbeat. Just as little, but so strong. So strong, so good. Memories. These are good ones. Make a wish! 11:11

Hidden

If you place a fern
under a stone
the next day it will be
nearly invisible
as if the stone has
swallowed it.

If you tuck the name of a loved one
under your tongue too long
without speaking it
it becomes blood
sigh
the little sucked-in breath of air
hiding everywhere
beneath your words.

No one sees
the fuel that feeds you.

- Naomi Shihab Nye

Psalm and Lament

The clocks are sorry, the clocks are very sad.
One stops, one goes on striking the wrong hours.

And the grass burns terribly in the sun,
The grass turns yellow secretly at the roots.

Now suddenly the yard chairs look empty, the sky looks empty,
The sky looks vast and empty.

Out on Red Road the traffic continues; everything continues.
Nor does memory sleep; it goes on.

Out spring the butterflies of recollection,
And I think that for the first time I understand

The beautiful ordinary light of this patio
And even perhaps the dark rich earth of a heart.

(The bedclothes, they say, had been pulled down.
I will not describe it. I do not want to describe it.

No, but the sheets were drenched and twisted.
They were the very handkerchiefs of grief.)

Let summer come now with its schoolboy trumpets and fountains.
But the years are gone, the years are finally over.

And there is only
This long desolation of flower-bordered sidewalks

That runs to the corner, turns, and goes on,
That disappears and goes on

Into the black oblivion of a neighborhood and a world
Without billboards or yesterdays.

Sometimes a sad moon comes and waters the roof tiles.
But the years are gone. There are no more years.

- by Donald Justice

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me
Jai guru de va om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
They call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Sounds of laughter, shades of earth are ringing
Through my open ears inciting and inviting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
million suns and calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Jai guru deva

I decided to search my AIM logs to help me understand people better. Silly, right? You gotta find it where you can:

Want-1112
Can't-1109
Love-757
Fun-662
Need-572
Hate-485
Wish-420
Sad-412
Happy-365
Hope-337
Tomorrow-336
Friend-282
Won't-221
Live-212
Crazy-195
Die-153
Dance-152
Yesterday-105

Make of it what you will. We want a lot. We want it all.

Looking to:
Warmer weather
Greener pastures
Smoother waters

"When people walk away from you, let them walk. Don’t try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring for you, coming to see you, or staying attached to you. When people walk away, let them walk. Your destiny isn’t tied to anybody that left."