feb 27 07.
je n'ai même aucune envie d'être cryptique. je suis fâchée.
les petits notes sur le comptoir m'insistent que je nettoye ma chambre, il y a des gens qui viennent pour voir notre maison.
oui, je quitte; n'ai pas oublié.
l'idée avait été de rester pour "une derniere été."
si je devrais le vivre dans un trailer,
ou même au sous-sol d'une vielle femme,
que valait rester de tout?
que valaient deux mois?
peur de ne pas faire les liens, mais
je realise,
il n'y en a pas ici non plus.

I'm not the sort of person to give up on things just because they're broken.

feb 26 07.
everybody says you're an idiot.

feb 25 07.
II. do you know what this means?
second time running full speed into a brick fucking wall
where I expected a finish line.
so much,
I just miss you, okay?

I.
singlehandedly, destroying the jiprock walls -
its okay. the wind would have gotten them if you didn't first -
we were without foundations. it would never last

feb 23 07.
tiny vessels moved into my arm and formed the bruises
(did you know they'd be the last?)
hope the feeling fades when they do.
so call it quits put the pedal to the floor
this isnt progress, its a step off-course

feb 22 07.
stand warned:
my coping mechanism involves bitter hatred and starvation.
i dont hate you, i just wish i could

feb 21 07.
II.
yeah well.
guess there isn't much to say now?
words are heavy in the wake of the bomb.
yeah..
okay.
okay.
yeah.
bye

I.
rotting tomato pushed to the back of the shelf!
lines repeat, echoes reverberate, pushing back
the noise, the beat, the sneaking suspicion
you aren't feeling it too.
it's okay, I wont make you,
nobody wants the rotten tomato, they push it to the back.
dont worry, they've got compost bins for that

feb 20 07.
negative to the positive, wires cross and connect.
do you still get it sometimes? do you wish
you could find my regret?
its not pretty but
negative to the positive, youre burning it out.
you just might find it

feb 15 07.
wondering when it will be okay to breathe.
grab for a branch, a leaf.
something to break the hundred foot drop.
fucking sick of this.

feb 14 07.
valentines day is a crock of shit.
- eng lit bibliography.
- read no great mischief.

feb 13 07.
wondering I have spent too much time contemplating
how to end life, rather than
how to live it.
they are poking my ribs, shoving me up against the gates.
step inside, or back of the line.
are you ready? this whole time you've been waiting to fly, theyre
cutting your wings loose. can you
take off, knowing you've not learned how to land?
they're calling out your name now.
its do or die, do you know what you've been waiting for?
do you know?

- STU application essay.
- cold war questions.
- eng lit bibliography.
- study driver training book?
- read no great mischief.
- finish skinny

feb 12 07.
failure so fucking cold.
an inability to remain self-sufficient.
it is flooding my entire fucking system, bile in throat.
let it fucking kill me.
let it flood my veins until my heart pumps only water.
its not like I was missing much anyway

feb 11 07.
is it warm in florida?
is it raining? is it 11:39 there, too?
<3

feb 10 07.
toes cold stomach full of soup.
75$ richer!
a good night that I will end early
abbreviating before the conclusion wherein I
attack the kitchen in search of chocolate.
no, I think I will just go to bed.
two weeks

feb 9 07.
the signals have been getting stronger, the urges harder to push out of my head. they take the wheel, they take my hands.
nervously, my eyes are flitting to the digital car clock, the circuitry suggesting I am going to be late for work. I am desecrating this 400 calorie muffin, shoving the moist crumbs past my lips, adding totals, subtracting liquids, wondering how this fistful of blueberry could possibly be injected with so much fat. planning the next 48 hours, running over schedules while in the back of my mind the numbers are counting.
in eighth grade I would wake up in the middle of the night, delirious and mad from thoughts in my head that started calm and crescendoed. anxiously looking at the clock, the three digits of the early morning so hard to look at, panic. and now, four years later, the voices getting angrier are my own, the three digits making me panic are adding ontop of other three digits.
these numbers used to drive me from my bed, leave me sobbing confused and distraught at the top of the stairs, clawing at my mothers door without a rational excuse as to what was killing me.
my hands cant stop, controlled by these three numbers, answered by these screams in my head and throat.
my mother is driving. she is asking about my day, about my teachers, about my new jacket. she isn't the only one painfully aware that every day isn't coming back, isn't coming slower. somedays I am blessed with the ignorance to forget it. these long distance phone calls, late night drives and unlocked windows are making her more and more nervous. who is this stranger sitting in the passenger seat, feeding herself with twitching fingers, glancing from the window to the clock with manic vigor? who is she, and how is her english teacher, and how is that new jacket?
the numbers are making me yell. so pissed off at the fact that I cant stop shovelling these empty calories into my stomach. I'm giving one word answers until it comes to my weekend plans. this unneeded piece of processed blueberry shit is stuck in my throat, it seems. getting frantic, the accusations are pouring out. You make everything worse. Something gets to me and you make sure I dont forget. I thought I was going to lose my job, and every day you nagged me about not having enough hours. Didn't you think I fucking knew? You're always fucking NAGGING me, I have enough on my plate already, Halifax has nothing to do with this. What youre proposing, is absurd.
You make everything fucking WORSE.
my hands are to my hair, the crumbs in my lap, the shadow of something I convinced myself I didn't need, but wanted regardless. the radio is tuned out from the signals of our heavy silence. restaurants are rolling past outside the windows, stained with winter. if I keep my hands busy, I think to myself, I wont need to talk. I wont need to look.
the car stops. I open the door. Midnight should be fine.
in the infinite miliseconds between my statement and her response, I find myself hoping that she has grown calluses since eighth grade. searching my brain for the term I always dissect in these contexts: drawing a blank. drawing a blank. never meant to hurt you, but I do it anyway, because I expect you to love me regardless -
unconditional love.
she mumbles a reply, the inarticulate lack of words a stronger shot than any coherent answer. I am out the door, I am slamming it, I am looking at my feet, not looking back. the storefront window reflects my silhouette; today I stare at the geography of the snow beneath my feet instead of squinting at the shape of my legs for any increase in diameter.
it dawns on me; I fucking did it again. I am not thirteen, I can't keep acting like this. the numbers have stopped ticking upwards, a steady 850, but the guilt is throbbing steady with the heartbeat I've been trying so desperately to starve off-time.
the next ten minutes are a series of twitches in fluid motion, pictures detatched from their context, signals screaming and fading. a hitch in a formerly steady breath, a sunken eyed look in the mirror, the blue grey whisper from a cigarette.
the two second glimpse of the deepening lines around her eyes keeps resurfacing in my mind, persistent for my attention like a retina burn. this tearing into each other is regrettably familiar. eighth grade, every day, we would collide into each other, screaming just to acknowledge that we exist - I am here, you are here, I am yelling, are you hearing me? the message extrapolating from the medium, our heads spinning, doors slamming. I used to equate my childish angst with her genuine emotional trauma.
it was my fault, the fights. I deserved it when my father spoke to the ceiling in a monotone instead of acknowledging my presence in the room. it was the most peculiar phenomenon, as if he thought by looking up he could eliminate me from his field of vision, tear me, the problem, out from the knotwork in his brain.
it was my fault, every time. knowingly staring at the exaggerated numbers on the phone that there has been nothing I have regretted worse than eighth grade.
the numbers fill the digital screen, the ringing in my head parallelled only by the erratic pulse of the ringing in my ear. today I tried something new:
I apologized.
it was the image in my head, the tightness of her lips against her teeth, the force with which she locked her jaw shut and held her eyes foreward. knowing she was driving back to a deafeningly silent house. knowing I'd made her cry before.
I grew up four years today.

feb 4 07.
fuck school!
my life savings are for running away.
my spare time is for scissors, glue and mod podge
fuck the law exam!
sleep, fuck that too.
til 3am, just going to write.
fuck unfragmented phrases.
fuck grammar. fuck coherence

feb 3 07.
the wind and the chimes
car keys, the sizzle of burning paper.
head rush. head ache. stomache ache.
bite marks, dirty socks!
a waterbottle and a shot of love!
1/3 of a pack, 1/2 of a heart shaped chicken nugget!
a leg twitch that just wont fade. hands teeth eye
contact
sick but so fucking CONTENT

feb 2 07.
making me dizzy, never understood
the fucking impact.
the truth. exaggerated nothing.
in the context of the circumstance,
no more incorrect than you were.
the stereotype the bitterness the teeth,
this swivelling pounding ridiculous fucking low blood pressure
about to pass out pissed off.
fighting for your last shred of dignity, okay.
but me for your mistakes, drop it.
I'm happy. not changing

feb 1 07.
man, one of these days,
I am seriously just going to get shot.
there is a reason why they make me nervous
I honestly have no idea where the plastic fibers came from