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Feb. 14th, 2012



You know I sewed up that bottom on the green flannel shirt, the one I'd been meaning to sew up forever, minutes before leaving to meet you. I was two hours early. I was just eager to meet someone new. Someone intellectually stimulating. Someone handsome. Someone you were. The you of possibilities that you'd held, as I held the Gelato I ate a few seats down from a mother and child thirty minutes before you called and showed. You were late. I wasn't disappointed. I was use to it. I answered the phone in a bar. You couldn't hear me. I walked out. We talked about how whether or not you knew where the bar was. You didn't quite grasp. I gave away a few nearby restaurant names. You caught on to the joint next door. You suggested sake. You raved about the warmth and flavor of the drinks. We agreed on sushi two doors down from the original bar we were going to go to.
The waitress was a bitch. You mentioned it. Twice, I'm not sure. You mentioned roman history. I'd never been captivated by a man's foretelling of intelligence. I couldn't stop listening, though, just lightly intrigued by the subject. The time came to leave. The waitress came in a huff. You mentioned her tattoos were nice. I mentioned her tattoos were nice. I mentioned she probable got that a lot. I mentioned I wanted to go into tattooing maybe. We left. You took me in front of a bar across the way. We didn't go in at all. Told me that was the place to go on the weekends, for good up and coming music, not well known, but always packed. We hummed and hawed at where to go next. You rested on an old reliable. Things got intimate. Alcohol poured more frequently. Topics became more explicit. Eye contact deeper. Bodies closer.
"I have a blender, a Maurita mix at my house, you have to try"
I thought of an ugly green couch for some reason, an open spaced apartment living room and a bay window overlooking the busy street below for some reason.
You thought about the check.
We left.
The apartment was dark.
The surroundings numerous.
Books lined both walls.
You said you would not admit to the percentage you had read. I thought to myself, that meant, like my own percentage, that it was small. But no it wasn't.
I asked where you bought the shelves. you said you had made them yourself. I was impressed. You said it came from working hard in the mountains of Oregon. I was looking deeper into your eyes by that time. Becoming unsettled for some reason. We sat in two adjacent chairs, terribly uncomfortable, camping chairs!
I fumbled.
I let go.
I let you in.
I warmed you up with my cold exterior of the realities I had lived in, was living in, not a lie lay between us for a span of five minutes. Maybe the only five minutes we ever had.
I looked darkly, intensely into your eyes and said what didn't need to be said "I don't think lightly of life"
You said your attraction by moving to the bedroom, eventually that night.
I swear you picked up they most boring video game in the world, on purpose, an old detective game.
I thumbed the video game over in my hands, laying face down on your bed, you on the floor in front of the only TV in the house. Silver. I, we, things grew silent. Too silent. Too silent and you said "Do you just want to hold?" and I slid off the bed and into your arms without a word. It had been the first time in over four-five years I'd been held by a man, like that, four to five years!
You, I, we, took each other to the bed. We kissed. When it was "Do you want to just hold" when it was kissing and everything up to that point but not past. For hours. Until the next morning. I saw things light before my eyes I had not felt in... I saw life. I saw streets. I saw seats at restaurants. I saw birds. I saw sunrise at three am in the morning. I saw things I never knew touch could bring.
When things went too far I said "_____ what are you doing?" and you said "Anne, what do you think I'm doing?" I'd like to say I moved off you at that point, but I don't know if it was that point that I did. I did at some point and we did not cross the line everyone would think we did. But I knew in an instant I loved you. And it wasn't until today that I wasn't ashamed of that and knowing I had to let you go and be. And let myself survive, no matter what. And let myself go and be.

Feb. 13th, 2012


Love now with him

I want him

And if he would take me for just one chance

I would lay eternity at the lap of God

And tell him to fuck off

While I waste my time

Waste my life

And never tell him truly how I felt all along

That I did in fact truly love him for all heart soul and mind

When he let his hands wander

And all that lust could provide

He let himself in

He let himself out

You know all the words to this love song

You know how it ends

I know how it ends

I will cry
I will weep
They've all told me the same thing

Don't come crawling when he breaks your heart

But he's all that I want for this moment

And I do love him

No matter how jarring





and Lost

I will ever feel.

Because that's love, right?

Jan. 15th, 2012


MIT Baby

I don't think any of this is worth it. There's more in life than just securing a nuclear family. Making sure all the eggs are in line to create harmony between two unhappy people in the hopes of making them happy. The ends do not justify the means. Not when the means is total obsession with another human being. Life is more than this. And I'm unhappy and that's a fact. I've more than once thought of ending my life over this ridiculously unnecessary marriage. I hate him. I want him out. I can't think of one time i didn't have to ask him permission to make a major life chose that was very much my decision. I don't want anyone in my life and that's a fact. People only cause harm, they get in the way and they're not what I need. If he were to remain, and he might as well, since he so adamantly insists upon it, he will be become the minutest detail in my life that ever was. Because I'm tired of the status quo. I'm tired of me. I'm tired of the same old job the same old life and the same old me. I want security. I want a life. I want my dreams to finally come true and Disney lied, a fucking dream come true isn't some fucking prince charming waltzing through my front door with a bouquet of flowers between his fucking teeth.

Dec. 17th, 2011



Because I love to do the dishes, the laundry, the floors, the vacuuming, the trash AND pay all the bills

Nov. 4th, 2011



I've always loved the idea of blue stenciled sail boats on the wall. Squeaky cold to the flesh wood floors with enough sheen to see the bottom of the soles of your feet off of when you pick them up from each step. I've always envisioned the wains coating in the bathroom. The crown modeling in the leaving room. Some built in shelves for the study and second bedroom. Because I just don't imagine things like not being able to feed myself. Buy proper shoes. Clothing that fits in the places it should. Not being able to breath through a day without wanting to fall over. Not having a soul in the world around me to support me. I don't sit and fantasy about a time I'll be so exhausted, weak and in pain I'd wished I'd have cancer so at least I'd know where to point the blame. So instead I dream of a pearly white bath tub and octagonal tiled flooring. Because looking in the mirror is the hard part. Looking out the window takes less tears.

Oct. 30th, 2011


It's time

It's time to realize I'm not so superman. I can't do everything. I'm done for a lot of the time. It's time to realize I need to grow up. I'm almost twenty-seven years old. Old.
It's time to realize that nothing in my life moving forward should be wasted. I have to get it together. I have to thrive. I have to stop wasting time on people who would not spend a dime on me if I ever really needed it. I need to start to realize that it's about time I stop feeling sorry for having to make the best for myself. Even if that makes someone else cry. Because in the end, we all die alone. Not to say I'm going to trample all over the emotions of others to get what I want. But It's about time I look out for myself and stop to think about who is around me and what are their motives for staying there. I need to do what is best for me, and if those who are around me aren't there thinking the same thing, it doesn't matter and shouldn't matter how they feel when I leave them behind.

Jul. 3rd, 2011



Everything has a rhythm. A facet drips. Ores take you to shore. Two pieces of metal bounce off each other in synchronized concussions of sound. Things that are stationary and inanimate mimic the quality and requirement of our lives but do not in any essence explain to us their mastery and beauty of rhythm. We are left to our own fumbling devises of criminal deviance of time space and actions defined and foretasted by our past and futures.


The love of another is as though the sea crashing down upon the farthest rock on the shore. Spraying it occasionally and lightly. Letting it corrode under your salty touch. Mimicking endearments of those intrusted to touch it's core. Letting go gently the jealously of the birds allowed to lap up your touch. Making it too late and too early each time to admire it's own daunting feel of you. Knowing nothing of it's goings or comings seeing only what is to be seen between two short bursts of an everlasting pure joy and acquiesce. And yet coming back again and again to his shores, no matter how briefly, to swim in it's shadow, to bath in it's edges to take glee in it's existence and return to a full embodiment of disappointment in your desolate sea.

Jun. 12th, 2011


Love is violence2

Because it rips itself out of the heart with no tears of remorse. It steals itself from a mind that is not ready to accept it. The body tells them both to shut like two children in the back seat of a station wagon. The body goes on. The body survives. The body plunges onward. The body has no choice but to chose the first thing and last thing that will continue the human being. Breathing. Going to work. Jogging. Eating. Eating again. Sleeping occasionally. Sleeping a little more than occasionally. Above all, the body takes the havoc and headache of actual love and stuffs it down it's throat to move on. Love is a thing stuffed down a throat without exception in order for real people to live real lives and not have to be bothered with the gushy details of what ifs or maybes, whens or wheres of happy fairy tale lives that never stop crying in the middle where both parties become too old and depressed and despondent to each other because that is what age does to people. The body is to love what a walmart worker is to an actress. Some of us actually have to get up and go to a real job everyday.

Jun. 11th, 2011


Love is violence

I've decided love is violent. I've decided this because when love is truly felt, it is an emotion that protrudes from the heart at the insane rate non equivocal to reality. It knows no laws. It sees no one but itself. It's selfish nature imbeds in us the actual desire to live and be loved by another irregardless if that other realizes that we in fact love them beyond an ability to love ourselves.

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February 2012




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