he said something, claiming to be incapable of love, he made lies about me true, as always.
he said nothing, but didn't flinch when blood was drawn.
he said something while meaning something else.
I can only write sad songs with bad lyrics, and letters go dry in hot sun misuse. I am trying too hard, I am trying too hard to care too much and too little. I am worrying about the right things and acting on the wrong ones. I am eating too many things that are bad for me, and plastic love will give me cancer.
there are children playing in the street, children playing. my brother is among them, if he isn't or not.
it's sometimes hard for me to go outside, sometimes harder to stay in. I sleep a lot. it's not really sleep. I've been dreaming about students with lettuce for faces, and feeling awkward for other people. chocolate goodbyes; reality denies me some things sometimes.
brain leaks gentle whisper hint perfume apple blossom peelings in orchid gypsy monoliths, onto my pillow, onto your pillow.
we are constantly trying to identify ourselves with a cultural minority. we want to avoid the majority because they're bastards, but we're too afraid to be alone. that's why there are those punk kids you know before you've met. (that's what my father said when I almost fell down the stairs late at night.)
maybe I shouldn't say some things that I say. but I've always held the right to babble higher than anything else.
my mother is on the phone. "She's changing her name... it's kind of like... Mystical Judaism." I lower foolish Japanese music to hear better, but she grows quiet. it's her mother on the phone.
and the overweight boys play basketball outside. I'm cold.
Posted by samantha at June 20, 2004 06:19 PM