213 to 212


semi-autobiographical
creative writing 
new york and los angeles.
isolation, identity, autonomy, globalism.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

diary of a summer

diary of a summer


lax + 2 days
So we went to coffee late Friday. He showed up in a black sweater and jeans. Hot. We danced around important topics and found a lot of fun and interesting things to say on less personal subjects. I’m afraid its not meant to be. That scares me. I tallk to him about everything but I cant tell him how I feel, that I think we are the moon and the stars, together always.

After the sand
We did the late night missed call thing two nights in a row before meeting up. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how I feel. Upset and sad and distrusting and confused. He told my friend and I that we looked beautiful. We giggled a lot. We ended up talking until 5:30 am. He was disappointed that he didn’t get a date with a dancer. I was hiding my disappointment about a guitarist. I wasn’t going to rub it in but he had to. Did he even know he was making me jealous? I don’t think so. To assume he was trying to make me jealous is fairly selfish. He also said im one of the only ppl he wants to talk to. Does that mean anything?

1st and vignes
Its always such a mess, the lingering hand, the clumsy hug. No more words can get us past it now, we have to trust the feeling and maybe there is no feeling. He touched my hip, my back, my shoulder and I cringed, shivered really, with each connection of flesh. I want him so badly it hurts and he hurts me back, asking for numbers, dancing. He doesn’t care . He never did. I burn on with passion, a flame for an empty eternity. The hunger never ceases. The drive never disappears. I told him I subvert my own happiness for pleasure. He didn’t seem pleased or surprised. I wanted to tell him, you can tell me anything but I didn’t. I just don’t know anymore. I just want it. I am at a limit. I need to open my mind to more possibilities. There no longer seems to be a possibility of him and I can’t accept that yet. Beautiful porcelain skin and sweaty brown hair completely out of place because he danced all night but not with me. Makes me wanna cry. Why do I do this to myself? Will I ever be skinny enough to realize its not about being skinny?

part deux: mano a mano
How many times can a heart be broken? How many days since I started smoking again? I grab a pen and try to write instead I cry. If im lucky all this fucking makes me crazy and I cant get enough. Touch my hip, stroke my bones, help me feel less alone, nothing but extreme hotness is possible. and it was already hotness. hot weather, hot outfits and sexy friends flagging us down before we made it in the door. my hair hung in golden tangles. the dark room initially felt cool and I had to grab a drink to keep that feeling. just one.
I wanna fucking tear you apart the song screamed and our bodies touched gently at first before gyrating to the furious beat. had my life really turned into a fucking whitestarr song? I wanted to fuck him right then and there. or maybe just feel his lips on mine. whatever. what if last night was just an extension of a dream? I am so upset and sad and exhilarated.
maybe that’s whats fucked up, he’s more like my crazy mom than I realized. I need the pills ands the doctors but I’m living in fear and denial, its nailed me to the wall. I’d rather be bones and hips and crazy sisters and too many Tostitos than a real person who loves and feels with her whole heart. for all my talk I certainly am waiting for someone else to start my life. I feel accountable but to who? every day a new beginning tainted with the transgressions of the night before. not four hours earlier we poured our hearts out but the plexiglass filter never really left the conversation and now I’m empty inside, swimming in useless flesh on the outside.

showtime
girls in this scene are beautiful and disposable. I told the guy as he tried to touch my face. no he said, youre beautiful. tell it to the lead singer, I wanted to tell him. I smiled and groaned inwardly at how drunk the man was. the people I had just met gave me a weird look like why are you talking to this freak and they resumed their conversation. I just kept chatting, hoping to be rescued. Finally T found me and we made nice until the drunk man left.
I can’t see you many more times. it would be stupid to try. I’ll have to settle for looking at you through a perfect photgraph, the kind where every glint of light tears at your heart and every smile and line is perfectly drawn, like a dream, where the flounce of the skirt frames the legs perfectly and the waist isn’t slouched, the chin not doubled, the eyes calm and happy. the perfect night capped by the perfect photo to tease you into one more conversation that will go nowhere.

the world turned into trees
and its over. summer that is. the last time I saw you I almost died. I couldn’t even look at you barely. you looked too good in the moonlight, standing on my street. we must have hugged eight times in five minutes, touching as much as possible, breathing heavily, not letting go at any cost until I just had to.

1 comment:

K Star said...

Roz, I have been with Allen on and for thirteen years. Things have gotten more serious recently. If you are curious to know more email me.

Kim

butterflystars@hotmail.com

About Me

My photo
Influences besides NY&LA: Francesca Lia Block, Mary, Courtney Love, Janet Fitch, Casey & Nick, Lindsay, My sisters, Rachel, Jessica, Melina, Gabe, Annie, Peggy Ellsberg & the Ells Girls aka Meli Julie & Sherrie, Jenny, Bob Dylan, Suede, Shirley Manson, Heidi Sigmund Cuda, Gwen Stefani, Bad Religion, Beyond Scents, thrift stores, JetBlue & the Airtrain, Telluride, Faith Hill, Peeps, Pete Wentz