Old news

I am in a foreign bed surrounded by him, stomach to spine. I am curled into his shape when I feel his breath become choppy and heave heaps of slingshot tears that I am blind to. It Is dark and I am trying to ignore it all. 
When men pour their hearts out to me I slip on their love and chip my tooth.
I turn my face into the mattress and fold my body around it, wrapping intrinsically until a tumor is created. I try to keep silent for a moment, dramatic pause, and then I begin to cry uncontrollably. My body seizes with each gaping fish mouth breath I take, and he mistakenly thinks that I am crying because I am moved by his words. 
Apparently I’ve told several men in the recent months that they “scare me”. Apparently I’m “scared” of men. Apparently I look deep into their reflections of myself that I have selectively crafted, and intentionally add a soft scratch to each word. “You scare me”.
They each take this token, try to score tickets from the game and end up Dave and Busted on the corner alone. 
So poetic it’s all so damn poetic. Just fuck me and leave me. It should be a short haiku of sweat and Semen. 
When he kissed me I felt no warmth, I tasted the salt build up on the rims of dead lips. The roles had switched from six months before when I lay where he was, the right side of the bed.
Six months ago I was naked and he was clothed. 
“I’ve missed you” I said to him. 
“I’ve been here” he replied.
Now I am clothed and he pulls his shirt up with his own hand. He crawls on top of me while I do not move. He throws my body like a limp doll even though I told him earlier I am not tired. 
“I’ve missed you” he says to me.
“I’ve been here” I say to him, waiting for laughter.
I was hoping he would remember.
Instead, stolen from a page of my own weathered leather notebook, he says with a scratch in his throat
“You scare me”
I return to the crawl space of his silhouette. 
I reassure him, 
“I’m nothing to worry about.” 
I’ll be gone by the morning.

I used to masturbate to Holes

Holes is the sexiest movie of all time (to a thirteen year old girl). Every time it was on the Disney Channel I would sit and watch it, drooling at all the sexy guys in their orange suits digging. The reason I found it so goddamn attractive was because these were emotional young men, who were bad. Bad dirty guys with feelings forced to do physical labor. I watched it recently and was reminded of all those feelings, but now I felt weird because I am older than they are in the movie. Whatever you do don’t look up the careers of the actors in the movie. It will just make you sad.

ceci n’est pas un boyfriend

Still no updated word on whether or not VSM is my boyfriend. We have hung out a few time since then, one of which consisted of me blacking out and snorting adderall, punching a table at Holiday Club and then waking up at four am in a panic fearing I had told him I love him. 

He just got kicked out of his house and is now homeless in the city, sleeping on friends couches. He’s got shit going down in his life.

But so do I. Last night I had a panic attack for about an hour, crying, hyperventilating, punching a chair screaming “what the fuck is wrong with me” over and over again. It would be nice to have someone who either consistently cared about me or if I were completely alone. This negative space is not the answer.

Yesterday was an amazing day pre-panic attack though. D and I wound up in Chinatown, hungover as fuck eating dim sum. She gave me some shit because I didn’t eat very much food, something that has been happening for the past two weeks: I’m just not hungry.

Usually if I am stressed out I will over eat like a mother fucker. Pie and cake and fries and buffalo tofu and cake and fries and a milkshake. Recently I think the power of controlling my hunger is turning me on more than the idea of dunking fried potatoes in ranch dressing. 

We wandered through various shops, my hands grazing over fake jade buddhas and cheap silk shoes. Every once and a while he would creep up in my mind and I would tell myself “just fuck that”. But it wouldn’t work.

Then we went to the art institute to see my favorite artist, Rene Magritte. His exhibit, which is here until september, dealt with the idea of the names of objects. We label something and it becomes limited to the expectations of that name. 

The expectations of the boyfriend name:

Treat me right

love me like you’ve never loved anyone

kiss me

text me when I text you.

The idea and even the proposition of having a boyfriend have put those expectations in my mind. Am I crazy or am I caring? Am I crazy for caring.

How do I become impenetrable again?

There are so many beautiful women in the world why don’t i consider myself one of them

I am incapable of love

I’ve been in bed all day watching the newsroom. I woke up next to VSM anxious and panicky and immediately texted my best friend to go on a walk. I snuck out of my violet sheets, slipped on my moms old embroidered shirt and hopped on my bike to meet her.

I’ve been panicking because I have a hard time trusting people and he has proven hard to trust. He has dated all of the actresses in his films. I am an actress in his film. Well, I was in his film. Now I am done acting in his film and he will surely direct more and date the next actress.

In the mean time I can’t stop thinking about everything that is wrong with my body that needs to be improved as soon as possible. I got 34 likes on m Instagram but that doesn’t mean I’m not suicidal and depressed and ate way too much guacamole from whole foods.