| I want you to know that I'm happy for you, I wish nothing but the best for you both. An older version of me, is she perverted like me, would she go down on you in a theater? Does she speak eloquently and would she have your baby I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother. Cause the love that you gave, that we made, wasn't able to make it enough for you to be open wide. And everytime you speak her name does she know how you told me you'd hold me until you died? Til you died, but you're still alive....You seem very well, things look peaceful. I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know. Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity, I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner. It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced, and are you thinking of me when you fuck her?...Cause the joke that you laid in the bed- that was me, and I'm not going to fade as soon as you close your eyes and you know it. And everytime I scratch my nails down someone else's back I hope you feel it. Can you feel it? I hate you. I hate myself for hating you, perhaps I hate myself more. I'll kill myself but you'll still be too self righteous. You'd never take fault you didn't think should be yours. You won't feel bad, and without guilt suicide has no point. As I took Amelie out- sweet Amelie- your Amelie, our Amelie, but also hers- and put Alanis in, I collapsed. I'm so sick of my back. I hate enough to deal with without it. Someday I'll lie flat on my back and never get up again, it will hurt too much. If only I was pretty- a sad, in pain girl who is pretty is poetic. An ugly one is just nothing. These hammocks are so nice. I'll miss this porch. From now on, I do, wear, and say what I want. I'm sick of censoring myself anymore than I have to (and I do have to, if I want academic acheivement, which I do want, because I need money to live and I crave an art college atmosphere in a bad way- but for nothing else.) I just have to get over my fears. There's no such thing as perfection. I long for a straight and beautiful back but there isn't a way. I'll always be a twisted cripple, hardly able to sit up in her hammock. A woman with severe tan/burn lines caused by the folds in her flesh between her thighs and butt and probably other places too. Mexican male beach bums- tall, built, dark, graceful, yet unattractive. The whites and pinks of this resort look so shameful next to the dark tans of the Mexicans who work here or wander through. Old man, spread eagle in speedo on a hammock. Ah! Sweet Jesus, my eyes! Is it that toplessness makes you less attractive or is it that only the unattractive go topless? Sand sticks to my bug bite. I worry about it. It looks like a large disgusting boil, but it's hard, just swollen- I hope I don't get malaria, what a way to go. Is she dull? She seems dull to me. And that offends me. My successor shouldn't be dull, she should certainly be exciting, because I'm not dull and it's an insult if you're calling her better. I wish there was a way to make you feel the same pain as me. Then, somehow, it would be better. A man whose deep voice echos in his broad chest, making him sound like Darth Vader. He talks to the squirrly high pitched man next to me. The same three boys walk up and down the beach, decending right to left in height, afro size, and blondness. This resort is so lonely, no one to play the role of the new people I crave. Again I can see my hair-shadow, it's blowing. I wish I could be just my shadow. It's much nicer than looking at the real thing. I need to remember to send in my portfolio so I can be put somewhere with a bunch of high school artists and hopefully find some good ones. I have a list of hopes. I won't put it here. It's only in my mind. Mayan girls, some pregnant or with toddlers, babble at me in spanish as they walk by barefoot. They're trying to sell me elaborate embrodery floss bracelets and belts. I have no money. That girl's hair is so whiteblond! I sometimes think about making my hair that way. If I was blond, all of me would be pale, and I'd be a ghost. Except my eyes, but ghosts should always have dark eyes. My book, "Girl in Hyacinth Blue" has a cover of that color and it matches my skirt. Now I am that girl. Every person in every painting could've been real. Every person in every photograph is. I want to know their stories. |