mainsqueeze's Diaryland Diary

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This Is What You Get (When You Mess With Us)

You know what's hard? Trusting somebody new. Trusting somebody new isn't even just hard, it's fucking hard, harder than almost anything else I can think of. I hate to give that sob story that everyone gives, the "Oh, I've been hurt, I've been burned, you don't understand, wah, wah," but damnit, I have been hurt. Many times, by many different people, and maybe some of it (I'd say probably about 30%) was my own fault, but that fact didn't really alleviate any of the misery that inevitably followed. I won't regale you with my tales of woe, just know that blindly trusting somebody is incredibly difficult for me. And, that being said, I am trying really, really hard to trust my new boyfriend. He said to me, probably about a month ago, after I asked a series of invasive and catty girl type questions, that nobody likes a jealous girlfriend. Granted, it was about the most insensitive way he possibly could have phrased that particular sentiment, but it's the truth. And so what I have to do now is tell myself, when he gets quiet and distant, that is is not because he is thinking of how badly he wants to be with somebody else, and when he sends text messages on his phone (which he does obsessively, by the way) that he is not texting sweet nothings to his ex--whom I met the other day, which is another entry entirely-- and that when he says something, I can take it at face value. Oh, so, so HARD.
I bet you all are tired of hearing about this right about now, hmmm? In more exciting, relationship-unrelated news, I am getting ready to submit a few poems to some different literary mags. There are two possible outcomes that could occur if--WHEN--I do this:
1. My poems get published and I realize that I am truly a bonafide WRITER and the last publication was not just a fluke but GODDAMN IT, I HAVE FUCKING TALENT! And then maybe I decide to do something productive with said talent.
or
2. I get rejected and I spend the next year of my life having to reevaluate who I am and what I want to do and I burn every single but of writing I have in a smoky (and illegal, I bet) bonfire on my balcony while drunkenly weeping into a bottle of Albertson's brand vodka.
So. Here's hoping for option number one. If any of you give the remotest shit about poetry, let me know what you think of this one. I've been told by two seperate people that the beginning and end are okay but the whole middle chunk sucks.
I wonder did you know that
Your greatest gift would be to vomit starlight
Like the world sat thick in your belly
Like you were holding our weight inside of you,
Ready and aching and waiting to let us out
And leave us aching, too
And did you know little-girl skinny
With bony knees and filthy ankles
Gap-toothed grin exploding like staring into the sun,
Did you know then?
Did you know then you would do it?
Slice yourself open to let us fall screaming and terrified
Into the Real Live World!
Real Live World! Your signs screamed
Bright and buzzing bright and buzzing bright and buzzing,
Bumblebees molded from angry and anxious neon.
And their messages demanded reading
By all of the wrong eyes
Because if the picture is pretty enough
The captions don�t mean anything at all, and
We were captured by you &
Your words were lost and losing and losing and losing
A radio love song buried in sweet white static
A radio love song buried in
The Things We Become When We Stop Becoming.
You were brave, when I hated you with everything I could
When I found sweetness and turned it into something frightening and rotten.
Yes, you were brave when the veins in my hands were swollen to shake you
And leave you stunned and maybe sobbing but full of breath,
Full of those buzzing bees that had long since fallen silent.
You were brave in your last lonely moment,
How you were so generous you could have found a way to escape,
To untie your own knots and let us live inside you forever,
You were so fucking brave that you held your breath and you closed your eyes
And you knew that your greatest gift was ours now.

2:10 p.m. - 2007-10-11

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