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It seems there must be some day in the future when it ends.

Anxiety over cigarettes and the number of them...

(I went outside to smoke here)

A bad car wreck. You can't look. Holding your hands over your eyes, you spread your fingers open, and peak through the cracks between them.

Knowing you shouldn't, but that shot glass in front of you. Gold. Wet. And you toast, throwing your head back and feeling that burn all the way down your throat. SLAM! Glass back on the table. You spin.

Wishing you hadn't, but your pants are laying next to the bed. Fingers splayed across your thighs, and breath in your ear. Gold. Wet. Your heart pounds, base in your ears, throwing your head back and feeling that heat... yes.

Just this one time.

You look. There. Still. Today.

Instead of that lucid moment, you want a day full of it. Clear. Clean.

People give you what you need every day. They give you what anyone would die for. People pray for the kind of shit you've had from me.

I would pay eighty dollars a bag for you.

Yeah. You said God. And what good does he do you there?

Just. This. Once.

If I was a religious woman... yeah. If.

I'm just no good any more.

Just one day. One clear day. One day without. Could you give me one day? Twenty four hours. It's such a small price to pay. For anything. If someone asked you for a day, what would you say?


I cannot feel sympathy. I cannot empathize. I cannot understand any other way to live but mine. To contemplate someone else's life depresses me. I do a fine enough job of that on my own.

I am drawn to pain. I seek out the most hurt, the most tortured place. I take responsibility for misery. Even that of other people. It's always my fault. Always. Never. Forever.

You can't get as high as I can... not with out that screaming, ripping pain in your chest. Not without the tears.

I am guilty. Of only God knows what.

Thank him that you don't know what I've done, or seen, or heard.

I'll make myself fall in love. I listen to music for that rush. I can be obsessive with a CD. It doesn't care if I call it 50 times a day. I wear headphones because I can't share. Hearing music outside, a greater proximity, makes me feel cheated.

I'm sorry, Carie. I really am. I just... didn't...


She didn't mean anything. We're just friends.

I can control my relationship, if it's with something I can control. And, that's why we listen isn't it? To hear those words no other human will say. Ever.

I can crush, date, love, and lose in an hour.

If all you want is sterile. If all you want is intellect. If all you want is what you're missing.

And, what is it you're missing? That quiet know? The silence. Yes. I had that. You weren't there. Maybe I wasn't. Maybe I was falling in love with that CD playing in the car. Maybe I took a key to my tights on New Years Eve, 1999 because I couldn't wait to take my boots off. Maybe it was in a car, maybe it was off Mission, maybe the highway. Maybe.

I got high with my roommate on a cliff, looking out over the ocean. It was cold, colder than I've ever been here. That's the thing about San Francisco. The water is pretty, but you can't get in.

I would pay my dollar, and ride the bus to Haight. Watching people walk. I would buy my coffee from the guy with the fucking Dodger hat, smoke cigarettes outside in the rain.

I wonder if he wonders where I went. He had my coffee ready every morning at 6:30. Ash and I singing to the 80's station on the way to work.

You're a fucking liar. If you ever loved me, then why would you hurt me?

I never intended to hurt you.

I knew intentions. Yes. They never matter when you're on the floor, when you're screaming in the car, or after you've slammed the door for the last time. Did you intend to fuck me? Did you intend on raping my mind?


I'm sorry. I can't hear you. I've got my headphones on.

3:52 p.m. - 2002-07-30


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