Firsts & Secrets
2007-09-08 - 7:33 p.m.
FIRSTS:
We were in my basement, watching blue women (who were meant to be black) waver in and out on public broadcast television. We were cuddling on the leather loveseat that I sleep on nowadays every once and a while. He looked at me, and I looked at him. Our lips locked. His mouth tasted like fish, mine tasted like pink bubbles from cream soda. He was also the first guy to see me without a shirt on.
I remember playing Cranium and spelling words backwards and thinking I was so cool, but I still hate to play Scrabble, even though I love words. We'd roll the dice, and I'd be busy smelling the clay that smelled like apple Lysol.
I remember we were sitting at a stop sign, talking about who we'd want our first kiss to be. We overdiscussed, overanalyzed, and overthought it, but I remember asking if I could use my tongue, and when I got her permission, I did. It tasted like the minty gum I lent her.
I remember it was New Year's Eve, we were all crowded around the air conditioning unit, coughing and loving it. We watched the fireworks explode, and at around 12:16, his lips mashed against mine. We had been eating Reese's peanut butter cups and drinking tea from cans. We wished each other a happy new year, and she wanted to spray perfume in my hair.
I remember it was a week before we graduated, and he started walking, and I started trashtalking him. We walked outside, and I had my messenger bag with me, full of books. I had my little green card too. He walked me outside, and I small talked with a cop as he darted behind cars. I remember we stood around the trunk of a green Honda Civic. He took my hand, and I crawled in. It wasn't that great. I've masturbated better than the sex, but that's how things happen, and then, danced that night with boys who reminded me of people I'd meet later in life.
I remember drinking the green drink and worrying that he didn't exist anymore, that she was a mere hallucination, that I wasn't real, that I was as clear as glass. I had a dream I drank the green drink again, but this time, it was turquoise, like mouthwash, like the kind Alex drank.
SECRETS:
I started cutting myself when I was in the seventh grade. I sincerely wanted to die.
Sometimes, I think so many people would be happier if I had died when Thomas told me he'd like to kill me.
I hate that I've been raped; it makes me feel weak.
I'm afraid of the dark sometimes.
I'm afraid of myself other times.
I'm always afraid of vacuums.
Sometimes, I wonder what happened to Corey. Not because I miss him, but because he effected the course of my life so strongly.
I wonder if my parents know that Amanda's my girlfriend.
I wish I had a therapist still.
I wish I looked normal sometimes, so I go out of my way to look different than everyone else I know.
Nobody wants to be my friend.
I don't know of any guy who genuinely likes me and isn't just attracted to me physically. Not because I'm hot, but because I put out so goddamn easily last year.
I think it's cute how Alex says he couldn't "make a girl" because it reminds me of Jack Kerouac.
When I saw the guy who raped me on the same day as the day she found out she had to move, I burst out crying, and it felt good just to cry and not hold anything back because I thought I had to be stronger than I know I am.
She's too good for me...
I know I'm weird-looking, but I pretend I'm beautiful.
Sometimes, I want to cut off my breasts so guys don't look my way for that.
I remember doing pushups when I was younger because I wanted boobs like Brittnee's.
Brittnee looked like a she-male, and I knew it, but all the guys thought her body was hot.
Sometimes, when I can't breathe, when I'm freaking out, I wish I'd just keel over and die.
I wonder what happens when you die.
I want to cut again.
Seeing my ear bleed so badly in Humanities made me want to start hurting myself again.
I think I might have some form of bipolar.
I've thought that since high school.
I wish I had an excuse for being so fucked-up. I think it's my family's fault, but I'm too sensitive anyway. (They're the normal ones, not me.)
I miss my grandpa. At least, he understood. He listened too. More than I can say about a lot of people in my family...
Sometimes, I think the only reason I have friends is because they pity me.
I hate looking through my phonebook, knowing that she's the only person I'll ever really call, and when push comes to shove, I won't really call her because her tears always stop me from killing myself, and sometimes, that's all I really want.
I'm scared to cry, scared to say all the things that cross my mind in a day.
I act like what she does doesn't effect me, like she's a bitch, but really I just want her to love me, to approve of me and my lifestyle. Some day, I want her to laugh at my jokes and think of me as a source of pride.
Sometimes, on accident, I tell you lies because I want you to think I'm smarter than I know I am.
Me.