August 13th, 2002

this is stranger than I thought. 6 different ways inside my heart

6 different ways go deep inside.

Last night, while listening to Kate Bush and going to sleep in my white sheets, I realized that I am still heart broken over everyone I have ever loved. I am still heart broken. I try to wash them out by finding someone new to pretend to care for. A way to forget I suppose. But all I have to do is turn on this music...they all flood back into my heart. I just can not see why I am still burning for them. It is nothing, they were nothing. Maybe if it were someone really special who loved me back. But not for them. The ones I lost. The ones I still adore in a way. It is the Cure speaking I suppose. bUt i am still in love with three men. 3. 3. 3. Now 2. Now 1. Now no one, now you, now someone new.

What is with this sudden outburst of Elvis? I guess I should watch more TV to find out.

My grandma called and canceled our plans. I was so excited to be with her today. I feel so depressed right now. I needed to be taken out. But now I have to stay in. Forever. She says her dad is sick. Her dad? You mean my great grandpa? I think so. So what is wrong with him? I need someone to talk to. I need someone how they were not how they are. I need someone to lay down and cry with me. I need someone to listen to this music with me and weep. Weep for our families, weep for our hearts, weep for the idea of love. Weep for that which we can not grasp. The thing you could have but you let leave out of being messed up I suppose. I wish we were all unbroken. And then no one would make the mistake of leaving me. I wish no one had left me. Or maybe just the one.

I miss C.K.B. I can not wait to see him. I know we are only friends, that is how I miss him, as a friend.

Tomorrow I am going to Bowie!!!!!!

This tape is one side Cure and one side Kate Bush. The Cure side rocks but I can not figure out what album it is. I think it is Standing on The Beach...not quite sure. AHHHHHHHHHHH. That was what made me what you know who. The Cure. wow. that is so sad. I think a lot of guys like The Cure and The Cranberries and The Pixies. It just seemed to me that he liked them how i liked them. That was what hooked me. Ick. I need help. Now this music drives me insane. I love it still though.

I look over to my bed and Action is not on the table. I wish he were still alive. Action's death was symbolic of the end of summer, summer love, summer life.

Strike me strike me strike me dead.

Someone call me to hang out. I am deathly bored.

I love this na na na na...I waited hours for this, made myself so sick...tried to make it work...never though tonight could be so close to's a na na na na na.

Dick, Mick, Nick, Rick, Vick, Hick, Kick, Lick, Pick, Sick, Tick, Wick
  • Current Music
    The Cure

breathe in. out in out in. oh he's here again, the man with the child in his eyes

You are Melissa Etheridge!

You are natural and down-to-earth, what you see is what you get.
You don't pull any punches, and your honesty and integrety shine
through in every thing you do. People value your straightforward
manner and mellow attitude.

Take the "Which Empowered Female Artist Are You" Quiz
made by liberalfaerie and violatedjoy

really? I think of myself as more of a Kate Bush. Lustful, waiting. Crying over lost love we pretend is dead, in a high pitch death voice, and an army of love voices behind us. But whatever you say, rock the lezzie love I suppose. Wow that would make my life easy I think. What am I talking about, love is hard for everyone.

you'll find her in the road. you'll eat her heart with a spoon. why are you fucked up too?

Army Dreamer.

I feel like I am in love with an army man. He is gone and I wait for him to come back. But now I see that he is dead. Left. Blown up. His body runs over rocks, his blood fills the oceans I retreat to. I wait for him again. I sit on my little porch swing, so sweet from a distance. But then you come to bring me tea and see. I sit on a rotting block of wood, it creaks, and I am all wretched and dying. I have been waiting for fifty years and now my bones are broken and my face is off. I always told you I would cut it away but you did not believe. You left all the sharp points to my grasp and I used them. I cut off my face and I cut my arm. You said I would not but you were mistaken. I am so dead my words make no sense. Love leaves and it seems like I have no ability to write. I think I am my best when I am dead. I feel like medicine would break me. When I am unhappy there is nothing you can do for me. So do not even try. *Some say that heaven is hell, some say that hell is heaven* I just do not know where I am going. They have planned my life for me. But where is it leading? I really do not want to do anything. I wish it would end but I fear for the darkness. I fear for my life. I fear loneliness. I fear you. I fear falling in love before I should. I fear never having it back. I fear rape. I fear being buried alive. I fear the darkness. I sleep with a light again. I sleep with my window closed. I sleep with my music on. I sleep wrapped in a cocoon of white to guard my neck from your bite. My blood runs thick under that safety pin. My head is wrecked under than woman’s eye. She pretends that I am ok. She pretends I am normal. She makes me feel ok about everything I do. But then she retreats to her own world, and there she is normal, and she is not alone. She and I both are broken, how is she supposed to put me back together? Who can put me back together?

I search for this person to be with me, someone who is crazy like me. I act as though I am alone here, in this world. I pretend like I am the only one under the darkness. The only one who fears never feeling love. The only one who is under the bell. But then I read people’s words. They are all like me. They are all alone in their darkness. But they hide it so well. I see them in the sun and I see them smile. They say H, they say hit…everyone seems ok. But then I see that everyone is broken. This generation is already dead. Why can’t they see that they are killing us? Why can’t they see that something is wrong if all the youth cry in their beds? Why can’t they see our tear stained pillows and our own night-lights? Why can’t they fix us? Why do we try to hurt those just like us? Why are we alone.