I think that I need to go back to being alone. I'm listening to Carly Simon, Jeff Buckley Sia, and The Smiths. This is not a good sign. I have PMS. It's true. But there's no way around it. I fell for you and your seemingly passionate belief in love and honesty. I fell for the way you laughed and danced and kissed the hell out of me to the point where I couldn't breath... every single time. When you told me the story of the Wizard of Oz the other day and you made your silly little move... circling me there in the yard... I don't think I will ever forget that moment. Is it crazy that I loved you with every piece of me at that moment? Why is it that I couldn't say it. What is it about me that I am afraid that when I run my hands through your hair or touch your arm, or snuggle against you, you will find me to be too much? Why is it that I feel like you don't really want me as much as you want to want me? Why is that me? I hardly think it's you. Is it?
Please don't use that tone with me and tell me to fuck off. Don't call me a bitch and look at me as if I am the one who is broken. Don't get so fucking drunk that you can't remember . You should be the one place where I feel safe.
I want you to be strong. Sure, I am here for you when you feel weak. We all feel weak. But there is a line and that line you tow fucking scares the shit out of me. Someday you will be laying in a ditch or locked up in a cell or breathing through a tube because of this so-called "common sense." Remember what you told me, "drugs are for young people."
PMS. Yep, I've got it bad. It's gut wrenching and body numbing. I just want to crawl out of my skin. Everything aches. My legs will barely move me. My chest burns. My face feels tired and old. And I am so very upset with me for moving in to your place. And I am so very upset with myself for crying like that the other night. . And I am so very upset with myself for not running and for wanting to run and for feeling like shit today. I want you to say the right thing. You did stay up last night to hug me, or so you said. You looked so very tired and so very unhappy. Tonight I will take you out and I will act happy and I will try desperately to make you laugh. I will put on something that accentuates my lips and eyes, and the redness in my hair. I believe you like the redness. I will wear something that shows off a little leg and a little breast and I will hope that you feel somewhat lucky to be by my side. It's funny how it comes around this way.
Why am I dwelling, my dear? I can't pry that drink or that weed or that line from your past or from your future. It is all yours. And I can't really be much different myself. I fucking hate that you did a line and that you think that's ok. I fucking hate that you got so drunk that the words fuck off seemed so seriously, even intertwined with kinder/gentler words. If you end up not loving me, you end up not loving me. It's just time that we are possibly wasting. But I don't feel much like I'm wasting. But maybe I do.
That's enough of that. Good rant. Deep breath. Nice text. Date night.
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