Bougainvillea

7-19-06 10:09 pm

I like cigarette smoke.

Boys voices.

Guitars.

Yummy food.

Death by chocolate.

Escape.

Running away.

Release.

Sex.

Orgasms.

Pleasure from pain.

Good friends.

Laughing.

True love.

I hate birthdays.

Trust.

Broken hearts.

Anger.

Lonesome love.

I’m sitting on my porch chain smoking. I’ll be glad when this pack of cigarettes is done and I won’t by another. My geraniums are in full bloom. I’m watching the next door black kitty cats following their owner out every time she takes something to the trash. Its really cute, they come galloping after her from the back of the house, its so funny, I want to go play with them. Who says black kitties are bad luck??

Today was a good day; I ended it knowing I have delightful friends. People that I can depend on and love.

But alas, I end it broken hearted and lost. I give my all of my love to the people in my life friends and lovers alike, but somehow I come up short. I’m not sure what else to do; in the end I get called a spoiled brat. Am I? I think I can answer that question confidently knowing that I don’t even know what the definition of that phrase is. I do know that I have to be true to myself and in that process sometimes others get hurt, but my true nature is so nurturing and caring most of the time that doesn’t happen. But people are selfish creatures, and it does happen that people get hurt by honesty. I can’t change anyone but myself. And I’m tired of people trying to change me so that I fit into their little box. Take me and love me like I am. Sometimes I’m not always tolerable, hell, sometimes I can’t stand myself but damn.

I felt feelings tonight that I can’t even describe. Sick to my stomach. Knives, ripping through loins from stomach to heart. I had a moment, a tangible, touchable moment when if I had a knife I would have just ended it, it would have been done. I’m tired of feeling, tired of hurting. I want something more stable than disappointment to stand on.