i was on his bed covered by a blanket in the dark
he made some comment about how awful biting his nails is and that he needs to stop
i said it was okay, ive destroyed my nails forever.
he took my face in his hands and kissed me
for that stupid thing that we had in common
i can never feel too awful about not having nice hands when i associate that memory with my stubby finger nails
i feel like im constantly at odds with my body in some way and im fucking over it
Looking through dad’s old photos of me and realizing that I’ve been very dramatically insecure about my body for the better portion of my life. Remembering specific instances makes my stomach churn.
“Don’t eat that, you’ll get fat. Do you want to be fat?” as if that were the worst thing I could be. No nine year old should have to worry that she’s bigger than her dad’s girlfriend. I am angry tonight.
the one thing that makes me super happy is not near me and I’m never going to be okay with that
"Ma fleur est là quelque part…"
a lot of me wonders if our lives are pre determined. there was one conversation that we had on a sunny park bench at the beginning of spring. he said that at any given point in our lives when posed with any issue or decision, there is only one thing we will choose. we are compilations of everything we’ve ever experienced. we are decided by every action we make as well as everyone else’s. so, logically, there is only one answer to any question we are presented. one choice that we will keep making. i don’t know if that’s fate or something stranger. I don’t know what brings people places and takes them away. to me it seems like a web of crossed interactions, tangled at first glance, but a work of art when you step back. who knows if it’s random or written or a mix of the two. i have no idea. all i see is my life and the love that it’s filled with. and as much as ive always thought that we move through life unpredictably and randomly, I can’t help but question it now. how could this be a cosmic mistake when everyone sees how right it is? even that random french man that passed us as we were sitting on the steps of st. étienne talking. "je vous souhaite tout le bonheur du monde. vraiment. au fond de mon coeur" i dont know. i dont know at all. i am happy with him and he is happy with me. we both chose each other. that is enough of an answer for me right now. he is there, somewhere, and that’s enough.
I angrily took this snapchat and sent it to all my france people. It says “I thought that I left france…” because of the rain. My little host sister lauriane just sent me a snap back saying “”non, tu la quitteras jamais vraiment”(no you’ll never really leave it ) and i want to cry. I miss her so much. Coming back felt like leaving my home to go to a familiar but ultimately foreign place. I still feel like that. December can’t come quick enough.
Like okay xaver referred to chris my “boy toy” which pissed me off but then when I told him that was never a thing he was like “oh you mean it’s not a thing anymore?” No like it was NEVER A THING. he wanted it but I was only ever slightly into it and then I got a boyfriend. But this kid keeps insisting that chris and I were together in some way which isn’t true at all. Then when I mention sam he’s like “oh yeah what the fuck is that?? You shouldn’t be in a long distance relationship it’s college.” Thank you wow now I realize that I would much rather be single and aimlessly fuck a bunch of shitty rich white boys than be with a person that makes me happy and is good for me
All these boys want to fuck me, then forget me. They like having me there when they feel like it. Like the thought of me moaning their names and that’s it. They invite me over, say, make yourself at home. So I climb onto their fire escapes and shake.
All these boys like to text me late at night, when they’re bored. “Just thinking about you,” they say. And that’s it. Or they type, “I read your poetry. You’re going somewhere.” “What did you read?” I reply nervously. When they get back to me it’s one, two, three weeks later. It’s, “I don’t remember. Some stuff.” And that’s it.
I am wondering what they’d write if they wrote about me. “She was nice. Sort of pretty too. But mechanical. Preplanned. I don’t think I knew her much at all.”
Or worse, “We talked a few times. I liked the way her mouth looked. Wanted to feel it on me, you know? Thought about us fucking a few times…Yeah, I’d say I knew her pretty well.”
All these boys wipe their drool on me like I am just the flesh. Just a place to die in, for the night. Just a sweet thing to reflect on when they’re feeling heavy. Just an idea that they never got and still don’t want. And that’s it. That’s it."