>A Teenage Dichotomy
>First, I offer you a love poem that isn’t about killing myself over love, or crying about love, or generally making an ass of myself for love. That’s not to say that it has any artistic merit whatsoever or that it is in any way original. But it was my state of mind for at least 20 minutes on the day that it was written. Of course, on the same day, I then penned a verse about pain and emptiness and endless agony. You know, the fun stuff.
It stems from several episodes detailed in my journal on and around February 18th, 1994 which at the moment I don’t feel like disclosing outright. To provide context I will say that at this time Jacques asked me out again a couple of months after a brain-destroying, soul-crushing break-up. In fact, he asked me to be his girlfriend in the middle of a very intense make out session, which is the high school version of asking a girl to marry you while having sex. He whispered the right words and sealed the deal.
The journal entries to which I referred earlier have to do with having sexual relations with Jacques in various semi-public places. True to my nature I wrote about these incidents in incredibly graphic detail and to be perfectly honest I really don’t feel like sharing those details at this moment. Suffice to say that it was unbelievably stupid to do what I did where I did. And true to Jacques nature, two days after I wrote these poems I was once more on the verge of getting dumped by his changeable ass.
The Confession (2/20/94)
He smiles at me.
I’m not alone anymore.
Does he hear my heart beat
faster when he touches me? (Oh yes, ladies and gents, it is that bad)
He holds me.
I’m not afraid anymore. (Actually, I am still afraid of the dark, so basically I was lying)
Does he know how much
I need him here with me? (Like 3 holes in the head . . .)
He looks at me.
I’m not cold anymore.
Does he know how I feel,
does he feel the same? (Um . . . Highly doubtful)
He touches me.
I don’t have to cry anymore. (Except all the time)
Does he know he makes me happier
than I’ve ever been before? (That ain’t saying much)
He kisses me.
I don’t want to think anymore.
Does he understand my confusion?
Does he know how much I love him? (Duh)
He smiles at me.
Nothing else matters.
Awwww . . . Isn’t that so very sweet you want to vomit copiously onto your shoes? Not so much once you juxtapose it with this, which was probably written about an hour later because that’s how I used to roll.
Dungeon Master (2/20/94)
like the clouds
who scream at me
for resisting. (Hell no, I won’t go)
I will not share their pain. (I have always lamely ascribed feelings to clouds)
They strangle me.
Their tears rain down
like drops of acid. (Reeeeaaaaaal original)
Eat my heart. (nom nom)
How wicked your words
seem to me.
cry. (Jacques was only too happy to oblige)
Rip me open
and fill the void
inside of my soul.
Be my partner in pain;
as I would love you. (Never. Going. To happen.)
Torture me. (I am a closet masochist)
as you watch me bleed. (I am also a glutton for punishment)
I writhe in agony
So yeah, I was pretty fucked in the head. (And also in various places on the campus of my high school. Yep. I said that.) Anyway, this time in my life was fairly terrible, and so I wrote terrible poetry to accompany it. It’s actually kind of embarrassing. Ah, fuck it.