I am Jill's broken heart
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_kate_says_'s LiveJournal:
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| Saturday, June 23rd, 2007 | | 10:44 am |
I know people who avidly follow the news; I know people who do not. Then, I know people who proudly claim they do not. There are reasons, and they seem, to me, to be both valid and incredibly silly at once. They do not trust journalists. They do not want to hear about all the 'bad stuff' in the world. They do not care. It does not touch them. Well, I'm sorry, I am, but that's it: Welcome to the world. I did not become a journalist because I love to write. I did not become a journalist because I love fashion, love celebrities, love sports--though they are fair reasons all. But, I, personally, became a journalist because I believe there are some stories that need to be told, that must be told. I became a journalist because I believe that information does enact change. And, I became a journalist because I believe there are still people out there, like me, who believe that you can do something, that corruption hasn't swept over the world irreversably--and that the words on a page are not just words, are instead an attempt to understand and discuss a world that is hurting. I may be idealistic, I probably am, but to me it's better than turning away. I want to go to Africa. Africa is not a safari. Africa is not 'cool.' Many countries in Africa have been, or are, consumed by poverty, civil war, violence and disease. I am not going there to see lions. I am not going there to be safe. And I wonder if those people know that in the past months there have been activists assassinated there, in the country in Africa I want to go to. I wonder if I come home in a body bag, chopped in pieces, like so many--too many--journalists and activists before me if they will laugh. If I am raped or beaten there if they will make jokes. If they will then care. Because the world is very real, and although, at times, it may seem like it, the world is not a movie. And, sooner or later, they will be welcomed to it, and I hope when they are they'll know how silly it was to joke, to snigger, and to not care. | | Monday, January 15th, 2007 | | 12:04 am |
| | Saturday, September 2nd, 2006 | | 1:07 am |
"Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love"-Fiona Apple
I want to consume and be consumed and I wonder if there is such a thing. I want to feel you everywhere--if I only knew where you were.
I went crazy again today. With the buzz that sounded in my head.
What punctuation can I put on my life? Tommorow is an ink blot. Tomorrow is a fucking Rorschach Test. And I'm only a dash, or a comma. Or some tired cliche stuck between quotation marks.
| | Sunday, July 16th, 2006 | | 10:52 pm |
And the tiny blots of insects sticking black against my face don't matter. And the sweat that's wandered down my back, lulling in the dip doesn't matter. And the endless paper doll strings of yesterday, today and tomorrow don't matter. And I, I don't matter. I've dismembered and pieces of me are floating in the trees, on the asphalt, in the dirt, and in those black bugs who've found their funeral upon my face. I'm the shitty machine that pushes, pushes forward because the pieces that are my legs will it so. And for a brief moment--so short it's between the inhale and soft exhale of breath, the whoosh upon my lips--I'm at peace. Suddenly, every part of me is mine. Knowable. Touchable.Believable. I am nothing. And I am everything. | | Sunday, June 18th, 2006 | | 3:09 am |
Why do I keep thinking about you when you don't even remember what it was to hold me so completely? What the curve of my lips look like, or the softness of my touch. Or the lilt in my voice. Or my stupid drunken prose. When you don't remember anything about me, really, at all. When this is hopeless. When this is done.
I need sleep. I need sanity. I need forgiveness. | | Monday, June 5th, 2006 | | 6:58 pm |
It's a paper doll string of marionettes. Snip the last one off. I'm her.
I can't believe my computer is broken. Again.
That is all | | Wednesday, March 15th, 2006 | | 8:20 pm |
It's a Hard Place
Can't be friends. Can't be enemies. It's just too fucked. The hardest thing is things already said.
This is a dumb entry, but I'll write it anyway.
I don't know why we so constantly misinterpret eachother, read eachother the wrong way, assume all the wrong things. But we do. Don't know why we continue to hurt eachother, but we do. Don't know why we make such wild leaps in judgement. Don't know how we can so constantly miss what eachother really feels, wants, tries to do.
I have no idea how things got so skewed. I have no idea what you get from being so petty. What I do. I wish so many things that will never mesh with reality.
Some things you lose, some things you give away.
I can only know what you tell me. What your words said, what your actions said. There are things we will never know about eachother. And things, I imagine, we won't forget.
The weird thing is, I would have stayed with you forever if you let me. The weird thing is, I understand why we broke up. The weird thing is, I would still do anything for you.
Such infinite sadness. That we are so right, and so very wrong for eachother. That I have somehow become something horrible to you again. That there is absolutely nothing I can do to repair this disconnect. To tell you what you mean to me and how I truly feel about you. And have you believe me. And have me believe you.
Getting better, worse, I cannot tell.
This time it will be alright.
This time it will be OK
Current Mood:  distressed | | Thursday, March 9th, 2006 | | 11:52 pm |
Remember all the wonderful things about you. I remembered them. I tucked them neat inside me skin. A pin, a needle I could take out and sew with. Sew happiness, sew a smile, sew a memory. Why lie? What is there to change? I loved you. And I'll never love somebody again with the same passion. Or hate.
But you took it for granted. Shoved the needle through my flesh and pulled it out again. A long jagged cut. You call, you beckon, you dismiss. But I'm not on a leash. I'm not here to sit, to jump, to beg, to play dead. I'm not here, with you, at all.
And I like it that way. You left me twice. Why come back to you? Why wait for you? Why cherish you? You pulled out my heart and pulped it to the ground twice. You said you didn't want me twice. Couldn't be with me twice. Kill the cliche, third time is not the charm. You don't get another chance. You fucked up. And I may love you, but I don't need to be naked, face in the ground again. Not that much. I don't love you that much.
So say your acid words. Say them to make yourself feel better. Pretend I want you if it means you can love yourself. Pretend I'll never love him if it means the same. Lie to yourself. Go on. It doesn't hurt me. I know what I've done. I've gone and opened my heart to someone who doesn't want to fuck around with me, who likes being with me and fuck, thinks I'm wonderful. And doesn't always leave me wondering if I deserve him. The reasons I'm with him, have nothing to do with you. But satisfy your ego. Tell yourself they do. Tell yourself anything. I'm done. I'm healing. And the pin is staying in. | | Saturday, March 4th, 2006 | | 12:27 am |
dont be fooled by the rocks that i got, im still, im still l-dawg from the block. g unit. ew. rude.
lauren is by herslef. 69.the new rule is i cannot backspace. whooah typped that coherentpy
not hat]
\wheeee waht a fun eulw
so there was this oe time me and jammie were drinking wine/ it reallu good. wr rakd alot of it. and then sjammei spat itout. jus recently. she didnt spuit it out. she swallowed. liked waht i did. ha. ryude. so wever decided that we hav e a crush on peter mosser. yupp. hes one ezey short asian dude./ that was om;u sligj;y very rude. rud3.oops. i am typiung on angle too. just to let ou kerks know. yippp. reeeee.
clsong sentance:
fuushuisssi na niioozzzieeee
la. dot and jammie. ot.dot. FONDLE ME. RUDE. Current Mood:  ish | | 12:13 am |
| | Thursday, March 2nd, 2006 | | 8:49 pm |
Not your Madonna, not your Whore
Don't do this to me now. What a mantra. Don't, just don't. Chant it. Words over and over again til they make one. Don't, don't don't. String them, sew them, stitch them. Just don't. I don't need you now. I don't need you. Nothing to say. I have nothing to say to you. Don't. Just when I start over again. Just when I start. I have someone. I have me. I'm a fucking I will survive song. I'm a fucking love song. This isn't what I want anymore. You said it. Stick to it. Tack it to your back. Carve it in your arm. Just stick to it.
Maybe we can be friends. Maybe I can help you out. Maybe.
I don't want to be bitter. I want this. I don't want to be a cynic. I want this. And I don't want you. I want him. Current Mood:  weird | | Sunday, February 26th, 2006 | | 1:18 am |
CUP OF JOE
Extremely tall
***DISCLAIMER THE BELOW IS VERY RUDE****
Kisses with the Scream face
Vegetarians taste better. Rude.
Tries to kill my cat.
Makes awesome pizza, but very congested ice cream floats.
I think I'm paranoid.
Is obssessed with sound/marks/me/not really/geeky stuff/being awesome in every concievable way. His words, not mine.
Thinks the thyroid gland is in your thigh.
Is extremely quiet. Brooding (but also in an awesome way).
Likes some weird sort of food item called bridge mixture.
Likes to mix my bridge. (what does that even mean)
Is da bomb.
Wants me to delete this because it is incredibly embarrassing and hate producing.
Is horribly violent. It's a good thing I'm bigger and stronger.
And also have a bigger penis.
Aw my kitten is so cute.
Oh yes, on the topic of my pussy....rude.
Has too large pants.
Seriously I can see his ass, and that is not bootylicious.
I WARNED YOU ABOUT THIS BEING DISGUSTING WITH THE DISCLAIMER, YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF. HA. I SAID BUTT.
SO. THIS IS ME BREAKING MY LJ STALEMATE. RUDE TO ME. BRAVO TO ME.
MMMM LOVE THAT "CUP" OF JOE. AND BY THAT I MEAN JAMMIE'S VAGINA. Current Mood:  dirty | | Thursday, October 6th, 2005 | | 10:33 pm |
Gamble. Roll, roll the dice. Singular. Die. There's none of the glamour. No flash of Rolex on tanned wrist, no glitz of diamond on skeletal finger, on delicate earlobe. Roll the cubes in the palm of my sweaty hand. Rhythm. Not our rhythm. Not our mashing of skin. Not our grinding. Not our delicate limbs. Not our flash, not our glamour. Not our time hemmed upon our pulse. Just my sweaty hand. Rolling, rolling the dice. Singular. Die.
Are there stakes higher than money? More elevated than cold hard cash? Thick wads of bills, watch the faces flash dead royalty, a loyal tie to the past that lacks meaning, lacks conviction, lacks a place. Only signifies history. History: something once ours, once dear, once real. History: now nothing but words on pulped trees, faces on bills. They've something in common, money and you. Money and I. Dead Kennedys. Roll, roll, roll. Roll the dice. Die. Stakes higher than money. Love. Friendship. You.
Can I gamble this? Can my sweaty palms let the cubes, black-dotted faces indifferent, roll. Push. Can I push everything inside and put on my gambling face? No glamour. Crumple. Put it all on the line. Walk the line. Drop the dice. Roll. Gamble it all. He could end up hating me. Lose. Lose it all.
But I have nothing left to bet. Except for me. I'll fall if i lose. Roll. Roll. Or hold them steadfst and walk away. Pin them through the flesh of my palm and walk away. Some stakes are higher than money. Roll. Roll. Roll the dice. Singular die. If i lose, I will die.
****I'm waiting for something that will never come. An admission. A ticket. Give the stubs out on a role of orange and white. Perferated. Tear one off. I'll pay with my heart. The metaphor of the juicy pumping thing - poetry from my artery. Current Mood:  crappy | | Wednesday, October 5th, 2005 | | 12:32 am |
I'm playing a game and I'm bound to lose
The only comfort I have is
That my pillow does not smell
Like you. So when I lay down
To sleep it is not you there,
Like last night, but only me.
And I don't have to remember
What it felt like to wake up
And be in your arms again.
I can forget your smile and your
Scent and your head there
Upon my skin. Because my pillow
Does not smell like you and
You were never there,
Anyway. | | Friday, September 23rd, 2005 | | 9:44 pm |
I died the day you left
Don't know you?
Remember when I asked you to write "property of Lauren" on you. And you did in Christmas colours across your chest, because red and green were the only markers you could find. but the green washed off, and all that was left was a gibberish of red across your chest. And I laughed, and I loved you for it. Who knows you better than that?
Remember when I fell asleep curled up in your chest, our limbs tangled. And we would fight over who got my Cat in the Hat pillow, and whenever I left the room to brush my teeth you would steal it. And I would pretend to be mad. And I would steal all the blankets from you and you never could quite steal them back. And you would tickle me so I fell right off the bed. And once, my most trimphant moment, I jerked and clocked you right in the jaw. Who knows you better than that?
Remember when my thoughts and my words used to mirror your own. Remember how scary it was sometimes when we thought so much alike. Remember that we would fight the same fight, and both be so pigheaded, and I would think you were so awful and so lovely at the same time. Remember the hours we spent talking to eachother, and all the mushy, terrible, wonderful things we would say to eachother. And the smiles we would paste to eachothers faces? Who knows you better than that?
Remember the muffin shirt I got made for you so you could wear it and know I loved you enough to call you a dumb name and make you a dumb shirt? Remember the sweater of yours I would sleep in because it smelled of you and I only wanted to be completely immersed in you? And how I made you take so many pictures of us and I would wear it like a goof? Remember all those awful pictures you took of me? and no matter how much I tried and you tried we just couldn't get them to look good. but when we took them together we just looked so damn cute. so damn meant for eachother. and how one day after work we crammed into a photbooth and you just smiled because the camera loved you, and i unintentionally made the worst faces. but i kept it on my wall forever because it made me so happy. Who knows you better than that?
Remember how we used to watch sex in the city together? And the night we bought so much junkfood and stuffed ourselves with oreos. and the food you used to make me and we would sit and eat and talk and talk and talk. and the day we went to golden griddle just because we wanted hashbrowns, and ordered nothing but two heapfuls of the the greasy things. and the server i tipped so richly just because she thought we were cute. and we were. and the night i got smashed at the old spaghetti factory and wouldn't shut up and you just smiled at me the whole night. and i thought you were the most wonderful person I had ever met. and the salty hole in ones you made me which i loved even though i professed to hate salt. Who knows you better than that?
Remember that night we were walking arm in arm going somewhere, i cannot even remember where, and just touching eachother made the world seem ok. and I knew I would do anything for you. and you'd take my hand as you lay on top of me. and the night where i was pretending to be asleep and i swear i heard you say i love you. when i was still too scared to say it. and how i have touched every part of you, loved every part of you, snuck a look at your skinny, hairy ass when you weren't looking. seen your so ridiculous dance, naked and making me laugh so much i cried. cuddle me. tried to keep a straight face a look angry at the same time when you went on about your ten other girlfriends. naked in the pool. Who knows you better than that?
Remember when you told me you loved me and i cried because i loved you so much. and i did. Who knows you better than that?
Don't know you? I started to. I did. And I wish I could still. Current Mood:  dorky | | 12:23 am |
Fragment. Was a time when I thought I'd never run out of things to say to you. Fragment. Was a time. Fragment. Was. And then I realized, I never did. You ran out of things to say to me. I could talk to you forever if you let me. I could listen to you forever if you had things to say. I could. I. Fragment. Read all the things we've ever said to eachother. Fragment. All the things we've ever said. Fragment. We. Fragment. Forgot how happy you used to make me. Forgot how your supposed honesty could make me beam. Forgot, I think, how you being the last person I talked to before sleep and the first when I woke up meant so much to me. Fragment. Forgot you meant so much to me. Fragment. You meant so much to me. Fragment. You. Fragment. Now I'm afraid to say all the things I want to say. I'm afraid to be ok. I'm afraid to let you in. I'm afraid to call you friend. I'm afraid to trust you. I'm afraid because I don't think I can. Was a time when I thought you were the only person I could trust. Fragment. Was a time when you were the only person. Fragment. You were the only person. Fragment.
What happened to you. I see you trapped in the slick film of photograph. I see you trapped inside of me. I see you on words on a screen. I see you close to me one day and gone, regret, the other. I see you scared. Of what I cannot guess. I don't see you.
Fragment. A piece of me here, a piece of me there. I'm scrambled. I've melted and reformed into pieces that don't match up. Fragment. | | Monday, September 5th, 2005 | | 3:07 pm |
Go on blame me. Say I should paint you golden and place you upon a pedestal in my heart as a happy memory. Feed me lead, make me sink. Fuck me. Fuck me and leave me. Say you'll try and go. Reach into my chest, pull it out and paint a filigree of blood upon my sanity. My heart. Fuck me and say it means nothing. Fuck me so I don't get the wrong idea. Fuck me when you know I'm sick from missing you. And just leave. Go. Don't stay. And then be silent, sew your mouth shut crudely and only speak to tell me I am nothing to you; to tell me I am nothing; to tell me that I was nothing but a mediocre whore. Then play with the sinew that stiches me together, that makes my heart whole and with one swift, foul motion rip it. All while you're fine; all while you're dancing in fucking sunshine. And then tell me I should be happy too. And then tell me you just can't quite get why I'm so down and blue. Just erase me. But I'm the bitch; I'm the bitch for hating all the things you've done to me. I'm the bitch for being angry with you. You, you're just a victim. Aren't we all.
You want the truth?
The truth is I miss you too, but I'd rather die than admit it. And i don't have a death wish. Not anymore. Look. Look if you still have eyes enough to see me. No white lines upon white flesh. Healed, they're faint. Two months today. The truth is I can only sleep at night if I imagine your phanton arms around me, the truth is I cannot imagine laying beside anyone else. And as much as I cannot stand the harsh lick of your memomry that waxes upon the edges of my mind - I welcome it. The truth is the thought of your lips pressed upon mine makes me want to gag. The truth is your face haunts me, burned in blood upon the insides of my eyelids. Can two contrasting thoughts coexist? I'd give anything to lay in your arms once again, but I never want to see you, ever again. See your so pretty eyes again, your so wonderful mouth, your so cruel mouth.
The truth is I was just a fuck. The truth is you lied. You don't miss me, you don't even miss a memory of me, you don't miss me at all. Just a whim.
But I still miss you. | | Saturday, September 3rd, 2005 | | 1:54 pm |
Enter Kate: Random part of story le deux
There’s a tear in the leather toe of Kate’s heavy, battered boots. She kicks the leg of the table, swiftly once, swiftly twice. There’s a tear in Kate. The rubber sole taps swiftly once, swiftly twice. Kate’s arms are crossed in an X drawn in flesh. One arm grasps her bare shoulder, plays with the strap of her violet dress splashed with synthetic flat flowers. The other lifts the shot glass full of clear liquid and downs it.
It’s full of water, but Kate’s voice slurs anyway and she says, “So here we are on our second date. It must be God, it must be divine, it must be fate written and sealed inside a fucking fortune cookie.”
He smiles. What can he say? He pulls the salmon carnation out of the chipped vase placed on the table. With a flourish he softly drags the petals down Kate’s hard face. He’s trying to be charming.
“A flower for m’lady. Look it smiles at you. Smile dear Kate. Here we are on our second date.”
Her mouth twists, “Look he rhymes.”
And to his blank and stupidly sweet face she says, “A flower. Can an inanimate object smile at me?”
“But Kate,” her prince charming protests, “a flower moves, a flower grows, it is not a wall.”
Kate plucks the carnation from his hand and places it to her nostrils as she exhales the rancid smoke of cigarette and instead inhales the faint pollen of the wilting table flower.
She says, “I prefer sunflowers. I have never smelt a sunflower although I imagine armies of their yellow faces beaming. A soft scent that smacks of fizzing, popping chemicals, whose chromosomes, whose genetics spell j-o-y. But can they smile? An attribute I place - perhaps with a tendril of madness licking my brain - upon this unfeeling object - this flower.”
She looks down at the carnation and swiftly plucks a pink orange petal from it’s smiling face. It slips off her hand and is crushed swiftly once, swiftly twice under her tapping toe. She looks the man in the eyes - whose name she has forgotten, maybe Mike, maybe John, something normal and generic she is sure. Kate craves normal as she craves chocolate. She holds his eyes and she nods.
“A flower is not a wall. Inanimate. A human is not a flower. Animate.”
And the water that has slid down her throat all night becomes vodka.
Kate’s words slur together, a paper doll string the man across from her does not want to hear. Should not hear.
Kate says, “He moves. He jumps, and bends and twists. He pushes, he thrusts, he groans. His happy face smiles at me.”
Her eyes roll to the side, “Used to.”
She plucks petal after petal that grind to a fragrant pulp under her ripped and torn leather toe.
“I cannot make it move. I cannot make it turn up - this mouth. This animate thing. Pull. I cannot pull the strings on this marionette. Wood. Not alive. Unmoving. A marionette I can move. A man I cannot. There’s the catch. A flower can smile. This man cannot.”
The man across the table from Kate is bending, is rising, is classically gesturing to leave. His hand moves forward and the words weakly fall from his mouth – “Maybe we better...”
But they trail off in ellipses.
Kate is on a roll, “Imagine. The other day, I went for a walk down on Broadway. He’s by my side. We’re walking,” she pauses, “No, don’t let me kid you. I’m alone, it’s all in my head.”
Kate grabs the man’s shoulder and pushes him down, “So we stop at this flower shop. Impossibly smiling sunflowers, their scent consumes me.
“Imagine this as I imagine him,” she says to the man - John, Joe, Mike.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she says to his screwed up face - he’s trying to be charming, but he wants to get the hell out, “they’re there, the sunflowers, but I can’t smell a damn thing. I go in. It’s as simple as that. No wait, we go in. I pull his calloused hand, his ugly mitt of a hand. I hold it and with my other I make a sweaty hand print upon the clean glass. I’m laughing - some joke he made. I’m always laughing when he’s here. It’s strung and soaked upon my vocal cords this j-o-y he pastes to me.”
Kate takes her hand off the Bill’s shoulder and more H2O slides down her throat. She shakes her head.
“But no, I’m alone. I pout. But it’s only play dear - a tease and an invite to suck on my lips. One I wish he’d take in spite of the old hag that would combust with one flick of our flame. I wish I had a match. I wish I had his lips upon the curve of my neck. Hungry there.”
Kate strokes the curve of her so translucent neck, the vein pumping there and the man gathers his coat.
“But I pout. I want a sunflower. I’ve never smelt one before and my cells are itching to spell out j-o-y because I’ve only imagined him again. It’s only me standing with one hand spread across the cold barrier of glass.”
Kate’s plucked the last smile from the carnation. She looks up. The man is gone - Bill or Joe or Richard. He’s flown the coop. Kate is tired and she uses a tired cliche.
“I’ve lost another one,” Kate says as she crushes the last petal beneath her boots.
“I’ve lost you.” Current Mood:  accomplished | | Sunday, July 31st, 2005 | | 7:49 pm |
the middle of kate
Your memory lives on in me like an ostensory. Bright and holy there. Dim and abstract there. A chorus of angels in unity; angels in cold and bloody mutiny. Why do you walk there in the sacred hollows of my mind. Pitter and patter there in the cold stone halls, in the pillars that stand so stoic there. Why do you come here? I don't want you. My skin throbs; it is hungry for you to be cut out," says Kate the knife poised to her flesh to feel and not to feel.
Says Kate to her tortured and translucent face in the glass - a reflection of a human - a fake.
“He’s right. Get over it. Just get over it. So simple. So simple. Snap. It’s as easy as 1,2,3. It’s as easy as pie. Fucking apple pie. It’s taste has none of it’s sweetness though - pie’s. No smack of cinnamon, sugar. I taste blood, anger, sweat. But he’s right. Let’s tell a story. Sit down kids. Be quiet kids, no one has ever heard this one before. She screams.”
Kate opens her mouth into a wide O and gulps the air, a fish - a screaming trout.
“She screams inside,” Kate says, “It’s a daily routine. He holds her head there, forces it, pushes it down, pushes it in with his hands that are stronger than hers. Makes her swallow it. The sick liquid that spirts into her mouth. Sticks in her throat. Sometimes she can still taste it. He’s done. Routine. Bitch, slut, fat. Those pet names, sweet like apple pie. She has no resistence left. It disgusts me.”
Kate looks down at shaking hand, “it disgusts me. She eats every word that spew out of his mouth, spills like dead flies. She’s nothing without him. I say she’s nothing with him. Nothing. She’s nothing at all. . Once resistence met with truth, met with his hand, met with his force, met with his body, met with his cock. These pet names. She kicks, she screams, she cries. And this disgusts me most of all- she pleads.
“But he’s on top of her, he pushes her knees open. She’s bare. The fear consumes her. The betrayal worms inside of her. And so does he. His face, his ugly face is all she can see, fear and the scratch of the carpet all she can feel. The stench of his breath is floating everywhere in the room. One last scream, ‘no’ she begs. And he’s off. He’s done. And what does he say, ‘I love you.’
“What kind of a man is this? What kind of creature is this that walks and talks and breathes. And the after: slut, virginity gone. That’s it kids, that’s the end.”
Kate’s shaking hand caresses her translucent face and slides down, lines drawn in the fog of her breath upon glass.
“She never was the same after that. She began to fancy the knife was her best friend and hate sex her new enemy. Not one without the other. No man without the knife, the quick comfort of blood. No scars. Her arms, her stomach, her legs are laced with them. Cut deeper. She would, but she hands on to life for you. I hate her. I hate the way she remembers him, feeds him holding her down. I hate the way she gouges into her flesh to feel and not to feel. It’s all the styrofoam men. Just get over it.”
His voice echoes cold in her head.
“I try. I do try. I hate the way she pities. You don’t understand. But you are right. I’ve amputated his voice, his hands - they’re gone. Him I hate, but her, her I forgive. I forgive her. Let it go. I’m letting you go.”
Kate crumples, Kate’s a leaf. Kate cannot sort out the men in her mind: the ones she hates and the one she loved. They trample the flowers in her sanctuary with their so clean boots, their so clean faces. Kate’s a flower in the chill of autumn. Kate’s a leaf. Current Mood:  contemplative | | Sunday, July 10th, 2005 | | 11:34 am |
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