Fitch, Janet

Love. I would ban the word love from the vocabulary. Such imprecision. Love, which love, what love? Sentiment, fantasy, longing, lust? Obsession, devouring need? Perhaps the only love that is accurate without qualification is the love of a very young child. Afterward, she too becomes a person, and thus compromised. "Do you love me?" you asked in the dark of your narrow bed. "Do you love me Mommy?"
"Of course," I told you. "Now go to sleep."
Love is a bedtime story, a teddy bear, a familiar, one eye missing.
"Do you love me, carita?" Lydia says, twisting my arm, forcing my face into the rouch horsehair blanket, biting my neck. "Say it, you bitch."
Love is a toy, a token, a scented hankerchief.
"Tell me you love me," Barry said.
"I love you," I said. "I love you, I love you."
Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed.
Love is a payment that comes due.

(no subject)

osirisryder25: wassup
pieces of beauty: I HAVE A BOYFRIEND
osirisryder25: R U SERIOUS
pieces of beauty: YES
osirisryder25: SARAH .. BOYFRIEND
pieces of beauty: I KNOW
osirisryder25: what is this world coming too.
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    really fucking happy

my thought processor needs an on/off switch.

friends who've known me for quite a while ask me now why i've grown so soundless in the last year or so. they say i wasn't always like this. i usually answer "because i don't have much to say anymore."

oh, but that's a lie.
the truth is that i have so much to say, so much to convey, to slip into your pockets, to write into novels, to scream off your rooftops, that when i try to speak, my brain and mouth get crammed with all the words and urges and emotions, that it's so much less stressful not to say anything at all.
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