i lied in the first post, in that, i cannot do this proper capitalization foolishness. i believe what i said and i still sit next to it, but it’s like it dressed up for a party i didn’t even want to go to.
me writing today : im going to cry, might as well get some sentences out of it (after charles d’ambrosio’s(sp) quote)
what makes half of it bearable is turning it into stories.
^^ this is from two days ago and this post is for yesterday because i spent the night reading the graphic novel of Speak. it was on sale, thought it was a steal, but something must’ve happened at the printer because a chapter repeated and a chapter is missing.
i kept forgetting about the library when i was in high school because i obsessed over the theatre and i couldnt be so much of myself all at once. / when i did remember the library, the blessing of it, there was always one book that i kept checking out: Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. i wrote a lot about how i didnt understand why there was something wrong with me. was it because i was gay? was it because i was trying so hard not to be, and failing? was it just a culmination of all that i was and there was no way i could properly erase my smudge?
the librarian was one of the sweetest people. my books were always overdue. sometimes weeks past. she always smiled and said, i can’t wait to see what you pick out this time and left me to it. i was in the shelves so long i’d hoped whoever was in charge would just let me live there.
in my old notebooks, theres a lot of depressed manic writing. theres begging God to change me / or kill me, whichever’s easiest for my family. there’s me deciding that im fine, that ill be okay and sorry for being so dramatic. there’s me always wondering why i keep writing about hands clenching me, the blood, the teeth. wondering why i write about this when nothing ever happened to me.
don’t know. something must’ve happened. some things keep repeating. some things keep missing.