All the people that didn’t want you. All of them who changed their minds. Those that promised, those that were proud they lied. Those people that made you feel like you couldn’t, that you didn’t want to. Leave them here.
Happy New Years. This one is ours.
terica.
Absolutely.
Loving someone you have only dreamed of. Realizing you love the only person who ever loved you. Loving someone you can never have. Loving someone you have never told. Loving someone you’re just waiting for the right moment to tell.
Loving someone you’ve never met? Of course.
Meet them.
that’s soo many posts!
thank you for coming here, thank you for knowing this is here for you. for us. we’re going to change our world.
We are there for each other. Have soo much fun in NYC, go to St. Marks!
Sometimes I wish things would stop happening, don’t you?
I don’t believe in distance. Let’s talk it out.
You’re not random, I know just who you are. Identity is so important to give, because it is so easy to lose. And wrong again, I owe you everything. Or, my identity at least.
Read “Half Unread”. You’ll find answers there.
The day I was born, my uncle came to visit my parents in the hospital. They say he took one look at my newborn hair and gave me my very first nickname. It was a full head of hair; jet black and sticking straight up in all directions. They say it couldn’t be combed. They say it defied expectations. My uncle called me, “the punk rocker” and they say I smiled for the very first time.
thank you for all the birthday blessings, Streetlighters. you are each the reason.
…T.
“Tell me what you feel.”
But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t say anything at all. I buried my face in his shoulder that he’d turned away from me and pleaded for the words to come. They did not.
The thing about perfect is…
…he’ll never know he’s your perfect unless you tell him.
Another rough weekend in Long Island. I say ‘another’ like I expected it was possible, but that’s too much false credit and it never ceases to impress me how- how on Earth did I not see that coming? It feels as though I’ve lived 100 of the same stories out on Long Island; different years, different bands, same boys, same endings. I keep going back for more. There seems to be such a fine line between my faith and my stupidity. But I can’t help it. Have you looked into his eyes? I’m there.
Every story happens fast on Long Island. How is that? Time moves so slow there, and yet our stories unravel, pages fly. Things are over before we really knew they had begun. It seems I’m always writing in retrospect, and that seems cowardice. The words are somewhere, and I feel like me of people should be able to find them. Why can’t I?
Streetlight Diaries is not about love. It’s written by someone who’s given every drop of hers away. I desperately wish I could regret some of the distribution, but I can’t. I believe every bad decision was worthwhile. It’s the good decision I seem to be having some trouble making. I seem to be afraid to risk letting something right happen.
It’s easy to give love where love is not reciprocated. It isn’t really a risk to say ‘I love you’ to a closed book. But if there’s a chance that someone could love you back, well that’s scary. To me, it’s terrifying. So when he asked me to tell him how I felt, well…
Everything about him amazes me; his smile, his purpose, his talent, his shoes, the things he’s brave enough to say. I want to be amazing back. Which is why I ran and why my waste basket is full of writing that just isn’t good enough. Which is why I didn’t tell him. I can’t write the same story again.
Another weekend in Long Island. I sit on a ratty couch stashed upstairs in a dungeon space that I call someone’s home. A smooth fog of white cigarette smoke entraps my thoughts, keeping me still and in the present for now. I squint to detect 2 faces coming through the smoke; beautiful boys in flannels and loose keffiyeh scarves, with subtly dirty hair and cameras in their hands. Downstairs a bassist paces about his practicing and I sit here with my scribblings. There is another artist on the way; an artist I have something very important to tell.
“You are….”
…terica.
Things I should tell him:
- You left your sweater in my car.
- My stuff you have, don’t give it away.
- I saw a rainbow today over the highway.
- I love you.
- Joe says hi.
The heart consists of three tissue layers:
1) The pericardium, the outermost layer, encases. It protects. It’s made of dense connective tissue that attaches to both the diaphragm and the base of the great vessels. I’m ready to sing out.
2) The myocardium is the middle layer and has cells that conduct electrical impulses from one muscle cell to another; it makes your heartbeat. It makes mine beat twice as fast whenever he walks near. I can feel something, I am not numb anymore.
3) The endocardium is the deepest layer and is bathed in blood. My blood is laced with the details of my stories; the little instances that can take me back to anytime in the past whenever I want to go. But sometimes visiting the past is not the best way to move forward. The Maine was in my 2009, and I have to be careful where I donate blood back to.
When the deepest wound heals, I will have forgave and been forgiven. Until then, I’ll be listening to an ’80s playlist.
For sure. I will send it out myself. All you have to do is send a check for $15 (yayy Half Unread is cheaper noww!) to me here:
4167 West Wind Dr., Vernon NY, 13476
This is my writing lair address, aka, the middle of nowhere with enough space to think about Books 2, 3 and 4 all at once. Make sure your address is on the envelope : ) If this can’t fly, come talk to me, we’ll work something out <3…T.
