2001-05-14 | 10:50 p.m.

You know what?

Men suck.

No they really do.

You give them an inch they take a fucking mile. Miles and miles of memory and skin and laughter and hurt and everything else. And then they expect you not to break when they walk out the goddamn metaphorical room. And you know what? You think your never going to allow a man to ever make or break you. But sometimes. Sometimes tiny flakes of them merge into you and how the fuck can you not break when they walk away? And you know they are trying to push your buttons. You know they think if they push that far they will just shatter your frame. Because you think your made of steel but really your made of fine bone china and one nudge the wrong way and you can shatter into a million pieces.

I am so sick of this. So sick of letting this happen to me again and again like some sort of broken record that can never be fixed. The needle stuck on the vinyl LP and making sure that it doesn't budge, that it stays put and plays the same few beats over and over and over again. And you know I stay silent. Too damn silent, until it's too late.

And really. Really I should put my foot down and say to hell with them all. To hell with making me feel like this. To hell with men who walk out and to those who stay. And why do I even need them? Really. Why? Because they offer me nothing I want. I make money with my job. I buy my own drinks and go to my own damn movies and plays and hell I even wine and dine myself when I feel the need to. So I don't need this. Really. I have family. I have a close knit group of friends who will always remain friends and I have me. Me. You hear that? Me. And nothing will stop me from moving on. From running so fast you can't see me or hear me or feel me. Because I can and have and will walk away. And damn you all for thinking I can't. Damn you for thinking that I can't pack up my shit and go. Because I have in the past and I can do so in the future.

And I have blood on my hands. My own blood. Blood that I draw from small fractures that soon spread to larger clusters of skin pulled so taught it screams in relief. Screams in crimson rivers. And my skin, my skin is being pulled so tight that I can see the veins popping up like they are bubbles of air under some tight latex balloon. Except its not latex. It's pale skin. Skin that gives in more times than it doesn't. And my knuckles whiten as they split under my skin. And my nails make deep crevices into my palm and I blink up at the light, biting my lower lip so I don't cry in pain.

The truth of the matter is this.

No one can make or break me, not even myself.



p r e v i o u s // n e x t