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9:17 p.m. - October 07, 2001
how little i have changed
Here is another lie to live; here is something to keep up. This doesn't bother me but of course the trivial things do. All the tears in the world wouldn't make somebody feel something for me. I wouldn't even want them to, if pity is all. Not even that.

He accuses me of not being able to let go and he's right, he's absolutely right, it hit me right in the pit of my heart, and along with seeing him able to.... I thought he and I could sit on the sidelines together forever and watch and laugh about it, but now he's in with them all and I'm not. He can, and I still can't. He's leaving me behind, by myself, and this is really where we're going to split. I cannot lose him like this. My blood runs clear from my eyes, my tears, that's what it feels like. How odd it is to cry, and then I trivialized it with someone else later, it wasn't the truth at all, though I thought it was at the time. That's the thing with truth; it changes. And then you have to lie to keep it up. But me, oh, me.. I lie to start out with. I don't even know what I'm doing, why I'm doing it. Half my friends see me as the rock, the other half see me crumbling, always have. But this one time they see the rock crumble... and I still abhor erosion. Sharp-cornered, weathered, strong. Yet sometimes i want to sell my own soul and everything thing it. Then what do you do? Your heart is poured onto the floor, people are stepping in it. He's stepped on my heart more times than I can remember, and yet I keep pouring him more. What do you do when all you want is to be loved?

-June 2000, in a red journal that I only used for about a week

 

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