Shake it Off
Saint Louise Was Listening On
4:18 p.m. || 2005-01-17
I saw that someone out there found the diary through googling my pseudonym. For some reason it made all the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up on end. I don't understand why, seems like something perfectly normal for someone to do, right?
I'm sitting here in the waning light of daytime, that weird little piece where your day lets you know it has yet again slipped through for fingers. I spent a long time doing the usual daytime routin with a couple friends, and then took a long bath. It's funny the way my thoughts seem to churn in the water, and for those of you who don't know me more intimately, I take a bath at about 600 degrees centigrade, so it's almost a vision-quest-hallucination-sexy-painful-boiling thing that is going on in there.
I was thinking about this place I hide in, hurry things up in, slow things down in, lose my mind in, this place that no one knows about. When i was there last you smelled like wood smoke on a fall evening, like the undertones in a glass of red wine, and I drank you in with lips and eyes and fingertips. The last time I was there, you had strong hands, and you kneaded my flesh with them, like I was made of clay, like you were trying to make something more beautiful of me.
I come so hard I feel like I'm dropping through pane after pane of glass, each shattering more delicious than the next.
I only am a whore in the heart of my hearts, the true one that beats behind the other, black and filled with the truest of my emotions. The body and mind never betray. The one that wells with emotion, not of the hurtful things we say in the light, but the silence that hangs between us in the dark, pregnant with what-ifs and doubts.