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[22 Nov 2003|04:28am] |
I wanted to hear your voice tonight. I wanted my phone to ring and have your voice reach out to me and hold me like you used to. There was something about the way you said my name that made my heart skip a little when I heard it. Your name on the caller ID just made me grin and I knew you could tell I was smiling over the phone. You liked to pretend you didn't know how much I liked you, but you knew I could have fallen in love with you.
Now you ignore my existence, which is ironic to me, because you used to make it seem like I had something you wanted to reach out and touch more than what my body had to offer. You wanted to reach that place inside of me I wouldn't show anyone, and you wanted to be the person who made me happy.
I'm never happy. I used to think I wanted to be, before I realized that the games that you play were beyond my comprehension.
I've come to realize that by the time you get over your hang-ups, I'll be over you.
I'll always wish it was more than that.
The same scenario plays out in my head, we're alone somewhere, and you and I are staring into each other's eyes. I lean up and grab the side of your face and pull it downwards so I can capture your lips between mine and somehow show you all the ways you make me feel that you don't seem to understand.
Then I walk away.
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[06 Nov 2003|06:24pm] |
I have trouble with the word beautiful.
I don't think I'm what society sees as beautiful. I am unspoken phrases and bitter tears. I'm the broken pieces of glass embedded in the worn pavement. I am dusted with freckles as imperfect as time and love, and sharing in their fleeting nature. I am fallen and broken, bruised and bleeding, retaining the knowledge only pain and experience may bring. I am all these things and yet I fail to see the own beauty within myself sometimes, which I've come to see as a good thing.
My roommate actually swears I look like Fiona Apple. Go figure.
I see the beauty in unconventional things. I write song lyrics, sporadic blurbs, poetry, anything at all that allows me to drown myself in the English language. I have a secret love affair with black and white film. I love walking in the rain or talking about music. I love big cities, and I love being anonymous sometimes.
I love feeling like moments are melodies and time well spent is like a photograph you can keep.
I'm sarcastic and a bit jaded. I'm marred on the surface and I have a tendency of being overly realistic, but I think there is something beautiful about someone who isn't afraid to be themselves, and state their opinion.
There's something about the lack of strong predominant and influential women today that's got me slightly discouraged.
I'm not delicate and untarnished. I'm not blonde and blue eyed. I always wished I was more than what I am but I think the proverbial beauty of it all, is that all the flaws and imperfections that drive me wild about myself make me who I am.
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[29 Oct 2003|01:59am] |
I used to hate every inch of my skin. I hated the way it was pulled over my bones and the way my face reflected back at me. I went through a period of serious self loathing and it was probably undetectable if you only knew me on the surface.
I think almost everyone knows me on the surface. I don't like to rip my skin apart and be stomped all over. I let people see me the way they want to. Yeah I have air head tendencies, but if you think I'm shallow you're wrong. I don't like to be overtly pretentious, and if I really wanted to I'd use SAT words to impress everyone. That's not me. That will never be me.
I haven't figured out who I am quite yet. I guess I'll stumble over it eventually, like getting dressed in the dark.
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[20 Oct 2003|03:56am] |
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music |
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Fall Out Boy - Yule Shoot Your Eye Out |
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It's come to my attention that happiness eludes me. It slips through my fingers and crashes onto the pavement like glass does. I don't think it's made for me, or rather, that my own person is equipped for love. I'm a creature that thrives on emotions that make my insides seep with self-loathing and self-depreciation. It's familiar, it's cyclical, and it's all that I know.
It's quite possibly all I ever will know.
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[07 Oct 2003|07:08pm] |
I've never been one to wear a lot of jewelry. Not really. I was a few months old when my ears were pierced, so now I have a complex with earrings: I have to have a pair on. I only have one pair, I've lost the rest in places like sandboxes and shopping malls and movie theaters. I've lost them with the little pieces of naivete I once had.
It's getting colder and I had almost forgotten the shape my breath takes when it hits the air. Pretending to smoke. Pretending to feel. I don't have a winter coat so the wind blows through the denim of my jacket and makes my skin feel colder than it normally does.
I sit on benches and watch people. They don't notice me. My legs get numb first, followed by my fingers, face, and ears. Sitting in the cold wonder what it's like to lose the sense of touch.
I'll never be that lucky.
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[29 Aug 2003|09:26pm] |
I always feel transparent and see-thru. I can't help but feel like people see the parts of me they want to see, and they exaggerate all my faults and make me out to be the person they want to see. Hunger makes you more likely to take what you can get, and so to be seen, sometimes you become willing to let people see a false perception of you as opposed to the real thing.
Being yourself is frightening. It's unforgiving light in a small room and you can't get out of it. You take it or leave it for what it is and that's that.
Times like that I wish I could be anyone else. I wish I could be anyone you wanted.
What you wanted.
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[08 Aug 2003|04:53am] |
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Coldplay - Green Eyes |
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Don't be so quick to think you've seen the bigger picture. Hold me taut and dissect me under some unforgiving light and pretend you know better. You know what I share with you, and chances are that's nothing. Half the time you're too absorbed with yourself to see me at all. You don't notice the bruises or the hunger pains but you pretend to because it makes you feel like a better person. You know pieces of me and remnants of the person I once was, but as a collective you're holding minute fragments and discontinued parts. You're holding on to something that's long since lost.
I've put myself back together before. I figure I should be getting better at it by now.
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| cross-posted in my friends-only journal. |
[06 Aug 2003|06:36am] |
"Don't worry, you'll fuck up the same way you always do. It's a part of who you are, a part of who you always will be."
Maybe that was true. Perhaps she was fatally flawed and undeniably imperfect and wrong in all the ways she wanted to be right. It was beneath her skin, in a place she couldn't feel because it had gotten numb with coldness and self-hatred. Her destruction flowed in her veins and fed her insecurities until she was satisfied with being less than. Less than normal, less than perfect, less than everything people wanted from her.
( And for a moment she thought that might not be so bad.
)
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[29 Jul 2003|09:22pm] |
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One thing I cannot deny my mother is that when I was younger, she never treated me like a child. She always treated me as an equal, as an adult. She only started treating me like some sort of infidel during my teenage years. It was never difficult for her to treat me this way though, looking me in the eyes when I asked her a question and her explaining things to me as she would anyone her age.
It's always been my mother and I, together. There's never been a time where it's been three. We've become this unit, this team 'against the world' is what she likes to call it.
Being an only child makes you feel as though you have to prove your worth, prove your validity, and strive for approval. I wanted to do everything. I was walking, talking, reading, just doing everything before I was expected to. I wanted to be like my mother. I wanted to do what she did. She dressed herself, so I mimicked her, she'd feed herself, I'd make myself cereal.
One memory I have is her taking me with her out to dinner with her friends, mostly skeptical at how I would behave, and I remember her assuring them I was the most well behaved toddler around. I remember them complimenting her at the table while I sat quietly and ate my house salad, alternating between bites of foliage and smiles at my mother.
Which is why I feel so much older than time allows. I grew up fast because my environment prompted it.
I just know a lot of people who need to do the same.
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[22 Jul 2003|04:58pm] |
( skip. )
I leave in about a month. I'm leaving the familiar and starting something new and the prospect sort of scares me. Actually it really does. Then there's that part of me that wants this. I want to change, to grow, and I want to start fresh.
I want to uproot myself and I want to be able to know I can do things on my own.
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[13 Jul 2003|05:39pm] |
the idea that I have it figured out scares me.The idea that I've written about love, and been told I do it well without having been in love frightens me. it makes me feel like when I do experience it, it will just be a let down due to loves fleeting idealistic nature. I'm sure it's earth shattering and mind blowing, but when I get there, why do I get a feeling I will be unimpressed? un phased? unmoved by an emotion that moves so many.
what do you do from there? what's there to do when you realize that not only was love was not made for you, but you were not made for love. you were made to bear witness and attest to it's artistic merit and undeniable impact, and you are just designed to capture a moment.
not to live it.
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[13 Jul 2003|02:05am] |
I've been writing too much fiction as of late. this always results in me longing for it. longing to alter the threads of destiny to my will because the present is unsatisfactory in so many ways. it's dawning on me that maybe that's why I write. it's been said writers write to feel again, and maybe I write just to feel. to relive a moment that has never existed, and may never be lived in.
we always want what we cant have, so I am sure I am guilty of wanting things like love and moments of powdered perfection that I have convinced myself are unattainable. I have never had that passion for someone, I've never burned with any desire other than the one that consumes me to write.
and maybe that is all that is destined for me.
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| forever goodbye. |
[05 Jul 2003|08:03pm] |
That moment was uncertainty. Goodbye. What was a person supposed to say now? There was no 'see you soon', there was no 'take care', there was only the final goodbye. The last touch, the last smile, the last echo of his voice. They had wasted their time together, such precious time wasted on emotions like jealously and anger, confusion and sorrow. So much sorrow they had seen. They had just found each other, it was like she was seeing him again for the first time, because they had realized there was no one else. There was them. They were one soul. Kindred spirits.
"I'll never forget you. I promise." She spoke softly, stifling sobs because she wanted to be strong for him, the way he had always been for her. She was looking at him now, memorizing the features of his face the color of his clothes. She was painting a picture, registering everything.
He had gone blurry. His auburn eyes were now puddles among the cream of his face. The strands of his hair bleeding onto his forehead, and he was melting in her eyes.
So he held her as pure and simple as she was standing there. She was his and he was hers, and this was their goodbye. He promised her this. Promised to send her home. His heart was tugging at him, burning in his chest, all he could do was hold her, push his face in her hair and do what he had so often desired to. To be with her. This closeness, the softness of her skin, the scent of her hair, and her muffled sobs. This was his salvation. He wondered if she knew she had saved him. Saved him from the fire and the blood and the hate. She'd saved him from himself.
She clung to him like a lifeline. She was spinning and falling and breaking. She was breaking in his arms and she needed him like she needed air.
"I won't ever forget you, even when I'm old."
That's when he knew she was gone.
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| part 2 of 2 |
[04 Jul 2003|05:56pm] |
I'll be here for the rest of my life. At a stand still. Watching the faces pass me as I walk to and from work. As I walk about this town nothing changes. The scenery, the people, this place. It's all the same. An endless sea of repetition. Over and over.
Nothing changes.
In sleep I fade away. I sleep to become nothingness. When I'm awake I'm constantly reminded of the things that make me wish I would disappear. Being awake is like drowning with air. A fish out of water. A girl without a face. A song without a name.
Just fade away.
And he's calling me. He's calling me. The boy in my dreams. The boy without a name. It's stupid to think- but perhaps he's my kindred spirit. To feel my pain, maybe for me to feel his. To stop this feeling of alone. All I am is alone.
He's calling me.
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[30 Jun 2003|12:21am] |
the word fragile is for something made of glass. something clear and crystal, something smooth, flawless, and perfect. I am none of these things. I'm like paper. I'm thin and I'm easily shoved in your back pocket. I'm passed in class and dropped and I'm nothing. I'm able to crumple, to fold under pressure, and sometimes I feel as though I could dissolve away if you threw me in a puddle. I'm cool to the touch and I'm everything you want me to be.
I'm more than fragile. I'm composed of let downs and tearstained cheeks and loneliness. I'm all the things I've made these walls of. these walls that surround me and encompass me and make me feel like I'm safe from the world because I'm afraid that I'm not really safe from myself.
I don't think I'll ever be.
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| when I fall in love, I take my time... |
[29 Jun 2003|03:16am] |
observing. I feel like I'm on the side. it's a consistent feeling. it's as potent as loneliness, yet not to be confused with it. they're two separate entities. two separate things eating away at my heart. one is omnipresent and the other is recently acquired. I used to be the girl you held in the highest, and maybe I am not used to feeling like second best. the poor man's version of something better.
you're a hard book to read; not in language, but in content. your pages are encrypted and your intent is never actually clear. maybe that's because my vision is skewed.
I place myself in this position willingly. already knowing that the outcome is most likely the same. you'll tire of me. get bored of the things you once thought to be endearing. there will be someone new. someone to feed your need to be in the spotlight. the need to be adored. I think maybe I've always known that. my eloquence could never capture your attention the way her looks and wiles could. I could never be that girl you dream of. that airbrushed image of perfection you put to bed every night.
I never wanted to be the one to change you. maybe I just wanted to be the one to make you want. want something different. want something more.
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| the ramblings of a tired soul. |
[28 Jun 2003|02:41am] |
what is it to be inspired? to be the inspiration? to bear the name muse is to say you don't create, but provide the creative spark that the masses feed from. you are craved. you're wanted and desired the way men desire great power in magnitudes uncharted. you're thrust upon a marble pillar and you're praised. the muse is giving but can never actually give in her own words. her presence births poetry and masterpieces, and yet, she never picks up a pen. her own thoughts can never grace a page. an empty soul. she is filled with longing. she desires the way she is desired. wanting to be inspired like those she touches.
and as much as I'd like to touch someone in that way; to be the source of such an eternal beauty, I cannot say I would sacrifice my own ability to bleed onto paper. my own way of expression. no matter how feeble-minded, how common, and how overlooked. what am I without words?
nothing but a muse. nothing but an empty canvas.
nothing an empty page.
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[27 Jun 2003|10:27pm] |
I'm not without my flaws. the cracks on the surface that distinguish me from the next person. the little things that make me imperfect and simply myself. maybe you need to take a look at yourself and realize that the scuffs and scratches, the bruises and the scars make you whole, not incomplete. you're not immaculate. you're not ignorant to that unless you chose to be.
and you're also not mine.
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| this should probably be in my writing journal. |
[23 Jun 2003|02:54am] |
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I think I could love you imperfectly. I could love you the way I love the things about you and the things you say and do. I think you're walking around blind and I want to be the one who can make you see. maybe I want you to see me but I just want you to see yourself. I'm ignorant to your flaws for the simple reason that I'm ignorant when it comes to you and mostly I should know better. I don't like the way you make me feel vulnerable when I like to think I'm strong.
we're so alike and different and sometimes I forget that you really aren't an extension of myself. then I wish you would hold me and tell me the things I wish you would say. maybe they're things you've thought of. unspoken poetry lurking in your mind.
I don't love you for the way you speak or the way you carry yourself. I love you because of the way you make me feel. you make me smile like everything is okay. I love the person I am when I am surrounded in you.
but you're out of mind and out of my reach.
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| It hurts to look at you walk away. |
[30 May 2003|04:49pm] |
I feel like some of us have yet to be aquatinted. Strangers by choice. There doesn't have to be a reason for it, perhaps ignorance, timid demeanor, a reserved nature, or just a lack of effort.
My name is Christina. My middle name is Lauren. My mother stole my name from a magazine article talking about Ralph Lauren and his wife. Her name: Christine Lauren. My mother thought Christina sounded better so she modified it to her needs. It's law-ren (Lauren), not luh-ren (Loren). Everyone I know calls me Cri (kree) out of convenience. A friend I knew online gave it to me a few years ago and it just stuck.
I'm of small stature. I have a baby face and I don't exercise. I hate cleaning but I despise doing the dishes. I love the color purple and I love it when it rains on a muggy summer day. My birthday is June 19 and I don't think I love anything the way I love June. My mother is the youngest of five, but I'm an only child. I used to move fairly frequently. I still do. I hate my freckles and my feet but love my mouth and my innie bellybutton. I hate my skinny legs and arms, I'm envious of fuller and curvier girls. I don't look Hispanic. I look Irish. If you look at a picture of me with my extended family, asides from the resemblance to my mother, I look adopted. I used to live in NYC for 17 years. I'm turning 18 and live in Jersey. I hate it. I love music and hate math. I love to read and write and I hate cold medicine.
I look 12 and there are occasions where I feel old. not old as in 25, but old as in 52. I have a low self esteem but I'm big on sarcasm. I love the arts. I love Broadway. I love the metropolitan museum of art and the papaya king on the corner of 86th and third. I have a slight lip gloss obsession but I hate make-up.
I'm what I share with you. And while I may be all these things, I am a stranger to you. Nobody. I'm just a girl behind a computer screen, behind a username, hiding behind herself.
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