I'm not sure where this came from, but it's how I'm feeling tonight. It's not about anyone specific, just written to an impulse, a thought, I suppose.

The Masochist's Love Song

Use me, take what you want from me, then cast me away
Hurt me, tear me into pieces so I can finally let myself cry

I'll be whatever you want me to be
Any depraved creature of your twisted fancy

Hello there.

These days I feel I fit the literary/social stereotype of the teenage gay boy. The kind of kid who's the subject of some 'young adult' novel, titled 'Not Like Other Boys' or some such nonsense. I'm intelligent, over-dramatic, struggling with inner demons and fond of Judy Garland. Oy. And, to boot, drooling over a gorgeous hunk of man in my drama class.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck.

Her mom got the phone bill, found out about our midnight calls, and now I can't talk to her until tomorrow, unless she happens to be online. Grr.

I am tired of hiding things I'm not ashamed of. I love her, I want her and I miss her and there is nothing wrong with that.

I want to get out. Out of this body, out of my school, out of this town.

I want to go far away, where I never have to see all the things that crush my hope and spirit.

I want to go somewhere where I can sleep, and live, and be without having to set up a defensive line.

I want the people I love to stop hurting. I want to be strong enough to protect them.

When I see something stupid and homophobic on facebook, etc., I usually can't stop myself from commenting on that. I did that on a facebook group called "Shakespeare likes the cokc." Now I'm getting hate mail. And it wouldn't be quite as bad if facebook was letting me reply to the latest message. Arg. It's ridiculously stupid and annoying. (These people, not facebook.)

So, I broke up with my girlfriend. It was my fault, and my doing. This is what happened:

Be warned: This entry will be filled with me venting my frustrations at the world and other things, as well as other angst.

The Bones Beneath Your Skin

Others have gazed at your stormy eyes
In anger, madness, even love
Before me, but none of them have seen
The deep and tender fear behind those eyes
The fear I saw when you looked at me,
Your hands tracing the contours of my throat
And I feel it too, an uncertain falter in the caresses of my hands
It is not each other we fear