Crystalline Tears On Lashes

Beginnings

Ya, ya, ya, I know you hear the word diary, and visions of a pink leatherette book, with that damned stupid strap-heart-lock thing. With some treacly title on the cover. Pages predated, proscribed as to how much of your day you really need to write down. Well fuck that! This is not that kind of diary. There will be no writing over and over some dumb jock name with Mrs. in from of it. No blending of my first name and his last name. Some ephemeral crush that wonÕt even last a week, two tops. This diary (ugh, I hate that word) journal, log book (Star Date 2306) is to bring to the light of day things that buzz around in my damned head. Maybe writing them down, letting the fresh air and light get to them, will reduce some of the toxicity. Leach out the pain and hurt, and heal the soul bruises. Maybe this is the way back from the edge of the cliff that I seem to always be flirting with. Take away some of the allure of death, dress it in Cinderella rags and soot. Make drugs and alcohol loose their grip, their corvette freedom from feelings. Zooming thru the night, faster and faster never caring if the fatal crash comes. Why? How can it matter if you die, if you have been dead inside for a very long time.

So, book; Ah, you will be called Book. Maybe traveling around together in my life, will pull out the puss, lance the wounds, purify the flesh, put what is left of me back into some kind of order that I can live with.

Does everyone watch others as I do? Looking, checking trying to see the ÒnormalÓ in behavior? How many times do I need to observe a behavior before it becomes ÒnormalÓ? How to quantify normal. What degree of latitude do you use, before that behavior is out of the range of normal and becomes abnormal?

Oh, Book, you want me to talk specifics? Not just rambling on? Mental vomit to keep from opening the cellar door, and letting the vermin out onto these pristine pages. Nothing ever stay pristine in my life, everything somehow gets sullied once I touch it. Once pure clean moment, what would that feel like? No filth, no hidden agenda, nothing but a perfect, perfect moment.

Once a long time ago, I must have been 8 or so, I was up at sunrise. Sitting on the back stoop, huddled against the cold that night had blanketed the world with. That sunrise was a sight to experience. The colors were just a mosh pit, everything swirled and scooped into the sky. Stars slowly going to sleep. Sun starting to wake. The world all still and silent, holding itÕs breath awaiting a verdict on today. Where is the ugly in this memory? The very reason I was out on the back stoop in the first place. Been thrown out like an empty ketchup bottle. The why is gone, only the effects. While the sky show was amazing, supper and a warm bed would have been a trip to heaven.

Peace, That is what I look for. No, being safe. Not being scared all the fucking time! It has to be the not knowing. Unknowing moments leading down the path to madness. Parsing apart every fucking minute trying, seeking, divining into each breath, every heartbeat, looking for the key, the answer to get it all just to STOP! Telescoping into each word, look, gesture, grasping for the key-code to never elicit that response ever again.

Am I a rabbit, do I smell like prey? Book, I know I flinch, when someone motors their arms quickly towards me. I scurry like a mouse, a cockroach to stay out of sight, out of mind. Teachers must smell my fear, my need to be invisible, my desire to undo my self and just fade from their consciousness. Pleasure seems to coat their faces when they spy me cuddled into myself. Opening up the class to the fact that I am in fact fair game. There is no closed season ever for me. Scapegoats are the lucky ones. Oh, to live that high in the pecking order.

Why is it important to keep me up so late? Just beat me and let me go to bed, to sleep and maybe to have a happy dream. Waking up late, sticky eyes, head full of rocks and air. The clock! I am late! Warp speed into clothes. Never mind food for now. Grab anything into the lunch box. Out the door, quick, quick time. Dare to risk the creek, the ice will be on the rocks, slick! Falling in, making white socks grey, quiet shoes noisy. Giving Teacher the easy target she so desires. Allowing the bully girls to teach me just how desperately mean they are. Teacher looking surprised when I return from recess with a reddened face and torn dress, asking in a high fructose corn syrup voice, what had happened? You poor, poor girl.

Coming to, pulling for the surface of today, dragging my awareness into another day. Book, oh Book, make me breathe again. Again? Make be breathe my first new born breath. Fill my chest with fresh air, clean washed lungs would feel so wonderful. Scour out memories, fill the skull with flowers and pie. Wipe down the nerves, removing, twitching, and flinching, and quivering.

Book, have you ever seen a child with a toy they donÕt want? Until someone else claims it, that is. That unwanted toy is me. To be fought over, won at all price. Only to be dropped when the contest is over. To be picked up again, and again. Dropped again, and again, and yet again. I never, ever get off the damned wheel. I am dizzy now, please let me off. I will walk from here.

Strings, threads, rope, cable, strong and weak bonds tie me here. Confusion and hope, stir my heart into a mess. I need to find a way to stop cutting myself, and cut these binding, loosen their control of me, to strengthen my hold on me. Looking, seeking, needing a way to desire life more than death. How to find that desire, that need for life I am not sure I have.

Shut the door, block the past, turn off the lights on the younger me, let me huddle in the dark, until I can break free into life. Then like a hero form the past, with sword and buckler, lay waste to the past, kill, maim and lay to rest the dark deeds done to an innocent child. What wonÕt die, lock up, and try, try, try, to walk away from it. And when I walk away, it will be from every thing and every one. A clean slice, bloodless for a while, until the flesh realizes it has been cut, and then gushing dark glittering life to stay inside of me, not on the floor anymore. I need something, anything to allow me to be brave, some handle that would fit well in the palm of a small hand to hold when things go a different direction from my hope.

Book, this could be my last chance, a new school, high school, is there a way to include a new me? How to hide the prey that I seem to be? I know how the popular people act, but to clothe myself in those smoke and mirrors? Not enough to hang my hope on. Something more sturdy, more durable, more doable. I need this to cling to my flesh and bones as if it is me, not easily shaken off by my fear. Inventory, I need a list, a sorting of me that could be forged into a working persona. I need to be seen, but not stand out. Something much less that popular, much more than prey. I need a tribe, Book how will I find them? What could I offer my new tribe? Is there anything of worth in me, that could be traded for membership? Dues willingly paid, however high the price. I need people, people who could hold me, even if they are holding the reflection on the cave wall me. The stoners tribe didnÕt fill me up, left me emptier each time I slid back down to earth after the flight. The drugs loosened my hold on myself, and I need my arms to be stronger to hold me tight, tight, tighter than ever.

Guys! They are safe, straight forward and easy to please. Sex could be the answer. Book, what do you think? Could I use a tribe of boys to hide me? We could pick boys that are overlooked, not jocks, not populars, not brains, just regular boys. Boys that would finish high school still virgins. But that would make me a slut...WouldnÕt that loosen my arms on me also? Would that be any better than the drugs? Eroding my soul even further?

Find a pre-made tight group, pick just one to have sex with, that should work. Wait, sex seems to pull friends apart! I donÕt want to cut him from his herd, I need to be a member. Book how should we play this so that they will want to include me into their group? What do guys talk about? Book? Should I go into this as a virgin? Would it be easier to open his pants, lift my skirt and do what I need to do, if my cherry was gone? I need him to want me, need him to not get full of me, and cast me away. Experience will be better then, no fumbling, easing him into me, allowing him a full access pass. We need to make sure, sure, that the sex doesnÕt cut him from his herd.

How to find a cherry popper? I need someone with more experience than a high schooler I think. Jail bait is something that turns on older guys right? Innocent would play better with them, than an asking for it slut, right Book? How much older should I choose, Book? Five years, ten years older? Can I open myself that far to someone? Fuck! I freak when someone just touches me! How can I allow that personal of a touch without shattering? Oh, fuck Book, it is back to the stoners. I already walk their walk, speak their language, with enough on board, surely I could stand to be touched? Practice anything enough and it becomes second nature.

Come on Book, ride in my head with me, donÕt make me do this alone. Help me push this muscle freezing fear back, allow me to walk down the hall out to the garage and get on my bike. The evil beings are still at their jobs, it will be safe to leave my room Book. Outside, wind on my face, sunshine washing me, deep breath, can I really do this? Stick to the plan, carry this idea to the bitter end? Allow someone to touch me? Kiss me? Fuck me? Learn how, and then pick out someone to do that with over and over and over again. Is is worth it? Book, oh Book.

I never knew there was a skate park here. We will sit and watch for a while, maybe we will find what I think I want, or need. There! Look at those guys Book! Older! Smokers? Sit here with me Book, we will watch them. Shit, of shit! Girls walking up like they own those boys. Well, two are left empty armed. Oh, they are leaving now, we canÕt watch them anymore today Book. Hey, Book, we will just drift along in the same direction as they are, and maybe we can hear if they are smokers and if they care coming back tomorrow. Yes! Did you hear them making plans for after lunch tomorrow? We will be here!