You know the saying “You don’t really know anyone?” It’s been taken to new extremes. And while I suppose I should feel comforted knowing I’m not the only one hiding something of colossal proportion, it makes no sense why every end opens yet more ends. I want to scream: “You’re not weak! You’re not weak! Suck it up!”, to both.

So. He drinks. The thought reminds me of the other, the one who must go nameless, lest I blunder and reveal something to rend a relationship. I want, I want: “Not you, nor him, nor him – (my selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) – to Paradise.” Ah yes, thank you, Sylvia. I want: the malignant and smoldering flames of hell to dissolve into those of heaven.

I am a liar, a cheat, a thief. I stole a heart, lied my way into many, and cheated one out of eternity. Why? I don’t know any better. I wasn’t taught any differently. I can’t separate the long view from now, which really sucks, because I want the long view. I need the long view.

And these, dear diary, are my options: after ruining my future, I see a window, a small opportunity casting light across the floorboards: “And I/Am the arrow,//The dew that flies/Suicidal, at one with the drive/Into the red//Eye, the cauldron of morning.”

I don’t mean to be melodramatic, attention-seeking, etc. What help my mother offers is so little as to be none. Love? It does no good. They love me more than I can fathom, yet it does nothing, nothing…The truth is, I haven’t finished ninth grade, seen abuse and violence and drunkenness, was victimized by lies, then dragged across the country, only to be dragged back – twice – and loved and hated and longed for one who wasn’t there, who couldn’t have been. A man drunk and passed out on my bed, forcing me to sleep in the exercise chair, while she lay beside a man unknown to me. Her gone for hours; resigning myself to her death. No food, no home, no shelter or comfort. 

…That’s enough for now. Needed to get it off my chest, that sticky, slimy tentacle.

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