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imxjustxaustin
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Name: Austin
Birthday: 7/2/1987
Gender: Male
Interests: books, writing, art, movies, literature, photography, law, the human mind, psychology, insanity, telling the truth (far too often.)
Expertise: falling apart (and both loving and hating it)
Occupation: Student
Industry: Other
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  a bad investment
MSN: opinion8ed2@hotmail.com
Yahoo:  im_wht_choclate
Member Since:
2/24/2005
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| comment me for new, secondary journal link to read my new entries. i'm getting to be a little too intimate on here and i don't know if i want many people to have access.
i'll continue to update this with works of fiction, or poetry, but probably not much else seeing as what i'm going through right now dictates that i write out very raw and vulnerable feelings that i don't want certain people to see as it may complicate my situation. thanks, if you even read this. i try to comment back as much as i can. | | |
| the best of friends. i guess that means that i'll always just be a platonic icon in his life and nothing more. we do click so well, so well, that i guess neither of us wants to mess it up with a messy relationship. like our friendship is not worth losing over an issue like sex. because really, isn't that the only difference between what we have now and a romantic relationship?
(no. no. but today when he lost that staring contest, the five minutes that our eyes were locked were heaven because i knew he was looking at me. at me. at my eyes. at my face. he saw me. there was a glow there in his eyes, in his face, in that smile he was trying to keep from bursting out. there was that joy that we bring each other. so why can't i touch his cheek and look him in the eyes and press my lips against his and watch those green orbs hide beneath their lids, allowing his long lashes to take the spotlight, instead? why do i have to listen to him talk about all those other boys as i sit beside him wondering what the fuck is wrong with me and why i'm not good enough for him and what it is that isn't perfect about the two of us? why is it just me and the questions sitting here at a standstill? because there are no answers, because he has all of those. he has all those answers there locked in that mysterious twinkle in his eye, in that beautiful glow of a smile when he looks at me sometimes. in the motion of his hand moving to touch my arm. the answers are all there, and he has never (will never?) put these answers into words. it will always just be me in my self inflicted torture of discerning the answers to these awful questions. why am i not good enough? why can't i be loved? what is it that i need to fix about myself? will i always be alone, like this? will there ever be anyone else who can make me feel the way he does? will i always have that feeling i push underneath of me, something that i have to overcome every time i spend the slightest minute with him? am i imagining all of this, that there is the slightest chance of a future between us? am i just afraid of losing him, and that's where this attachment i feel towards him comes from? am i digging my claws in when i should be calmly enjoying his company? is it only me who feels this strongly about him? anytime i feel such a strong emotion of any type towards someone, i think it's safe to assume that the recipient of that emotion must feel an emotion (albeit not always the same one) just as strongly towards me.
so what is the answer to any of this? am i being ridiculous? am i being completely overdramatic about this? maybe i'm just tired of waiting. maybe i'm just tired of being alone. maybe it gets just a little harder each day to live like this, from drunken night to drunken night. why would i want to keep this going? what is the point? quite frankly i'm going to need a fucking point pretty soon or else i'm calling it quits.
(the scary part is, i don't even think i'm afraid of it anymore. quitting life.))
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| i didn't mean for it to happen. it's just, i was drunk and it felt good for someone to touch me like that. to slide their fingers down my arm and across my hand. up and down my leg and around my face and his hands just charmed my inebriated skull into touching him the same way. into sliding our bodies together. the clothes were gone but my roommate wasn't. passed out on the bed above us, we just kept going as if nothing mattered but our bodies.
disgusting. how fucking dare i.
i feel as if i were cheating, even though i have no obligation to anyone but myself. does this mean i feel as if i cheated on myself, or does the feeling stem from some hidden loyalty to that one boy who has that place in my heart? is that the reason i cringed every time i saw whose face was attached to that body i kept touching?
and, is the nausea the morning after from the alcohol or am i just sick of myself? i just keep looking for people to blame these feelings on.
this morning after i woke up, i took a shower and stood out on the balcony just staring into that angry rain drenching the trees and cars and pavement and people brave enough to venture outside. am i to blame for that feeling of such extreme disgust with myself and every part of my existence that i just wanted to jump over the railing of that balcony and take whatever injuries may come? (death?) i just can't work this out. i can't write out every disgusting part of me. i just know that i was drunk. i was drunk, and i hadn't been touched like that in a very long time. it's nice to feel attractive sometimes, ya know? god damn it. this means nothing. i'm still feeling sick, no matter what justifications i conjure. (the whole time, i just kept wishing it was that other boy. the whole time, i knew he would find out. the whole time, i hoped it would make him maybe just a little bit jealous?)
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| I'm drunk and stoned and so are you and you just keep bringing up those "loves of your life" and how you just wish they would move here or be closer or be gay. And to me it's just you advertising how much better these guys are than me. More attractive physically, more attractive psychologically. And I just can't handle it so I leave and throw up.
I put some toothpaste in my mouth and swish it around until it's just foam and then swallow it all. It's poison right? Good.
Good.
Fucking good.
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| You're standing up.
You're smoking.
Your shoes are on.
You're joking about
walking out and it's
just not that funny to me
anymore.
The floor won't move
for you though, and the
door won't open on its own.
So if you're leaving, then
go. Stop putting me on
edge with your (nervously wriggling)
toes in shoes you don't take off.
Play those perfect chords
on my mom's guitar.
Hit those perfect notes
with the chords in your throat.
Trade those emeralds in those
sockets for eyes that can see.
Your hands shoved deep in pockets,
(I'm still afraid you're gonna leave.)
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