love is all there is...

Then there is me. Plain old me. Nothing special, nothing interesting. I remember when I was 17 and 18. Every man I met wanted me. I hate men, have I mentioned? Yet I want them to want me. It's an odd sort of paradox, a bit sick perhaps. I wish I was Marie. They would want me then.

I sat a long time today, thinking about whether or not I wanted to throw up. I love it, especially the eating. The purging is a lovely release for me. Sometimes it is hard though. For example, at work I chomped down a bunch of sugar free candy. I don�t know why I even tried to purge it. But I did. You see, I work in a very small place. There is one teensy bathroom that everyone shares. The entire store is about the size of a small convenience store, so you can imagine that it was noticed by the other folks working (my boss and his family, and another girl) that I was gone for about 10 minutes. I tried and tried to purge that shit, damn it. I just wanted to puke. I didn�t really care about the calories; I mean hell, it was sugar free candy. Wait- I'm lying. I did care about the calories, but I cared more about the puking. I was so stressed out... so upset and pissed off at the world. I just wanted one good heave. But no. Nothing. Just a gag, and some phlegm and nothing. I did, however, manage to achieve some broken blood vessels in my eyes.

But back to it being hard. After I have puked and puked for days, sometimes three or four times a day, it starts to get hard. It takes a lot of work to get that shit up. But it feels so damn good.

I wanted to write some poetry here, today. I wanted to reflect on the inner conflict of my soul, or some such thing. Still, I guess I could now. But it wouldn't fit in, you know? The poetry would become an outcast to my thoughts.

I remember sitting on bathroom floors, in hotels, just having thrown up. I would sit there for hours on end. Up to 24 hours sometimes, just smoking crack or shooting up. My ass would be darkly bruised the next day. I would be sad and tired, and guilty. Out of money and out of dope. But I loved it.

What, then, do I hate? I don't know. I once was known to say that I don't have it in me to truly hate. The capacity of my heart to love is enormous, I would brag, but to hate? I can't. It was something I was proud of.

But here is something I hate: I hate that I love. I hate that I love things I shouldn�t, people who do not deserve it. I can't stand myself, in fact, though you will rarely hear me admit it as frankly as I have just now, and never in real life do I say such things.

Still, hate should be so consuming that I know it is hate should it not? And I don't really. I don't truly know.

I miss my hotels, my crack, my thin body. I miss my razors, my fits, curling up under the sink and crying, knowing it was the end. The godforsaken end. I was so wild. So motherfucking wild. I am not sure that I can adequately portray how wild I really was.

I would run down the street of some drug infested ghetto, the only white girl there, screaming in the middle of the night. Crying, shouting in the rain. Not giving a shit if the cops came, or heard me. I would pound on doors, threaten some bitch who took my money. I would jump in a cab as the cops pulled up and shoot them a bird. I was in love, with everyone. I was scared of everything, and acted like I feared nothing. I would strut about, finding dates to make money, feeling beautiful. I would hang with the dealers, the pimps, the hookers, the murderers, the fucking junkies, the old and the young and sick and the well and everyone who was caught somewhere between all of it. I would conspire with them all and never caught shit. The only one. I was a superstar, they said. I was bad and way too good. An angel. I would remind them about the textures and shapes and feelings in the world, the world outside of our dark secret places. I would heal their pains. I would sing, drunk, loudly with the mexicans. I would flirt with life and kiss death smack on his grotesque mouth.

And now..

What now? What am I now? A girl who pukes. A girl who pukes and starves and stays sober to make her family pleased, because she has never done a thing but gift them with disappointment after disappointment. A wicked thing that wants love, but shoves it away as if it were the plague. An animal that has been locked in a cage, that locked herself in it and threw away the invisible key.

Where is my wild?

Somewhere... I may have flushed it down the toilet earlier today, in fact.