"ripples in her hair, i love you she hollers over the propellers."
2002-11-19 7:54 a.m.

i am here at eight in the morning. i have been reading poetry for five hours. binging on poetry for five hours. and i don't know how to stop myself sometimes. this is not healthy. even a single poem can damage you.

why does everybody always justify themselves in their diaries? why can't i simply mention my father's car accident and my lack of concern, my curious behavior and those poems that compell me to turn on all the lamps at five am so that it feels like i'm escaping the early morning? i always feel the need to make my sad case.

joe's style shop is a dark little place underground on j st, and ben's band was beautiful there on friday night. i will not be going back to berkeley in the spring. it is all but decided. i do not know what i will do, as i never know what i'll do. i've finally lost my period, after ten years of disordered eating. my safe food list has dwindled down to pickles and hard boiled egg whites. i have one treatment option left, and then i have nothing. and i think i've annoyed andrew into disappearance.

my father's truck flipped on its long axis. they had to cut him out of the cab and all he suffered was a broken arm. i visited him for an hour or so, i washed his dishes. i can't call him back. he thinks i am being manipulative. as if i had the forethought to be. what kind of person must i be, that he can be led to think this of me.

i love you she says fifty times into a balloon
then releases the balloon into a room
whose volume she calculated to fit
the breath it would take to read
the complete works of charlotte bronte aloud.

..........

i love you he said but saying it took twenty years
so it was like listening to mountains grow.

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