I tell too much truth (¬ enough).
[something i found from two years ago–i hesitated posting this because of the things that people will think & say without really knowing anything. then i remembered that it doesn’t matter. words & beauty do though.]
Should we write what we know? Or what we dream of? Or is there a median, when experience and the extraordinary cross paths?
And since I’m writing I almost want to say everything, but I won’t. But, why is it that our hearts have to break? Why do friends leave and bodies betray? And I’m not being artsy right now, I think I’d love to know. Why are we so damn imperfect… and I almost said Goddamn, which might actually be a little closer to the truth, but I was afraid to offend. I’m always afraid to offend.
Do you know who you are? I don’t. I mean, I know a lot more than when I was seventeen and recently freed from the evil foster parents, but I still don’t know enough to count. What’re my gifts? Am I, lowly jacked up kid that I am, worth loving? Then why am I so unloveable? You know? (Not in the pity me way. Not in the woe is me way. Just… I’m curious, you know.) Because I had this friend and he kissed me. And then got a girlfriend and wouldn’t talk to me, and I was sad but I got over it. But then his gf broke up with him, and he talked to me again. Said “come visit me”. Said “I miss you”. Said “Aren’t we friends and I have beer and jack and coke”. And even before he spoke to me [again, I guess] I was weary. And going over there, as his friend, I was reluctant and weary and I knew, but I felt like I owed him something [now I wonder, what?]. And I let him kiss me again. And he talked to me [again]. And he would tell me about his needs and wanting a gf but not finding anyone [worthy enough? He’s not worthy enough for me, but I sighed there anyway]. And then, later, he tells me [again] to come over. That he’s tipsy and has beer and jack and coke and this time [too weary to stand I think] I just say no. I say that my body isn’t just a body [isn’t it?], that we should just be friends. That making out never works [stupid me, I learned a month or three later how right I was. Maybe my ex (ew) was right when he told me that he could not respect a girl he made out with. I sighed then too.]. And then he didn’t talk to me again [I’m so tired of not talking, that I could scream]. So… I ask again, who am I? Am I worthy to be loved? Am I worthy to be respected? And, [please don’t say “your body is a temple” even though it is and even though I know that, because I know that and well, maybe you should. just. say. it. maybe infinity’s the charm.] maybe I’m not.
Whore. That’s a word that some Christians would use to describe me. If they knew [really knew–dear God] me. Slut. I’m a Christian too. And this is part 12 of my rant. What is love? He says, “love as I first loved you”. What is love? What does it taste like? [Oddly, eme asks this too]. Like lemon, spring, purple, regret? I am worthy of regret. I am regret. Am I worthy of purple or lemon or anything sweet? What is lukewarm? What if it’s me? Because I spend my days wandering around flip-flopping about God. About homosexuality. About death. About life. About living, or not living… Am I lukewarm? And I guess we’re back to one of the first questions. Who am I? Who are you? Where does identity come from? Because if it’s Christ, then I am “Christian”, but I know other “Christians” and they would call me slut or whore or regret in the same breath that they call me sister. They would call me nigger or nigga or “the black one”. And even though, to be completely honest, I’m okay with all of those, because it’s what I am [in a way, in some way], I’m wholeheartedly confused. If my body is a defiled temple but I am a Christian and the other Christians call me “crazy” “unloveable” “imperfect” “heathen”, then who am I? If I am to be in this world, but not of it, and have fellowship with my brothers/sisters in Christ but they call me “dirty”… and then they sneer and call me “sinner” because, rejected, I eat with sinners and have realized that they are beautiful too, that they deserve love like I deserve love [they told me this, the sinners, are they right?], then who am I? How can I be a solitary part of the body?
That’s all I have, really. I’m in a library for the first time in years, reading books even though this place has lost it’s magic, somehow, although maybe that’s the reason and I’m here writing this. I’m just wondering where the magic went. Maybe it was only in the pre-whore me. Or maybe, once again, I’m just tired. Of being scorned, or being ignored, or being imperfect. And maybe this, saying it, is the first step in walking away.
And anyway I like the sound of it. Defiled Christian. Now I’ll go out and preach to the masses and maybe I’m not perfect or pure or full of pretty words, but at least I’ll get it right.