the tape is in the glovebox now. playing in the background even, softly. for a long time, it was stuffed in a desk drawer, but i always knew exactly where it was. crime and the gears and X. jukeboxes and cornbread and hands sliding up my legs. too much, too much to drink. dizzy in bathrooms i would look at myself and know that it was wrong. but i laid down with you anyways. time was running out. the plaid shirt with rips where i sewed it up in jagged messy stitches. i thought i could keep myself whole that way but really i was falling apart. you told me i didn't dress like a girl. i wore boys pants and only lipstick and my eyes were so "pretty behind my glasses". you made me feel very small and i let you.

i read a book lately that made alot of sense about all this, this allowing, this myopia. these situations have happened because i am attempting to recreate what is familiar, what i know. attempting to calm oneself by encouraging disaster, and the enevitable self-loathing and sabatoge. not allowing kindness or calm, or even just being, because everything has been an attempt to prove to myself above anyone else that i don't deserve anything.

and that is really fucked up. i'm finally understanding this. all this.