|
snapshots (a letter to Lockjaw)
by Angela ThomasDear Lockjaw,
I'm just so sick of it. I'm sick of being used. I'm sick of people that I can't stand, people that make me want to vomit, sitting around my house dirtying it up when I know that I'll be the only one to clean tommorow. I "went to bed," not in so many words, but I left the room and no one has come after me to make sure that I'm still breathing, make sure that I'm okay. I'm not.
Lockjaw, I wish I was stronger and smaller and more fierce. I wish someone could just love me. I wish I was able to curl up to someone that wanted to share with me and tell them secrets in their ears and fall asleep like Phil and Lil, curled toes to toes. I want that scratchy kind of irritating comfort.
Oh, Lockjaw, do I just not deserve someone? Am I that bad of a person? I want to coodle and baby and do all the things that only the happy girls do, the small happy girls. I thought that maybe if I was small and tan and everything that every man ever talks about, then maybe I would be liked, but I guess under it all, I'm still me. That sucks.
My little Lockjaw, you're the only person I want to talk to and tell about this. I don't want anyone to know that I'm insecure and it hurts so bad to say that. It's the kind of hurt that leaves your snot running into your tongue, and your eyebrows playing together in the middle of your forehead. Pathetic, I guess it suits me.
Lockjaw, my room is a mess and I haven't washed my hair and I'm still covered in tanning oil. A candle is burning on my desk and I just want to melt into it. I'm permanantly scarred and that makes me sad. It's my hand for Christ's sake, the thing that I care more about than anything. It looks like a kiss, a hot kiss from four hundred degree oil, it hurt so bad.
I sometimes wish, Lockjaw, that there was just someone here to kiss my boo-boos all better and rub my back until I fall asleep. I want my hair played with like my gradfather used to. I want my mind stroked like Mo used to. I want my fucking life to have some kind of meaning. Right now, I just tend to find it all at the bottom of a glass full of 70 proof.
Dearest Lockjaw, not even the ice numbs this pain. Heat only takes away my attention for a moment. Baby, will you be the one to save me? Baby, will you be the one to tell me that it'll all be okay and I'll believe you? Lockjaw, baby, please just make it okay. Break my silence.
All my love and hope,
Angela 07/03/2004 Author's Note: yeah. this is what happens when you really do find your salvation at the bottom of the glass.
Posted on 07/03/2004
Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas
|
