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ClairE
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Seven years and running. Ever since the first phone call. My hyacinth_girl, my sweet angel, my literary long_limbed scintillating vixen.
first_poem
The page after it is looseleaf that is half torn, it has phrases like "still shaking for maybe 10 minutes", "obsessed with her", "not a sexual thing, either". It is hard to figure out things when you are only fourteen. Especially when you tell her it is about her and she is "not freaked out". It surprises me even now that she never was.
obsession_has_nothing_to_do_with_sex
Valentine's_Day
TMBG
poetry_in_june
serial_monogamist
proof
two_days_from_seventeen
two_girls_discuss_their_love_life
girls_night_out
Six days before I turned seventeen I called her a birthday.
And finally, hyacinth_girl.
Then I entered the realm of blather and wrote everything about "her", and this weekend I finally won the prize when she told me, "I'm glad you came," and hugged me, and told me, "I'm really glad you came," and hugged me again.
That weekend everyone looked at her, rewind five years and you'll find the same. It's like crying in your sleep. It takes no effort anymore, it's a tug that's almost buoyant.
Here is the shining fact: I always wanted to take everything about her and write it into a small book with dark, lush pen.
This is my bloody_heart_book, my weeping dazzle of a mess, safe and stored in our blue repository_of_obsession.
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031027
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