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09.12.06 - 2:50 a.m. so what is it? if i dont want him to be my boyfriend, what is it? how do i explain this scenario to my head? Me walking away from his apartment with an unlit cigarette in my mouth--that feeling that i know my matches are in there on his couch and that i have to wait for the bus at 2 in the morning without a cigarette. This is lame, i tell myself, just wait. And i walk back towards his place and then back to the bus stop, back to his place, back to the bus stop--walking the same fifteen steps of sixteenth street. I dont want to seem obsessive, like im looking for an excuse. And then, like i do, i think--im drunk--if its a disaster ill explain it away later. So i turn back to his house and there he is--walking toward me--and in his hands, a book of matches and the pick i left. And we look at each other and start talking and hes holding each small object in either hand--something i needed and in the other hand, something i had forgotten. but little else. Much else, but little of importance. My life seeming too young compared to his--and his pride, and my lack thereof. He could end me without even knowing it. and i know hes the kind of packaging that always gets me--all subtlety and intelligence, but inside--broken and missing parts. and he waited with me, but only for a moment. And he sent me a text message, but not the kind i need. And all of sudden i want him to be all these things. All these things. All these things. and all of my jagged, unfinished, humiliating peices are just out there. Six beers and fifteen cigarettes for dinner. Five of mine, one of his. And i want more alcohol because i want things to seem right. and i dont want him to touch me--i just want him to care about me, like i need someone to. Like ive needed. Like ive missed. Like ive never nourished, like ive never known how to, like i was never taught, like i never knew to learn, like i never bothered to. I need him to be one million things and im going to sabatoge us because i barely know any other way to do it. And hes dating sociologists and teachers at RISD and audio documentarists and sopranos while i continue to fuck the bartender. and hes not happy, but its not what matters. He thinks he deserves phenomenal women and i think i deserve--what? I think i deserve. Im not sure i deserve. What does anyone deserve. Im sure he would disappoint me. Im walking at two in the morning with a $700 guitar in the most dangerous city in america. He was raised in the south. Who wouldnt know better than that? and i tell him all my secrets because its such a sweet relief. I tell him all my secrets, i show him every one of my jagged edges, i go and go and go and i talk and talk and talk--and he filters. But he wont forever, no one does, and i dont know how not to. and i want to remain friends, but i want him to love me. And this is the thing that no amount of therapy seems to be able to touch. This discrepancy. Oh god, and i just keep talking. � 
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