1:07 am - Sunday, Sept. 21, 2003
Song:
Standing at the counter in the Greyhound station we didn't belong in, I heard the country station from behind the ticket counter. So sorrowful, and soft. Accents. It's therapy for when I think everything's going wrong. In the car I tuned to 99.5 and then again in my bedroom to my clock radio.
We shouldn't have been in that bus station after midnight. He's leaving, and I don't agree with that choice. I'm spoiled and always want my way, but moreover, I wanted to spend the night in his arms, I wanted him to comfort me as anger started it's spill in tears and everything became self-destructive.
That's what country music is. It's the same as Jimmy Eat World's "For Me This Is Heaven" to me. It's music to cry to and hurt to and build ideals on. It builds the perfect love, the worse heartbreak, the party, the life you'd live if you were just a good ole country girl. It makes me so sorry. It makes me believe I did everything wrong.
It's harmful like starving yourself or hiding razors under your bed, but easier on the skin.
I don't know how to treat the people I love right, I don't know how it is to hurt right, I don't party, I don't live right.
The wrist cutters and the food rejecters are fuming now. How can I consider myself among thier kind? How can I compare when I have no idea?
Check the cross in my arm and the meals I skipped and then we'll decide it I have the right to talk.
The right to compare the most emotionaly painful music ever with that mental anguish.
Let me have my ideal, and my believed comparisons. No one is quite right. Just know with this ammount of teen in me, there is sure to be some bad poetry on it's way.
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