thejunipertree (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thejunipertree) wrote2002-07-11 01:05 am
thejunipertree) wrote2002-07-11 01:05 am
Entry tags:
photograph #2
It is Christmas night, circa 1996, and I am living in South Philadelphia. This is our dining room, which is really only a second part of the kitchen. No walls seperate the rooms. No walls seperate my thoughts in this house.
I've had a nasty fight with my mother over silly and stupid things, as most fights usually are. And I'm sitting on the our beautiful mahogany and black dining table with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a tightly rolled joint in the other.
Across the room, only about six steps away, are Donald and Anthony. Two of my many and numerous roommates. They sit on an old brown couch that we fished out of someone's trash once. Who keeps a couch in their kitchen? Well, we do.
They're as drunk as I am, I can see it in their faces. An hour ago, Anthony had gone upstairs to fight with his girlfriend and came back down a single man. We are celebrating/mourning this with another round of vodka.
I tilt my head back, relishing the feel of newly cut swinging against my neck, and examine the ceiling in detail. I laugh, I drink, I take drags from the joint. I pet the cat and talk to my rodents and friends. Inside, I feel a twist in my heart. A gentle stabbing. A turning.
Her words hurt me so badly, but I'm not letting it show. What hurt me worse was the things which I said and which she did not reply to.
I hate myself.
Earlier in the evening, I had sat on our front step in the snow without a coat and tears freezing on the planes of my face. No coat, no key to the house, and a fire of anger burning in my belly. I shook and cried and seethed.
You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot.
Happy Christmas, your arse. Oh, thank God it's our last.
It's the fifth time that we've played this song. And after each succession of the drunken Irish lyrics, we grew quieter and more subdued.
This is no longer a celebration, but a funeral of the heart.
I've had a nasty fight with my mother over silly and stupid things, as most fights usually are. And I'm sitting on the our beautiful mahogany and black dining table with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a tightly rolled joint in the other.
Across the room, only about six steps away, are Donald and Anthony. Two of my many and numerous roommates. They sit on an old brown couch that we fished out of someone's trash once. Who keeps a couch in their kitchen? Well, we do.
They're as drunk as I am, I can see it in their faces. An hour ago, Anthony had gone upstairs to fight with his girlfriend and came back down a single man. We are celebrating/mourning this with another round of vodka.
I tilt my head back, relishing the feel of newly cut swinging against my neck, and examine the ceiling in detail. I laugh, I drink, I take drags from the joint. I pet the cat and talk to my rodents and friends. Inside, I feel a twist in my heart. A gentle stabbing. A turning.
Her words hurt me so badly, but I'm not letting it show. What hurt me worse was the things which I said and which she did not reply to.
I hate myself.
Earlier in the evening, I had sat on our front step in the snow without a coat and tears freezing on the planes of my face. No coat, no key to the house, and a fire of anger burning in my belly. I shook and cried and seethed.
You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot.
Happy Christmas, your arse. Oh, thank God it's our last.
It's the fifth time that we've played this song. And after each succession of the drunken Irish lyrics, we grew quieter and more subdued.
This is no longer a celebration, but a funeral of the heart.
no subject
you understand me.no, that's.. not right.
i understand you.no, that's not right either..
*sigh.*
i remember that x-mas...