August 23, 2005 - 4:22
I trip clumsy on my desires for a boy who will take my self-esteem on them to mother, and return to me shiny from cosseting. It's the esteem I have known, and it's what I am missing.
You did it very well, though not a boy. You sensed my rococo and laid it out, more glorified and delicate. I accepted the caricature because it was more beautiful than myself, or at least it answered questions.
My cotton-mouthed worth will return over and over to draw from a well that's not mine. I expect resentment, I expect to blubber for my affirmations. It's tragic. The only word aside from pathetic is tragic, and I need it too much right now.
If you love me, you will indulge me only with discretion.