Stardustsniffer's Wiki Page
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i'm not in love...
that's what i keep telling myself.
it's not that i can't live without you,
it's just that i don't want to be with anyone else.
i'm not in love...
i'm sure that if i was then i wouldn't be hurting.
i just get my wants and my needs confused sometimes.
dealing with someone like you can be quite disconcerting.
i'm not in love...
just because you say that you are, doesn't mean that i am too.
just because i call alot and really like having you around,
it doesn't mean that i am in any way shackeled to you.
i'm not in love...
okay, so i daydream and swoon and crave your touch constantly.
and i melt when you say my name or when i look into your eyes,
and i kiss your neck reverently...
but i'm not in love...
because love isn't like this...dancing so close to hate...
when you don't call or acknowledge my feelings,
i wish nothing more than for you to dissapate.
how could that be love?
you're just my current fancy perculating my affections...
a tattooed bad boy with slick talk, a pretty face,
and a knack for holding my attention.
so no...i am not in love...
at least, that's what i keep telling myself.
but who am i kidding? i'm stuck on you like crazy glue,
and i can't even imagine living my life with someone else.
i love you, baby.
that's what i keep telling myself.
it's not that i can't live without you,
it's just that i don't want to be with anyone else.
i'm not in love...
i'm sure that if i was then i wouldn't be hurting.
i just get my wants and my needs confused sometimes.
dealing with someone like you can be quite disconcerting.
i'm not in love...
just because you say that you are, doesn't mean that i am too.
just because i call alot and really like having you around,
it doesn't mean that i am in any way shackeled to you.
i'm not in love...
okay, so i daydream and swoon and crave your touch constantly.
and i melt when you say my name or when i look into your eyes,
and i kiss your neck reverently...
but i'm not in love...
because love isn't like this...dancing so close to hate...
when you don't call or acknowledge my feelings,
i wish nothing more than for you to dissapate.
how could that be love?
you're just my current fancy perculating my affections...
a tattooed bad boy with slick talk, a pretty face,
and a knack for holding my attention.
so no...i am not in love...
at least, that's what i keep telling myself.
but who am i kidding? i'm stuck on you like crazy glue,
and i can't even imagine living my life with someone else.
i love you, baby.
She Says She's Surviving
She says that she's not broken...
Every morning she awakens and reaches for her flask
to wash down some percs before sparking her cigarette.
She stumbles to the bathroom, and turns on all the faucets
so that she won't have to know the feeling of crying alone.
She afixes her best fake smile and emerges from her house.
She sits absently all day everyday at her desk at work
and laughs on queue when people clamor around her area,
so they won't see the tears pooled in her spaced out eyes,
or smell her liquor laced breath,
or ask any "too-personal-get-to-know-you" type questions.
She hugs herself as she walks down the streets...
avoiding the eyes of men that will remind her of her father
and make her skin burn in shame
because she doesn't even know who he is anymore.
She just knows that he's gone...
just like anyone who cries love to her always ends up gone,
and she's all she ever has left to pick up the pieces.
But she says that she's not broken... not broken at all...
she's only doing what she knows so that she can survive.
Every morning she awakens and reaches for her flask
to wash down some percs before sparking her cigarette.
She stumbles to the bathroom, and turns on all the faucets
so that she won't have to know the feeling of crying alone.
She afixes her best fake smile and emerges from her house.
She sits absently all day everyday at her desk at work
and laughs on queue when people clamor around her area,
so they won't see the tears pooled in her spaced out eyes,
or smell her liquor laced breath,
or ask any "too-personal-get-to-know-you" type questions.
She hugs herself as she walks down the streets...
avoiding the eyes of men that will remind her of her father
and make her skin burn in shame
because she doesn't even know who he is anymore.
She just knows that he's gone...
just like anyone who cries love to her always ends up gone,
and she's all she ever has left to pick up the pieces.
But she says that she's not broken... not broken at all...
she's only doing what she knows so that she can survive.
Mystery Girl
I was never known as "the pretty girl".
I was always referred to as
"the fat girl", "the quiet girl", "the smart girl",
or "the cool girl."
I was "the girl" that knew all the guys
because I hung out with the pretty girls and sluts.
My name got thrown around so much that I got a reputation
when I never really went anywhere or did anything. . .
I was "the most popular unpopular girl" in town,
seen only when ridiculed or needed to pass on messages
to my pretty girlfriends or popular guy friends.
I never outgrew that stigma, never outran those feelings,
and most days I am still "the sad girl" that I always was
but no one ever named me because they were so busy
calling and seeing me as everything else
except for who and what I really was. . .
a lost, sad girl that only wanted to be loved and belong.
I'm still seen as those "girls" though I try to fight it;
still looking for that place where I belong.
I was always referred to as
"the fat girl", "the quiet girl", "the smart girl",
or "the cool girl."
I was "the girl" that knew all the guys
because I hung out with the pretty girls and sluts.
My name got thrown around so much that I got a reputation
when I never really went anywhere or did anything. . .
I was "the most popular unpopular girl" in town,
seen only when ridiculed or needed to pass on messages
to my pretty girlfriends or popular guy friends.
I never outgrew that stigma, never outran those feelings,
and most days I am still "the sad girl" that I always was
but no one ever named me because they were so busy
calling and seeing me as everything else
except for who and what I really was. . .
a lost, sad girl that only wanted to be loved and belong.
I'm still seen as those "girls" though I try to fight it;
still looking for that place where I belong.
Forever Night
The night is the loneliest time.
During the day she can occupy her mind with other things. She can take on extra tasks at work, she can listen to music, she can post in her online diary and poetry sites, she can write in her journal, she can sketch at her desk, she can go over her bills, she can surf the web, she can joke around with her friends, she can read her book. She can do a thousand different things to keep her distracted enough to never concentrate on anything too long. During the day.
At night…it’s something totally different.
At night, she lays in her bed alone, smoking and staring out of her window while listening to music that makes her think of him. She swallows her vodka and coke in huge gulps, letting the alcohol accost her senses and bang her brain with liquid lightening that tries to obliterate her visions of him. She tries not to cry, though, the longer he is away, the harder is for her to cry…even when it is what she really needs for release. Sometimes, there’s nothing better than a good old fashion break down…with tears and snot streaming down your face so you can look as ugly as you feel inside, crying loud and screaming the walls down as the anguish escapes a little bit…exhausting you as if you had been running all of your life and you are just now stopping so you can collapse and drift into dreamless sleep.
So tonight, she is trying not to cry, though she desperately needs to, as she chain smokes and stares at the smoke wafting slowly from her mouth, out of the window, and into oblivion. She looks at the clock. It’s 3.30 a.m. He’s still not there. He’s not coming. Again. She will have to sleep alone. Again. She feels like the world’s biggest fool. Again.
Why did he call her? What is the point of going out of your way to call someone and tell them you are coming over to see them when you have no intention of showing up? Why keep calling and acting sweet and caring and ending calls with I love you’s and I promises’s? Every time she feels herself pulling away from him, he comes along to remind her that he is the one that she loves. That she promised forever. That her heart is still chained to his hip. That he will be the death of her.
If he would just leave her alone, she might be able to move on. She might be able to forget his kiss and his touch and his words and his scent. She might be able to forget about all the hopes she had for a future with him. She might be able to talk to another man without feeling like she is betraying him. If he would just leave her alone, she might be able to live again, instead levitating in the limbo between loving and hating, hoping and despairing, staying and leaving, healing and hurting. Whenever he feels her rousing and moving from him, he comes back with his easy words and engaging smile and she falls right back under his spell. He spins a few tales and she smiles and is placated and is content living in the lie…because it is a beautiful lie…even if to her, it’s the truth. She knows she loves him. She knows as long as he needs her, she will never really escape him, she will never really try…because they are tied together by bonds neither one of them can see or manipulate. He needs her as much as she needs him. He loves her as much as she loves him, though he loves her quite differently. They both resent each other as much as they appreciate them. Maybe if she didn’t know this…maybe if they weren’t so thick in love they could actually love each other…or leave each other. Either way…they would be free.
And she wouldn’t be alone all of the time.
She stubbed out her cig and looked at the clock as Nina crooned If I Should Lose You. It was 4.07 a.m.
He still isn’t there.
She feels foolish.
Her heart is breaking.
She curses them both.
She turns over and hugs her pillow close, the immense bed cold and empty around her as she whispers "I hate you, you asshole. Why can't I stop loving you? Why can't you leave me alone?" into the dark.
She gasps and clutches the pillow tighter.
Finally, she is able to cry.
During the day she can occupy her mind with other things. She can take on extra tasks at work, she can listen to music, she can post in her online diary and poetry sites, she can write in her journal, she can sketch at her desk, she can go over her bills, she can surf the web, she can joke around with her friends, she can read her book. She can do a thousand different things to keep her distracted enough to never concentrate on anything too long. During the day.
At night…it’s something totally different.
At night, she lays in her bed alone, smoking and staring out of her window while listening to music that makes her think of him. She swallows her vodka and coke in huge gulps, letting the alcohol accost her senses and bang her brain with liquid lightening that tries to obliterate her visions of him. She tries not to cry, though, the longer he is away, the harder is for her to cry…even when it is what she really needs for release. Sometimes, there’s nothing better than a good old fashion break down…with tears and snot streaming down your face so you can look as ugly as you feel inside, crying loud and screaming the walls down as the anguish escapes a little bit…exhausting you as if you had been running all of your life and you are just now stopping so you can collapse and drift into dreamless sleep.
So tonight, she is trying not to cry, though she desperately needs to, as she chain smokes and stares at the smoke wafting slowly from her mouth, out of the window, and into oblivion. She looks at the clock. It’s 3.30 a.m. He’s still not there. He’s not coming. Again. She will have to sleep alone. Again. She feels like the world’s biggest fool. Again.
Why did he call her? What is the point of going out of your way to call someone and tell them you are coming over to see them when you have no intention of showing up? Why keep calling and acting sweet and caring and ending calls with I love you’s and I promises’s? Every time she feels herself pulling away from him, he comes along to remind her that he is the one that she loves. That she promised forever. That her heart is still chained to his hip. That he will be the death of her.
If he would just leave her alone, she might be able to move on. She might be able to forget his kiss and his touch and his words and his scent. She might be able to forget about all the hopes she had for a future with him. She might be able to talk to another man without feeling like she is betraying him. If he would just leave her alone, she might be able to live again, instead levitating in the limbo between loving and hating, hoping and despairing, staying and leaving, healing and hurting. Whenever he feels her rousing and moving from him, he comes back with his easy words and engaging smile and she falls right back under his spell. He spins a few tales and she smiles and is placated and is content living in the lie…because it is a beautiful lie…even if to her, it’s the truth. She knows she loves him. She knows as long as he needs her, she will never really escape him, she will never really try…because they are tied together by bonds neither one of them can see or manipulate. He needs her as much as she needs him. He loves her as much as she loves him, though he loves her quite differently. They both resent each other as much as they appreciate them. Maybe if she didn’t know this…maybe if they weren’t so thick in love they could actually love each other…or leave each other. Either way…they would be free.
And she wouldn’t be alone all of the time.
She stubbed out her cig and looked at the clock as Nina crooned If I Should Lose You. It was 4.07 a.m.
He still isn’t there.
She feels foolish.
Her heart is breaking.
She curses them both.
She turns over and hugs her pillow close, the immense bed cold and empty around her as she whispers "I hate you, you asshole. Why can't I stop loving you? Why can't you leave me alone?" into the dark.
She gasps and clutches the pillow tighter.
Finally, she is able to cry.
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Maybe you need stories, vivid sexing stories of like fauns and nymphs and the activities they love, the sucking, humping, fucking, screwing, licking, fingering, pumping kind of stories....
or not.
Only 2 miles from me? Sorry to hear you are sick, hope ya get well soon.
2miles? wow....you're awfully close!!!
thanks for the well wishes....i'm back at work but still under the weather....
it was either come in or get fired...
so yes...i'm here lol
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