Bokelskere.no

It's lonely to be alive and never know the whole story.

Robert Mapplethorpe was cute. The kind of boy I really like, slightly evil-looking with black curly hair.

Fear of not being understood is the greatest fear I thought lying on the bathroom floor at 11 P.M. Worse than not pleasing people, worse than anything else I can think of. Worse than being cold or alone. Worse than getting old.

A bunch of good-looking suburban guys, 18 or 19, same as me, who all owned cars, trashed me for two reasons: I was drunk, they didn't know me. I wrote my name on the sand with my toe. EILEEN MYLES. Yes, that's who I am. I rubbed it out with my foot.

The titles of her books in her shelves didn't impress me. You could tell she still had her college books. I'm always shocked at what people haven't lost.

I lay on the bed, fascinated by the acrid taste of piss, yet horrified at the inadequacies of my tape collection.

I never wanted to go to hell, but I thought I could date the devil.

Someone wants you to be a machine or else they think its just a passing phase. Lesbian per se. For their benefit I should be a mannequin—no, I never think of fucking men—they're never cute I think they smell, etc. Then you don't talk to them and it gets worse like nobody's real. I mean I am a dyke per se but unless I squelch all my ambiguities—be like a guy who won't admit another guy is cute or he'd be a faggot—Oh, no. Well I don't care. I just intend to carry on. I'm not going to worry about my persuasions or everyone's intentions—I know just how real I am. Honestly. Money in the bank.

What if I didn't know what I felt anymore? I probably had never known what I felt. I only liked getting drunk and being in love. If I wasn't either of those things, I simply needed my rent, cigarettes and coffee, simple enough. I really liked the life of the poet.