Maybe I should just stop shaving my legs.
Everytime I do, somebody doesn't show.
I'm really starting to question my theory about me choosing bad men
and starting to believe there 's no such thing as a good man.

I don't know what scares me the most.

The loneliness or the freedom.
Thirty-one days are a lot when you have no obligations.
Nothing to complain about, I'm not used to that.
For the first time of my life I can wake up,
ask myself,
"what do you want to do today?"
And what if I don't know?
What if I don't like myself,
when I have to spend a month alone with me.
What if I'm a bad person?
Or nobody will miss me?
Forget about me and why they liked me.

What if I find out where all my pain comes from.

I have five sweaters of him in my room.
Because he never says no to me.
He lit my cigarette once,
when I was bathing and my hands were wet.
He taught me how to cook, how to climb,
how to like peanutbutter.
When I feel like ****, he calls me.
Because he feels there's something wrong.
He tells everybody I'm his daughter.
Even when my sister is around.
He tells my mother to man up.
And my friends to try acid.
He likes every single boyfriend I have.
Never thinks I'm making bad decisions.
He takes me with him to France.

I love him more than anybody in this world.
I don't need a father. I have him.

The first day we met
she wrote about me in her diary.
She liked my shoes
and that I smoked too.

They had warned me about her.
Stories in the paper of a young girl in a coma.
It fascinated me.
Nobody thought we'd stay friends.

But we did.

This one time, she snapped at me.
I made a promise to myself that night.
I would never forgive her.

But I did.

Lately she's been seeing things.
Nobody else can see them.
A fake smile of mine, a dishonest joke.
It makes me feel secure.
Last sunday she kept saying
how good I looked that day.
It makes me feel beautiful.

The chances are we'll grow apart.
Never think of one another.

**But I like to think we won't.

Those eyes.
No white at all.
No person behind that look.
Just pure insanity.
Hands shaking.
Throbbing veins.
Sweat.
He told me I'd better leave.

I still don't know if he was high on something.
I can't believe a person can look like that sober.

Back in the car, I couldn't cry.
I didn't understand.
On our way home he called my sister.

You're never going to see me again
It's all your mother's fault.
She never talked about it.

I went to sleep, I needed rest.
Because the six months after that
I was not going to sleep a lot.
Afraid that my own father would come
get us
take us away
do terrible things to us.
I never talked about it.

He didn't kiss me, he gave me a kiss.
A sweet smelling present, light and quick.

He didn't push his tongue through my lips,
no hands on my ***. No biting.

It was a kiss.

The kiss I saw a little boy give his baby sister when she started to cry.
The exact same kiss my grandmother gave to the love of her life,
on his cold, white cheek. Their last kiss.

Today I heard two men talk about how their daughters changed their lives.
One of them said he would never leave his life with her,
no matter how hard it can get.
The other one agreed.

I wondered, how could he?