futoncam journals - Lindsey
Many White Doves - 2/5/2003 3:46 AM
Okay, so I wrote this back in November. And I'm back there again, that's why it's here.
Many White Doves, I'm starting to be sorry for what I've given up- not a skinny girl with an '86 Oldsmobile, but a boy who tries his best to be a hard ass. "You're so different now." Was it her? No, it was just me, because she's gone and I'm still very much alive. And I wish YOU were here and I admit that she was right.
The minister from the "Gay Church" was correct in saying I was 32-years-old because I wrote about adolescence like that had been ages ago. And it was, just not if you go by years. I called them boys and patted them on the head, like I would never feel their happiness in the rain. I had before, I was twelve until I was sixteen, and then I learned about death and love and children and women who don't feel and babies who get raped when men get angry. I used to be twelve and when I spoke to her, I was thiry-two and right now I'm in the middle, enjoying the red suspenders that I played with when I built a tribute to the teenagers from Moscow, who blew up before I could even tell them my name.
My book is open to page 84, and as it turns out, the world wasn't lost to the communists- a thirty-year-old woman just went into labor at the Memorial Day parade and I was an unfortunate side effect. Now she's at home, believing in angels and decorating a Christmas tree, wondering why this happened to her, to me, whatever. I didn't give up anything, I never had it from the start- I wish I did. I wish I had what they all have so I could give them what they've wanted. I'd love a boy in plaid pants or a man in a peacoat; I'd save lonely souls and be a dove again.