Notes I Write to Myself

I can't expect the people around me to be close and care and love when I can't return their feelings with my own, when I throw their's back into their pursed lips and open arms.

Something never change and some always stay the same.

And here I am again sitting alone on the floor locked in my own words, trapped in this sactuary I created, but to others it is solitary confinement and I lost my own key in this barren room.



its spring now. I'm impressed how quickly the trees have sprung into flower and the women into short skirts.

but today, 5 into april, it snows just afternoon

Men

I think I've set a new record. Six cat calls - this means six groups or individuals of men said something - were flung at me on my walk from the subway ay Park and 28th to my dorm on 1st and 26th. How many blocks is that? Seven. The sun brings out everyhting. The flowers, women's legs and cat calls. Why do I like the sun? Right, the heat.
Why do men feel they have the right to recklessy wing these razor sharp words at women on the street, women only trying to get home. In the dark these comments are terrifying. Do men know that? Do they know we've been taught to fear these words, suspect each sylabul of tripping us up, thrusting us to the pavement or pulling us into a dark alley? Do men know we tense up against each words as if it were a knife threating our existance, our security, our confidence? Do they know they are ruining us for other men? When you can hear the intent of a male voice from his few words shot across an empty sidewalk or from an open car window "Hey there pretty, what time your daddy want you home?""Hello gorgeous.""I hope your boyfriend appriciates that ass." What if I said that to them? Can I? Will they just laugh and act on their words? Better on to stop. Don't let them see the fear in your face. "Hey there hunk, what time your Momma want you home?""Hey handsome.""I hope your girlfrind appriciates that dick."