i think the friend from partial hospitalization is getting the wrong impression. i like him as a friend but nothing more. it’s a bit awkward, i don’t want to hurt him but i may have to. sort of funny me saying that because i was always a bitch to every guy who attempted to look at me more than once.
i went out with a friend, i knew him in high school. i’m turning into a regular party animal. 
kidding. it was really fun, we saw a local band that was pretty damn good. the bands preceding it were all right.
i’ve started reading whispers: the voices of paranoia. not sure if i’ll like it or if i should be even reading it but, so far, he seems spot on. i was only in the early to middling stages of it but it was scary enough. i’m glad that i can think clearly again.
i’m having trouble giving out advice to people who ask it. i don’t know why they ask me when there’s always something to refute what i say, some excuse. don’t ask me if you couldn’t care what i have to say. it’s rude.
i can’t wait to get back into school. i’m learning-deprived right now. should start choosing my classes and actually get around to paying for the semester. i should choose soon so i can get the english classes i need. thisclose to graduation. if only i had the courage to get my masters in creative writing.
last poem i wrote: la virgin in suburbia
la virgin
was not for me
but for young
girls who lifted
their eyes
to watch her empty
gaze, her son
in her arms.
she was la madre
de dios and, in turn,
she became their
mother. a mother
who appeared
to request churches
built for her son.
what mother of
theirs wanted a
monument build in
their honor?
the mothers here
worked aching fingers
to the sound of sewing
machines, or asked
can i take your order?
to families with more money
than theirs. a child was
precious in the belly, a burden
later. niña querida became
a phrase used for the ears
of others.
the plastic virgin was so
worn from soft hands
touching, caressing.
the pincushion heart
she held turned pink
with age. i remember the day
i turned the picture of
la virgin on my wall backwards
so she could not see me
touch myself, could
not see my blood spill
out from between
fingers clenched around
a razorblade.
around here the girls
cared only for maria.
jesus was always supposed
to be numero uno, right?
it just happened that
she had birthed him,
immaculate conception,
she had not aborted him
as their mothers wished
they had aborted them.
sometimes.
on long nights before
work, taking care
of sick little girls whose
fingers curved tight,
brows waxy.
i have my blank walls
and they have their cards
of la virgin threaded
between their fingers. not
in sleep but as their
life slips out the door.
