January 20th.

Oh my.
What an awful thing to leave as the very first thing on my blog.
Of course I love him.
Silly goose.

What do I even write?
Hi, I'm Megan Ingraham.
I won't have sex,
even though people probably
think I already have.
I won't because
I find that my keeping it
from him
is deliciously alluring.
Plus all these promises
I've kept.

I'm a sex addict
without ever even having it.

I'm worried the promises
I'm keeping won't ever mean
a goddamn thing.
Why?
I've made promises.
Yes I'll strip for you.
I'll dance for you.
I'll let you touch my
pretty little skin
before I text my boyfriend.
All of these were to
different guys.
They all left.
I made no promises
to Caleb
and he made none
to me.
We have no bond
to each other that
we have willingly made.
Well, with words, anyway.
Except for laying on his bed
staring up at the ceiling
while he stares at me
smiling very quietly
and saying
I'm yours, are you mine?
Of course I am
of course of course
of course i have to be others' too.
I have to belong to other people.
Have to let Garett know I love him.
Have to show it instead of telling it.
Have to make sure my friends
don't get too attached.
I could leave any day now.

Is it bad that I'd sell
any one of my girlfriends
for a couple of bucks?
That I'm so deep in sin
and hatred and confusion
that I don't even feel regret?
I felt something though
the other day
laying in Caleb's arms.
I told myself,
I didn't love him.
He was not the one for me.

And it felt like truth.

I got ill.
I went to the bathroom
and he held my hair
but I didn't throw up.
My body just churned
internally and
screamed against me,
what?
You lie.
You lie.
You may be hideous,
and stupid,
and a whore
and a slut,
but never, self,
never tell yourself you
do not love this boy.
And I cried and cried.
I didn't tell him,
because I didn't want to
let him know I told myself
I didn't love him.

Because it wasn't true.

The past few days
I've felt it.
I've felt very strongly
in love.
And I have my best friend
beside me
and best friends
talking behind my back
like something
other than friends.

If I could kill one person,
it would probably be a girl.
I could easily kill a man.
Seduce him, lay him down.
I've done it all before.
My skin's elixir enough.
But a girl.
To kill another woman..
I guess I couldn't.
It could break a boy's heart,
it could get a boy
mad at me.

I think I just hate
other girls.
They're all threats,
all better flirts
with prettier bodies.
That's why I like boys
as much as I do,
cling to them,
and have them
cling to me.
Because they look
at me and I know
I am beautiful.
That I can lie to
myself but
they won't lie
to me.
Their eyes tell me
stories and make
me squirm.

Caleb tells me what
their eyes tell me.
He interprets.
That one wants to
be more than friends
and that when he touches
me, he lights up.
It's the closest thing
to jealousy
Caleb's ever come.


Caleb tells me what
their eyes tell me.
He interprets
through himself.
I tell him I worry
for how they will
react, because
I want to tell them
to stop loving me.
He tells me their
eyes haven't given
up on loving me
and he won't either.
It's the closest to
loyalty he's come,
and passed.
It's better than
loyalty,
lust,
want.
It's belonging.

I just remembered I
have to write
something
for the poetry
slam.
Maybe something
from this.
My mom will be
there, watching.
Blushing.
Maybe I should
tell her there.
Stand up, swing
my hips slowly,
take the mike,
and stare her down.
I'm a whore, Mother,
Mother Dear.
Did you know?
Did you let me be?
Couldn't you stop me?
I'm unstoppable anyway.
You knew we weren't
playing Halo.
Did you know I
cheated?
That boys moan
for me sometimes?
That I've woken up
in boys' arms?
Different boys.
Different loves.
Different ways to make
them shiver for me.
Mother Dear.
You poor thing.
You must be soo
embarrassed.

I questioned Caleb
only once about why
he loved me.
For my personality?
For my pretty face?
For my pretty skin
pressed against his?

Because we make
sense to each other,
he tells me,
he tells me again
and again, as I'm
trying to sleep all
alone in this bed.
Because you and I
make exact sense
to each other
and we make sense
together.

He always wins.
I used to always win.
But I'm okay
if he wins
sometimes.
Because I still
feel like when he
looks at me,
what his eyes say,
are the same as what
he texts.
Good and bad.
Hurtful and hurting.
He has an inner self
that he lays down
before me
and I feel like
I don't have to win.

Because I've felt I
have to win, so I
feel like I've
conquered
the greater challenge
of the teenage boy.
Ha! You love me?
Congratulations.
I will most likely
drop you.
Because I win.
Because so many
of you broke my
heart so now I--

Caleb, you broke
my heart.
But it broke worst
when I saw you in
August.
I had a boyfriend,
and you were a
freshman.
Stupid freshmen.
They do something
to me.
Make me feel
important,
strong,
beautiful,
womanly.
Because all they've
dealt with til now
was children.
Little girls with
bodies that didn't
quite match.
They wanted to be
so very grown up.

I'm comfortable
enough that I can
act like a complete
six-year-old, face
and all, and still
go home to a
can of whipped
cream and be torn
as to how to handle it.
Ice cream or skin?

Skin tastes like salt.
Everywhere, actually.
So salty in some places,
it's sweet.
So sweet it makes me
cry and want candy.
Sweet and salty,
like chocolate covered
pretzels.
I eat salt so I know
exactly how to deal
with the taste of skin.
Or because it tastes
absolutely delicious.

I still don't know
how I'm going to
sleep tonight.
There's too many
tests tomorrow.
I'd just like
to stay in bed.