April 1996

With Max at New Mexico/Arizona border, leaving Los Angeles:

How many more miles of disappointment need to register on my face before you try to talk to me about how I destroy everything you need and replace it with huffing.

We stopped in a stinky bar on the border. After we had a small talk about when he date raped me. The tension wells up and petrifies my feminist tongue. So many unspoken thoughts, ideas. And any spoken, done so quietly because I know that even though I feel right I am solidly irrationally wrong. Every fear I feel of angry men is my own insecurity. Every insult to my my self-respect and ability to live is really my own tense waiting for a man to violate my powers.

Except all of this is wrong. Am I so thoroughly mad that I have imagined the whole thing? Or am I tense and weary because of constant encouragement. Who are you but the voice who sings unimportant words in the choir to back up my screams and hollow-out their loved meaning?