corrina's diary

corrina page is a fictional character made up entirely in my imagination. any resemblance to real people, places, and/or things is completely coincidental and should be taken as such.

WARNING: The following may contain adult oriented material.

current | jan-feb 03 | dec 02 | nov 02 | oct/nov 01 | aug 01 | apr 01 | feb 01 | may 00 | apr 00
jan 00 | nov 99 | oct 99 | sep 99 | aug 99 | jul 99 | oct 98 | aug 96 | jul 96 | may-jun 96

with open arms and a smiling countenance i embrace you, awaiting the moment when i can plunge my canines into the soft flesh of your throat and initiate you into my world...

corrina page

dec. 30, 2002

the moon was high and dark and i slipped by your side unseen. you melted into my arms - you'd had a long day of nothing and nobody and you missed me.

we leaned on a tree in the grass. i ran my fingers over your beautiful forehead and rubbed your temples. you closed your eyes and listened to me talk in my low, quiet voice. and i told you old stories about how the forests used to be covered in moss and trees taller than you could see with your eyes. how the moon shined so brightly and lit up the lakes and the streams that've now whithered to ponds and creeks.

a long time ago, we used to meet here. you knew me differently then than you do now. your lips used to know every inch of my skin; your hands held mine - an extension of your own. we used to pray under the stars and fuck in the hills, the moon our only witness, but now we act like strangers and you've forgotten me.

dec. 29, 2002

i miss seeing your face every couple of days. without it, i can't think of a damn thing to write. have you missed me at all? i think about you every day...

dec. 24, 2002

snow? i haven't seen snow in years. in the swiss alps snow fell in sheets; the ground a blanket of white down. i made snow angels and got soaked lying there for so long.

there isn't any snow here, but you blew white confetti at me - because you knew i missed it. you covered the bed in cotton balls and strips of white paper you pulled out of the shredder and told me to make you an angel. i did and when i got up, you lay in my spot to feel the warmth left by my body on the bed.

dec. 21, 2002

you held my hand while he cut into my thigh. he had to remove a piece of glass lodged in there from before. it bled profusely, but didn't hurt. all i could feel was your grip squeezing my fingers. he pulled out a mirror with razor sharp edges - someone else, i don't know who, had slipped it inside my leg long ago. only now, pound after pound, did i remember it was there. i caught a glimpse of your face in the glass between my legs as he pulled it out, then he smashed it on the floor. perhaps he thought it was magic.

a nurse in white came and mopped up my blood, and licked the sweat off your brow. you looked surprised. and confused. and i whispered in your ear that it was just a dream. i pulled the covers up to your chin, threw my leg across both yours and fell asleep with my head on your chest. you counted to ten under your breath, then wandered off to sleep and met me in my dreams.

dec. 17, 2002

you caress my cheeks and give me passionate kisses, pull me close like you need me, but you're going to break my heart. six weeks and you drive away. six weeks and you're gone and i'll have the vision of you burned blurry on my retina. i'll retain the physical memory of your body on top of mine, the way you feel slipping inside, the smell of your sweaty hair and body catalogued deep in an olfactory database of pleasant scents. i've never known a broken heart and perhaps i never will, but you'll come close - if i want you to.

dec. 15, 2002

dressed in black (always dressed in black), i went to church, flung open the door of the confessional and knelt down by the priest. bless me father; i've sinned. i had unprotected sex out of wedlock, i dreamt of my son's death, i thought about suicide, i forgot my mother's birthday. i could go on, but i choose not to. how many days before the floods come again? or are they already here? come here and pet my knees, they're dirty from kneeling for so long.

i've been here a month for you. and you're ever elusive. i'd thought about you longer, but hadn't been so bold. where are you going and where have you been? when will you come home and sing me songs again? read me russian lit, and stoke a fire or two. lie naked under the sheets and let me play with you.

dec. 14, 2002

he promised me he'd take care of me then left me here with you. but you're a stranger in my home - i don't know you. you brush my hair and bathe my cats, and keep whispering i'm sorry's, but they're just band aids and i need stitches for the wound in my back. kiss my eyes and make me blind. distract me with stories and rip out my tongue. eat my bread and drink my wine and piss in my kitchen sink. i'd rather you hated me than have you lie to me.

dec. 13, 2002

i've hung mistletoe on the door frame and i'm waiting for you to step through the door. i don't bite, you know. it rained all day today and i took five baths just to keep warm, and so i could go through the ritual of undressing and bathing and dressing again so i could pass the day while i wait calmly for you to come over. you said you'd come over, right?

if i had a fireplace, i would've lit a fire and sat in front of it all day, curled up on an extra large pillow with a book and a hot, spiced drink, reading (or trying to read - i'd probably be daydreaming of you), and feeling the heat and the liquor warm up my face. everything looks so beautiful within the warm glow of a fire. you'd find me beautiful, too, wouldn't you?

dec. 12, 2002

it rained all night - where were you, my dear? i kept the windows open, and your bath warm, but you never showed up. i had a glass of wine, played christmas music, ran my fingers over the piano and played you a song in my head. i boiled water for tea, made obligatory phone calls, but the holidays are nothing without you.

dec. 11, 2002

he left his hat; he was in such a hurry. he had big, dark eyes (i love dark eyes), and hair down past his shoulders. he walked with a limp and cast a large shadow. he hunched his shoulders slightly and kept his lips pressed together as though afraid to open them. i followed him for ten blocks, watched his foot drag just slightly, watched his trenchcoat flutter behind him, his arms swinging by his sides.

at a corner, he whipped around and stared at me. i wasn't being subtle. i wanted him to see me, dragged my feet on purpose, rustled my jacket noisily behind him all the way. he towered over me and his eyes were dark, dark globes, glistening and wet. i smiled a sweet smile, pulled a piece of lint off his coat, and told him i loved him, would he please come home with me? he laughed and opened his mouth. i saw the roof of it, red like candy, big white teeth glittering like gems in the sunlight.

i used to have teeth dreams. i'd wake up in a cold sweat, my mouth sore from clenching. the man next to me used to rub the small of my back to get me to go back to sleep and i'd squirrel away from him...i hated to be touched when my teeth ached.

then i dreamt about my nails. my fingernails so long i couldn't type anymore, filed so their edges were razor sharp (who would do such a thing?). i'd scratch my leg and bleed to death. i'd wipe my brow and cut open my forehead. i'd wrap my arms around the man i loved and shred open his back. the man next to me used to hug me close to him to get me to go back to sleep and i'd squirrel away from him...i didn't want to be comforted after i'd dreamt of death.

now i dream of numbers, floating in my head like stars. there is no man next to me to comfort me, but i no longer need comfort.

and with you? what would i dream about with you? would you comfort me with your hands across my body, your fingers in my hair, your lips on my shoulders? perhaps i wouldn't pull away. perhaps my numbers would continue in my head, comfort enough to leave me next to you.

dec. 10, 2002

when i got home today, she was gone. she left me my oe on my pillow with a page half torn out of the front. she'd pulled all the hair out of my hair brush and left it next to the book. a couple of crumpled up dollars were on my keyboard. i don't know what she was paying me for.

i moped around the house today trying to get work done. i missed the slightly earthy smell of her - lingering patchouli in her wake. i don't know where she kept getting it from - i didn't have any in the house and she didn't own anything but that dress and that book. i think her body produced it as its own. i had leftovers for dinner and stared at her stew in the fridge. she'd left that behind, too.

settling down, pen in my hand, to write her a letter, i heard her at the door, soft like a kitten, scratching at the doorknob. i froze for a second, had a second thought, but then ran to let her in. i don't know how to live without her anymore. though i'd rather live with you.

dec. 09, 2002

i don't know where you're going, but don't get lost because i'm worried i'll lose you in the snow, that you'll drift away from me and i won't be able to find you again.

do you know that my heart races too fast whenever i'm near you? and that i can't seem to be able to look you in the eye? i'm not a little girl, i'm not coy or coquettish, i'm not afraid of men, but you have this black magic over me and i'm weak in the knees and chest and crippled by something, i don't know what.

i cooked you a meal the other day. you didn't know i could cook, did you? you stood in my kitchen and watched the stove. i accidentally cut my finger slicing onions and you let me bleed for a bit before you came over and bandaged my hand. when you came in, your shoes left muddy tracks by my front door, but i didn't notice til late in the night, after you'd left, cause my thoughts were all filled with you.

dec. 7, 2002

she was waiting by the door for me when i got home today. i wandered around in the rain, the streets dark like molasses, headlights splayed like angels' halos. my hair was soaked and she wrapped a towel around it. she set out stew for me on the kitchen table, and a book to read. she sat quietly on the chair across from me and watched me eat. i reached over and pushed her hair over her ear so i could see her cheeks better. i love her cheeks.

i had a glass of wine and thought about you. i pictured you standing on the street, someone i didn't know. i heard your voice inside my head asking for directions. i gave you the directions to my place just so i could watch you walk by the door and imagine you walking inside.

she asked me what i was thinking. and i told her. she asked when you'd be by and i said i didn't know.

dec. 6, 2002

don't you want to give me quick kisses on my cheeks and wrap your hands around my waist? we'd cook breakfast in our underwear and socks (to keep our feet warm) and sit down at the table and stare into each other's eyes while we ate. you'd rub your big toe on my shin and i'd rest my foot on your chair between your legs.

don't you want to feel my hair on your skin? it smells really good in the morning after i shower. and when it's dry, it's softer than silk. i'd sit on top of you and lean over, my face close to yours, and it'd cover us like a curtain, frame your face so only i could see it. you would be my world.

dec. 5, 2002

i get so clumsy around you. i can't think of a word to say. i forget the words i was going to say. my mind goes blank. i'm usually so in control.

dec. 4, 2002

where're you going? you asked. and i said i didn't know. i wrapped my scarf around my neck and buttoned up my coat. my tights are ripped at the knee from when i fell on the sidewalk trying to hurry up the steps. i couldn't wait to see you.

i have a bruise on the inside of my leg above my knee, but not from when i fell. i have a scar across my lower back, but you've never seen it. men always stare so hard at it. i think it's scar envy because it's bigger and better than anything they ever have. and i like that. i walk through the streets with my head down because i don't want to miss a thing and the ground is such an interesting place. i spent years learning not to stare at the ground while i walked, then learned how to do it again. dead animals, dried blood, feces everywhere - you wouldn't believe how much of it was out there until you've walked around for a while staring at the streets.

i watch the shoes go by, read the flyers left on the ground, wonder how the sidewalk graffiti got there. i've learn to read the past in a wad of gum; i count cigarette butts and broken beer bottles. i watch my shadow when it's in front of me, and feel it following when it's behind. sometimes there's two of me on the sidewalk and it disturbs me. i don't want two of me; i want one of you.

dec. 3, 2002

i've never done this before, you whisper, your shoulders lifted slightly like you're going to pull the covers up over your head. i laugh softly (because it's late), strip out of my clothes and dive into the icy water. my heart races against the chill. i know you feel awkward so i don't stare. you take your clothes off much slower, but jump in as soon as you can - you don't want to be standing on the shore naked - you want to feel the cold, too, let it force a sharp inhale.

we swim as fast as we can to warm up and you keep your distance. i'd like to wrap myself around you, but i know better. i might not get you to come out again. i wanted to take you somewhere you'd never been before and even though you're cautious, you look pleased. you're wide awake. your body propels you through the water - it's hard not to be graceful in the sea. all our movements are buffered and gentle. ripples lap quietly against our faces, big salty licks. you don't say a word. we float on our backs and stare at the stars.

dec. 2, 2002

cool colors suit your complexion - you're summer's child. white sandy beaches and a brilliant blue sky. do you wear those colors for me? i love them. i wear warm colors because i don't know how to wear any others. but i prefer the winter's chill and heavy layers and palpable weather - a chilly fog, endless rain. i wish for snow, but won't see it soon.

the girl in my bathroom tells me she's from the east, but won't tell me which city. she's reticent and shy. i offered her some chocolate, but she says she doesn't eat. i came home and she was sitting on the toilet with the seat down reading my oe. i was wondering where it'd gone to - it was missing from my bag. her knees were drawn up to her chin and she rested her head on them, she's so thin. she asks about you and i make up some stories. because i like to tell tales and don't know a thing about you. i like it that way; it leaves you in my head.

dec. 1, 2002

did you die a little today? pining for me? i wish you would. don't you miss me? it's been so many days...and so few left.

that girl on the street the other day? i brought her home with me because you wouldn't take her in. she bathes me in the early, early morning because i don't sleep anymore. a warm washcloth running from the sole of foot, past my ankles, up my calf, over my knee, over my thigh. she drags it a litte shyly between my legs, but i don't mind because she does it slow and it feels good. up across my stomach and between my breasts and then she rests it on my neck and it's warm and wet. her breathing is slightly heavy and i like the feel of it near my face. her eyes are dark like yours, but her skin is pale - so white. she sleeps curled up by my feet. i've offered her half, but she takes so little.

you watched me tear apart my machine and put it back together. you said you liked how i held the pieces carelessly like they were toys. you didn't offer to help because you didn't want to. you read from a book, but wouldn't read it aloud. then you drank some tea and offered me a sip. and you touched my hand like you'd never seen one before. and you didn't complain about how dry it was. you watched me unsmilingly. but your eyes were laughing. i wanted to laugh with you.

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