WHO IS IAN JOLIE?

Diary Entry 1

She was with her friends.
I wanted to say sorry.
But I didn't because it wouldn't
have been for her.
It would have been for me.
Some kind of would-be empathy.

Would there even have been
a point if she didn't remember
her semisoft sin against my skin?
I know I shouldn't do that to her.

Sure, I wonder why I can't forgive myself.
Surely I'll stop ranting about all I felt.
Certainly, I'll forgive all I've been dealt, right?
But I know that wouldn't be right. At night,
I have this recurring dream.
We're not hugging. We're not screwing. It would seem
all she does is apologizes
to me and walks away delayed despite
my elation. And it's my creation
So I just feel pathetic when I wake up.

And I hate that I self-loathe.
But I've never grown old.
I've never been clothed.
I've never told or been told
to roll around in the cold all alone,
and not to make things sound overblown,
but I've had sex dreams about Lindsay Lohan
moaning, Pound me Ian, so loud
that I swear white powder falls from the clouds,
and my god Metis, we're absolutely enshrouded
by this perfect lightness so bright
the sight of Sarah ignites in my eyes again.

And tonight, I know I've got to ask for forgiveness.
I know I'm not supposed to say this stuff.
I just choose to do it anyway.

And she seemed happy today.