So, I'm sitting here, looking at this picture, and I decide....I am going to fucking write about it. Funny thing is, words hurt more than anything else. I want my words to feel like tiny little daggers stabbing little holes into your lungs so you know exactly what it feels like to look at this picture. Maybe I am calloused, or scared, or just don't really give enough of a fuck. But it's not about me in this moment. Its about her. And what she's about to go through. Welcome to being eighteen, my love. Wait until he chooses a manifestation of happiness over the real thing. Then you're going to be the one with a thousand tiny holes in all your organs. Its almost disgusting how easily I fall right back into it. And, the worst part is...I'm aware of it. How is it that a person could put so much effort and time into an appearance and every one in the building will notice and say something when the one person they did it for sneaks out the door? When in actuality, all said person wanted was an honest friend? How fucked up do you have to be as a person to struggle to be a decent friend? You're a self-absorbed ass and you fucking know it. You never cared about me, or my fucking make up, or my silly ideas, or my fucking story. Your own life is a joke to you. How do people live that way? And then there it is again.... my fucking story. You never asked about it. Would you even want to know? Would you like to witness what I have seen? My life is deeper than yours. I just have to remember that. You're the same fucking boy that ruined my spirit when I was a senior in high school. Now you're going to ruin hers. And that's partially my fault. How can you look someone in the eyes and tell them you love them and that they're special when you're being unfaithful... whats it like to be the other girl? Is it better? Worse? When someone cries is it any different when someone else cries? We're all so alone. Even when we're not. No one lives in our head with us...thinks the things we do... knows what horrors our past hides. Its a double stringed, blue, purple, white and green bracelet. That's what my scar looks like. Its a purple ugly eagle sketched onto my ankle, that's what my scar looks like. Its a pack of medicine found in the drug store. That's what my scar looks like. Its a whole fucking room where no one goes with a goodbye letter hidden within its depths. THAT IS WHAT MY SCAR LOOKS LIKE. But... you wouldn't know. You're too busy making them to learn about them. I fill up the little holes poked into my lungs, like usual. How do you get so calloused? You go through something bad enough to make everything else seem petty. You pick the other girl. I imagine 180 pounds of dead meat on the ground. You act like I'm not beautiful enough for you, I imagine the last look my father gave me. You ignore my message yet again, I remember having to wipe drool off my boyfriend's chin. Sometimes I forget. But...I always end up remembering. Time runs out so quickly. I don't even have time to catch my breath. Sometimes, I run. I remember that feeling of running up hill, breathing in all the cold in shoes that didn't fit as if maybe...just maybe if I ran a little faster he'd still be alive. Maybe... if I hadn't decided to eat ice cream, I could have stopped it. Or at least postponed it until I wasn't there. My skin is crawling and my tear ducts are swelling and what.is.this. Stop. Breathe. Hide it. For someone who deserves to hear it all. And that...that isn't you.

Winter gets so cold.

I want to cut myself in half and let all of my contents pour our onto the table for you to see. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. As we're lying naked in bed face to face and you look at me, what do you see? I want to get high with you and never come down. I want acoustic melodies to play through the air as we float over the bed in infinite space. Melodies stuck in my head that make your intestines feel warm. The same intestines that are going to fall out on the table whenever someone decides they're ready to listen, really listen. Maybe I'm making up for when I was so numb, so oblivious that I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. I couldn't type. I couldn't breathe. It was melancholy and periodically joyful but what I came to realize is I'm not me unless I'm chasing something. And now, even when I'm focused on what's at stake, my mind still flutters to the dreams I cannot have. That's who I am. My jaw is clenched my face is smiling and you think I'm happy but as soon as that sun comes up, we both know its over. It doesn't have to be, but it is. The rivers in my mind dry up and I forget it. But there is still this well in the back of my brain that overflows with ideas of a superb utopia. That's the thing, though. You don't exist. At least not in my world, my time. Of all the people who have lived, died, been made up, thought of, created, in all the world...one of them is bound to capture the same disastrous orgasmic ideals. We're all so caught up in making our lives materialistic, spiritual, and social, we forget about the centuries before us. We're devolving and we're too dumb and low spirited to see it. We enjoy our fantasies played out on screens or written in books but we never strive to be in the movie or book. We're all broken creatures. Everyone of us. Broken enough to be humble. We all have bad habits. Mine is chasing things that don't want to be chased. Maybe I'll grow out of it. Maybe I'll bury it somewhere in the depths of the ocean. Between the devil and the deep blue sea. I strive to be as enlightened as many do. But there comes a time when push comes to shove that our floating naked bodies hovering on top of glorious measures and bars of music, just isn't enough for this world. We live in a world where being naked, our own bare selfs, is hidden. Our self is taboo. But violence is advertised. And why shouldn't it be? Haven't we succumbed to being just like the rest of the mammals in the animal world? Except we're given greater opportunities that we pull our pants down, squat, and shit on. We close our eyes really tight, and we pretend the monsters will go away. But they never go away. They just hide under our beds for us to forget about and stumble upon later. Count backwards from one hundred to keep yourself from crying. Do not be vulnerable. Society says so. I want to force myself into your arms so I can steal your warmth and make it my own. I want to jump on your back while you are not looking and knock you down and make you giggle. We are just living these fake lives with fake identities because we don't really know our own. And while we seem so intertwined within each others bodies and minds, its all just a fraud. Close your eyes and pretend. Maybe the monsters will go away. Maybe this one will stick around. Maybe, just maybe the rivers in your mind can run with fresh water again. Who are we kidding? We're too young to know any better. So, excuse me while I sew myself back up shut. Because no one is ever actually going to listen, really listen. That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.

This is how it works.

Edge of a break through or break down? You watch episode after episode of your fantasy life and you day dream about being part of it. You're at work with this blank stare on your face and no one around you realizes the beautiful mind behind it. What you make up in your webs you weave amongst your own thoughts. You see someone you find fascinating and beautiful. And you want them to feel the same way about you. You want to be with them, but only in your daydreams. Because if you had the opportunity to be with them for real in real life, let's just be honest here- you'd throw it away like yesterday's paper. I want you to see me the way I see you. If not anything else, just for one moment. That's the simplicity of one moment. Its aesthetic because its only for an moment. Looking at the air balloons with my big eyes, big pupils. You saw it. Who has it made more? The woman or the mistress? The mistress can never have you fully, but the woman is lied to and cheated on. Both long for the rest of you. The beauty that is within every chord you play on your guitar, every tile in the bathroom floor that no longer exists, every pill you popped to escape your reality when your reality was me. Every lie you tell them to make them think you're not secretly hurting on the inside. You would rather hurt in secret than make them feel bad about causing it. And when there is someone who will never hurt you, you run away. Why is that? You're pressing keys and you're singing songs. You're dropping hints here, lines there, and no one is picking them up. You've given every single ounce of everything you are to someone who will never deserve it in any case scenario. You give it all up. No one will see you the way you want to. You want what you can never have, and that's exactly why you want it. You want someone you can never keep. You like it that way. There are so many promises and goals you make for yourself, but that's the only push you have to be optimistic. Quiet melodies and secrets are what makes your body tingle. Secret sins. You don't even know what that is anymore. The older you get, the more numb you become. I just want to sit someone down and tell them everything. From the beginning. Like a book you pick up and and you just can't bring yourself to put down in order to go to sleep. Then when you finally go to sleep and you never want to wake up. Never want to let go of the wonder your mind makes up. What is everything? How far can you go to escape. Or do the opposite of escape, and be found? Every word you've never said to me runs in circles in my mind. Every word I've never said to you is on the tip of my icy tongue, but they will never spill out. They're a force stronger than any fake emotion I can put out in order to fit into your box....even though I know you won't ever notice that. You kiss her, you lie to her, and yet you tell me your secrets. But you never ask me about mine. One more time, with feeling, love. What has become of us? What are we even trying to do anymore? I barely remember crawling out of your window the morning after. Or screaming at you at the top of my lungs with tears rolling out of my eyes because even then you were not listening to a damn thing I said or felt. You numbed it. And you made me numb it too. You locked me away in the shadows and you hid everything you never wanted anyone to know about because you were ashamed. You lied. You manipulated. You told me that you would wait and you didn't. And you... You stopped loving me when I needed it most. And I never told you that. So many of you.... So I gave up. And I never gave back in. Breathing's just a rhythm. There really isn't anything left to say, but I will still say it. I will scream it. I will latch onto it with nothing but the tips of my fingernails...Because none of you ever really get it, do you? The beauty behind every whisper you hear, every blank stare you see. What's going on inside her mind? You'll never know. Because you'll never ask. And even if you do...what makes you think she'll tell you anyway?

Colorblind.

Where do people go when they close their eyes? And what do people see when they dream? What is it about this place that makes us yearn for a better understanding of the things we know literally nothing about? Do we dream the same things? Do we constantly crave the same feelings? Why does it make you feel safer to be wrapped around in someone else's arms? Why does it make you go faster when someone who let you fall is watching you move? What exactly is it that makes us hope for adventure? And why do we have to ask so many questions to get to it? Our hearts are all heavy but why does it want to be with another heavy heart? Is it compassion? Understanding? Our are we seriously too blind to see the irony? We're all broken enough to be humble. But that's the thing- we're all broken. We all allow ourselves a minute to be overwhelmed and smothered with that constant buzzing feeling of wondering what if. We all make excuses and we all think we are so much more enlightened than everyone around us, and maybe we are, but who are we to assume that? We all have escapes, each different in their own way-just like the cogs and gears grinding within our constant buzzing brains. AND WHY CANT WE JUST TURN IT OFF. Just for one.fucking.second. For a chance to breathe? We're facing the clock, and we're facing some sick fuck sending us to do their bidding dressed like a wretched animal with no sense of what is going on. We're blind, and we think we see see in color. We're deaf and we think we can taste musical symphonies. We take every single tick-every single tock- every single piece of tragedy and trauma- and we put it in a golden locket and hang it from our necks until one day we're literally hanging from our necks. Such beauty wrapped around in such horror. Horror is subjective. You can't love until you can hate- or maybe you cant hate until you can love. and what is the meaning of either? WHO GIVES A SHIT. We're constantly drifting out to sea trying to escape our made up world like we're part of the goddamn truman show. We fill our bodies with chemicals and our minds with noise in order to try and branch out from the "normal" way of thinking and where exactly does it get us? In a worse state of self-loathing and contradicting morality. BUT ITS SO WORTH IT. Isn't it? Thats why we do what we do. That's why we love wreckage. Destruction is art. You are the scum of this planet. Every single one of us are, and that pure simplistic beauty is why we keep the vibrations rumbling on this ever so patient planet. If I'm not under your skin by now, then stop wasting your own time. There isn't anything except for nothing. Its simple and complex and we cannot stand it. We are the errand boys for someone who functions the exact same way we do. Someone who eats like we do, shits like we do, and dreams the same way we do. Or maybe not. You muster up every bit of courage you've been storing just to make it to the end of your driveway just to turn back around and hide in your glass home. Its disgusting but its oh so beautiful. Our minds are conformed to this sense of how to do things the "right way." Writing is subjective. Love is subjective. Hate isn't. why do we all have different views on what we think love is, but we all agree on the definition of hate? Why do we get married to people we can't stand and want to screw the life out of the ones we hate? We get excited when things go our way and we throw tantrums when they don't. Where is our common ground? What do you see when you lay your head on your pillow and hope your dreams are as vivid and exciting as the night before? Who do we see in our dreams? Will we ever love someone. will we ever connect with someone. will we ever get over our own needs in a chance to be with someone we don't even know? Ive picked out all my favorite flavors in my bag of candy. All that is left are the oranges and purples. They'll probably be thrown away... but maybe I'll dream about them when its time to escape my reality yet again for the night. And maybe I'll dream about you too... and maybe you'll have the same dream...and maybe when we wake up it will be erased from our memories. Maybe it actually happened in an alternate universe. Maybe we were together for one time. one night. somewhere. maybe.

Theworld.

Somewhere there is basic purity hidden within the depths and confines of your DNA molecules. How is that for poetry? Its a give and take process, really. Give a little here, take a little there. And yeah, maybe I give a little more than I take. I throw off the balance. It bites me. My problem lies somewhere within the fact that my hopes dreams and disappointments all are kept within the same place. Maybe that way I know how to keep them in balance instead. My imagination exceeds so greatly, that I choose to sleep almost half the day just so I can see what kind of beautiful and fucked up dreams it will produce. And that's just when I'm asleep. When I'm awake, I'm never thinking of the reality that is around me, more along the lines of constantly playing some enhanced form of entertainment. If you knew my brain, you would say I'm creepy. But thats the beauty of it. I can think of the strangest situations while you're talking to me about your day and you would never know. I've figured out that I am a mix between a hopeless romantic and an existentialist and the two are constantly battling each other no matter where I go or what I do. Its as simple as the smell of a shirt or the anger response from something that my logic can't compete with. And while I'm struggling internally, I realize that this is just a process people go through. Keep quiet, I tell myself. And when everything around you is swelling up to the crevices of your body you remember one thing. You. Keep it in check. Remember your guidelines and your rules and fuck everything else. This is the way I move. This is my motivation for something more; something better. And that something better is not within the blood cells of another human albeit right or wrong. And while everyone else is busy arguing over religion and politics, I will be arguing with myself over something that matters. Humanity. where is it? Benefit of the doubt. Its right here. I will save the world one day. If not the whole thing, at least my own. Which brings me to my new motto that my imagination came up with somewhere between half awake and half dreaming. Never stop loving world. Even when the world stops loving you. And it that doesn't push your buttons of curiosity, then your place in the human race has exited my thoughts and dreams.

This war was worth this.

I've been doing alright. better, actually. Some lady started talking about suicide and I had to go into the bathroom so I wouldn't have to hear her and think about it. It was too late. My mind kept going back to what I've been working so hard to repress. I've forgiven you. I never meant to make it about me. But damn if that wasn't something they don't prepare you for. Maybe I obsess over things, people, places, music. I'm just looking for a type of fulfillment in my life. More so than monetary value and pleasure. More like a warm welcoming "you belong right here" feeling. I'm Just not getting it. Anywhere... We're all flawed beauties. But only the true beautiful can accept that. And yes, our vanity is so overcome, we need checkpoints to keep us going. Everyone can delve into a nonsensical world with underlying themes of basic human morality, but once you come back, you remember its nonsensical and everyone lost their conscience when they lost their virginities. In the back of our minds, there is always another place we'd like to be. For some reason. That reason always involves a person we've connected with in some way, whether we know it or not. I bet you're in Canada right now. Listening to Sublime smoking an artificial cigarette reading a book on basic philosophy or an existentialist Camus play. I'm done. I can't keep coming back to this. Its underlying message haunts me and if I don't put both my feet forward, I'll never trust anybody ever again. As if choosing artificial happiness over my heart didn't do enough... We're growing up. Its inevitable. And nobody told us how to. We're doing this by ear. Nobody ever knows if what their doing is right wrong or somewhere in between. Stop being so picky. So judgmental, harsh. I'm trying to do this shit the best I can. No one told me how. The same questions are being asked, just not as frequently. The stars look the same and the stories have the same endings, but we keep fingering through the pages trying to figure out if we've missed something... Something will speak to us. And nobody ever tries to figure it out like I do. I want to know you. I want to know how you think, what you feel, and what gives you goosebumps. And sometimes nothing feels better than another broken soul's embrace. As if a mutual, "I get it." The fireworks-- I remember. I remember the phone calls. The barefoot sidewalks. The books and the sharpies. The angst. The music. Hoping summer will last forever. I remember. I want someone to remember with me. I'm holding out for it. Its like the cut-grass feeling. I think somewhere along the lines everyone else forgot. They forgot the tragedies, the jokes, the running so fast it felt like a million tiny needles were stabbing your lungs and heart. Holding back everything you could that turned into nothing. Yes, I'm okay. I never thought I'd get hit. I thought I'd get away. You all forgot the windmills and the tulips. If there were any left. I want an embrace. And maybe my fingertips are finally feeling relieved, maybe my dreams are holding my only essence of anything and everything I am made up of. Every morsel, atom, cell of me. Maybe its on overload. The sticky hot summer days are starting to rub me the wrong way, but this is me and this is who I am. And this? This is only the beginning.

I don't believe it makes me real.

Sometimes, I may not understand why I think the things I do, or make the actions I make. I'd rather feel the pain than let others hurt. There is something deep within my heart. It's either a hole, or its made of gold. The universe never makes sense, thats a given...but me? Of all people to understand myself, it should be me, right? My fingers are dry now, but I know that the juices are pumping somewhere in there and if I dig and sweat and work, it will come...right? How much longer before I'm in that summer filled with stars and glories and laughter and ghosts. Is this really happening? I want to give you everything within me. Problem is, I don't think there is anything. I want my Chicago back. I'll even fathom the days were everything hurt so much. I felt something then. The crisp air, the lovely free spirit... where is she? everyone is tired and run down. This isn't how I should grow up. This breaks all the barriers. We see double moons and we dance in the water and we go numb and think we're having a stroke. We miss the things we want trying to enhance our time. We sit in our car, listening to the same songs over and over watching our cigarettes burn WAITING for you to come back. But you won't. You could just hold me and tell me you love me. You could stop. Stop it. You choose a manifestation of happiness, not even real happiness over me. Do you know what you did? It takes a whole knew level to lower a person so low they are unhappy with their selves...for years. And hey darling? If you'll be my star, I'll be your sky. I will wait and hold my heart between skylines and scenic. Why? I'm a dreamer. I grew up on This Lullaby and Teen Angel. My heart aches out of my screen less window for the boy next door who won't look at me until I'm all grown up. My favorite is gone. Can't chase that dream anymore. My hair cuticles are raised as I question this and that and everything in between. Eventually. You held me in the floor. Where were you when I NEEDED YOU. I don't need anybody, right? Everyone is singing, for you. FOR YOU. All of them. Bite your tongue. One day I will run down the halls barefoot so fast I CAN FUCKING FLY. We are all caged birds, right? Caged, wingless birds. Just chirping away. I never thought you'd be the one to let me down, and I can't even be mad at you, even though I am. These wings are frayed and the feathers are scattered. Find them and turn them into confetti, hoping for big city dreams. i need to move. This place is damaging to everyone who stays in it. Earn money. What is money, anyway? Is everyone singing yet? I want you to come home. I want to hear you talk again. I want my daddy. Its hard, you know? And no one really thinks about it. Sometimes it gets so surreal that I can't tell the difference between reality and dreams. Except, my dreams contain my happiness. Even when skaters roll around murdering people and we have a giant skate party...And then there's you. You, you, you...remember? Remember the tulips? No one believes me. what is there? letters? scratches? paint? love? hate? What's the difference? Some people touch your lives. I wonder if anybody drives around looking for me. There needs to be away out of here. I need to get out of this town. Once I do, I will never come back.

The path unto this heart is lit up with corpses.

My dreams are getting stranger and the moon is making people weird, but somethings remain clear to me. I am so sorry that it stings. But, I'd rather it sting than scar and that's worth so much more than you even realize. It's alright to just accept your surroundings and learn to be happy with them, but there's only so much waiting left before everything changes and I become enlightened. My future husband is in the hands of someone who's prettier than me. I won't get married. Something is always wrong. I'm afraid. I'm too afraid that I'll never obtain my Chicago or my sweetest downfall ever again. What I don't understand is how boggled our minds get with such petty, unimportant things but we seem to misplace the stuff that matters. Our hearts become heavy and our feelings get hurt. There isn't always an explanation or reason as to why people treat others the way they do. Humans don't respect each other. And as we've evolved, we've spun so far out of control that such inhumane things occur in our society on a regular basis, that not much shocks anybody anymore. And although there are words to soothe the mind, thoughts to ease the pain, melodies to keep the wandering echoes of the mind at bay, sometimes it just isn't enough. Sometimes it will never be enough. We don't strive to be better to other people. We strive to make ourselves happy. Happy is and never will be always attainable. It comes and goes like the weather. Our constant changing should match our judgement of others, but it doesn't. Sometimes there are people who will never stop hurting you,, never stop letting you down, never stop making you unpleasant, and yet you never stop loving them. This is such a scary thought. Who wants to never stop loving someone who mentally scarred you? One or two or three is enough. That's when you stop. Stop falling in love. Stop searching for friendship beyond the casualties. Stop looking for someone to hold you and tell you that everything is going to be alright, when you both know it isn't. Your insecurities add up. That's okay. One day there will be someone patient and kind enough to wait on you and break down your walls no matter what happens. But then again, its only a matter of time before they start doing the same. Maybe humans weren't meant to be monogamous. Its only a matter of time before you stop questioning everyone else's sanity, and you start questioning your own. Sure fun is great. But don't let it keep you stuck in the same spot. There is so much beauty beyond the world and some people just ignore it and live their whole lives with no desire to see it. How can someone just live in the same spot their whole life and not even pursue a career? It gets old when someone decides to judge you based on things they don't even know about you, when their own lives are by no means any better. It gets old crying to yourself simply because you're lonely. You'd rather be lonely than let down again. Reflect. Stop worrying about so much dumb shit that you completely forget about something that means a lot to you. One step at a time. One step at a time... But it hurts. I put so much time and effort into something I love only to be let down and hurt. I'm awake and feel the ache. Its like a big hole in my chest. How could you do that to me? Take the one thing I have left away from me? I don't have an ear to listen to me. They say they will be they don't. People can't stand me and I don't even know why. Then they pretend like they don't know what I'm talking about. It's your fault. You did this and you did it on purpose. Happy now? You win. I'm so close to the edge but I'm holding back with all my might. I am going to snap if something doesn't change. I try so hard to fit the mold and try so hard to break it at the same time. I need to get out of here. I need to run away. My void is empty because I choose it but sometimes it unbearable. And we go through this with our heads high and our shoulders wide but we keep our secrets inside us. We keep them in and never say a word. All we want is someone to share our pain. Why does it have to be this way. Why do people have to leave us and hurt us and expect us to pick up the pieces all by our selves? I am still waiting for a letter to a former lover. I still want to scratch all the paint off my walls to find it. I am still waiting for the ghosts to come back just to tell me how beautiful I am on the inside and that they're sorry they had to leave and that they'll be back soon. The time machine, the rewind button, I am still holding off on that, wishing as hard as I can as if my life is a movie and people can reverse time or switch bodies. This heart is heavy. Its a lot heavier than you'd imagine. Nobody takes that into consideration. The ringing in my ears reminds me of the girl who never cared. My burning stomach reminds me of the boy who never listened. My beating heart hurts for the boy who gave up. My fuzzy brain remembers the one who I'll never stop wishing for. My hands long for the touch of the boy who didn't keep his promise. I'm trying. We're all trying. The maze is confusing us and tricking us and consistently reminding us of our parodies and falsities. My birds hold up my motto and will forever keep reminding me of how absolutely strong I am and who I am. It gets lonely. It gets sad. But its just another day. Just another sad night filled with quandaries and fairytale dreams and wishes. It will pass as always. But somewhere albeit in this universe or not, there is someone who's heart matches mine. And as for tonight, I will remorse their efforts. I shall long for those summer nights of 2008 with the stars, my father, the love, and the ghosts. I have not been as content since. The movies I can watch, the songs I can hear, but its never the same. Nothing ever is.

I hate you. It makes me laugh. I'm struggling internally. I'm trying to put two feet forward with a grin on my face. The problem is all these sentences begin with "I." There are monumental icons on this planet that our minds cannot even fathom. You think life is so bad? Really. Look where you are for juuuust a minute. I'm working for a goal. I want to see Chile's cave's and an aurora. I want to so scuba diving and see the depths of the ocean life; skydiving and see the world from up above. The meadows, the forests, the deserts, the storms. I want to see and feel it all. Maybe after THAT you can say your life is awful. Except you won't. That's the real tragedy of the American hero. If your life is bad, then get off your ass and make it good. Everyone is so sick and tired of hearing you complain. I understand that now. And I'm sorry. And I forgive you. I think all of you are infinitely more enlightened than you realize; either that or you're all the polar opposite. Let's all agree to do great things with ourselves. We've all already wasted so much time. Let's start out simple. We shall begin with ceasing to eliminate the positive in our lives. Something is positive, you push it out because it's interfering in your comfort zone. We must accept our faults, apologize, and do nice things for other people to make up for them. Everyday is a new day. A new chance to STOP SULKING and appreciate the greater things around you. And yeah, I hate you. But I will get over it in time. I wish I never met you to be honest. You've been nothing but selfish even when I forgave you for it (without an apology.) And you keep going. You are a sell out, but you couldn't even do that well. I might be vain and shallow at times, but at least I have a realty check. I am so sick and tired of all these boys claiming to be men failing to even try to realize who THEY are before they try to figure out me. YOU WILL NEVER FIGURE ME OUT. That's the real tragedy. That's the reason you all go crazy. But that's okay, I keep myself close. If I let anybody get in, they take my personal shit and they use it against me. So even though you think you figured it out or think you got in close, you didn't. I am the same dismantled red head. Essentially. The difference is I grew up. I started caring for other people. Even still, I miss that girl. She got close. She figured it out. Things come and go. You reap what you sow.

You were fake, I was great, nothing personal.

That feeling when you get hit in the stomach and you can't breathe... you can't think... you just feel pain. That's what this is. You're all the same. "I can post this because I know you won't read it." See? Same. Why do we question who we are. We're fake. We have fake nails, fake hair, fake tan, fake smile, fake eyebrows, fake eye colors, fake paints for our face as if our eyelids are color by numbers. So, I lied. You did too. You screamed at god but knew he wasn't there to hear you. So let's pretend and play our little games and say "bye" as if it really meas anything to anyone anymore. Just like "love." As if we even know how to define that word to an extra-terrestrial. Can we please just get over ourselves for just a fucking minute? Every impulse sitting in my heart that keeps beating too fast because of the pills I'm supposed to take is awaiting for some form of appreciation. My life is a thankless and unrecognized job. Whose isn't. When you erase me, did you remember to meet me again? I believe that movies and songs can save your life. Maybe I'm just classified as an adrenaline junkie. Maybe I rely on apologizes too much. Did I really think you could have been a different person? The tips of her tattoos looked like yours and I missed you. missed you so much. You ruined my life but were my best friend. Who can really blame anybody else for their own issues. I guess the ever long question of whether or not we'll be okay burnt into my brain so thick that I'll never quit asking it. But then again, maybe its burnt just as thick into yours, too.

Life is pure. It's a lot of things, really. It's messy, wild, angry, mean, hurtful, and gruesome. But its also forgiving.We cannot learn unless we make errors. Sometimes life is calm. It's raw. It's learning from us as we learn from it. The universe has its own way of working things out. It make take important things away from you, but it gives you something in return. It is accepting. And even though, we find it difficult to do the same, ultimately, that is what needs to be done. Accept the loss and continue forth. It really is the simple things. The cereal in your bowl, sleeping in until 2 PM and feeling guilty about it. Staying up until 4 AM crying about nothing. Helping another creature who needs help. The way in which the universe works is not what everyone always wants, but it is what is best. Nobody knows better than the universe. And sometimes, you become a stranger. And sometimes all you need is yourself. Distance can lead to mental awakenings. And even with chakras closed tightly, we can all bridge into something more than we once were before. Yeah, we have tender spots. And some of us are angry, but we must learn to forgive and let go. Just like the universe teaches us. Everything is alright. We just have to remember that.

I am small.

I'm feel like I'm falling apart. But we all know you'd have to be whole to begin with in order to do that. And it's like, we're all filled with these cute little songs we play over and over in our head and the singer and song writer understand us, but that just makes us feel lonelier. We have these little accordances that keep us going, moving, never giving in. One day we will reach our breaking point. Then what? I want to know her name. The name of the girl who ruined you. And maybe my socks are aesthetically pleasing and maybe I ramble and maybe I'm the weird girl who jots down all her clever little lines in a stupid notebook filled with such pointless scribble. You exclaim how you want to run up and down her streets and you insinuate that her streets are me but why do you refuse it. You refuse it, neglect it and you take it for granted, and maybe I do too... I told myself my heart belongs to scenic skylines, but what its its no one's for the taking? We're far too young to be this hopeless. Far too young. Sitting in bed tripping to Spektor, crying to folding chair wishes that will never come true. And we knew they were never going to happen. But we clung to this sense of security. That security prevents us from everything now. That vile is still being thrown onto you without even realizing it. And everything is so painful now. joints, muscles, your heart... it aches without even knowing why. It's this dead body illusion. This drug infested rat hole. This memory statically clinging to every crevice corner and line within your brain attaching itself to every thought you can ever possibly conjure up in your sad pathetic lonely little brain. You have to chose between letting go and holding on for dear life and you do not want to do either. You're a child and yet you're far more damaged than anyone else around you. Broken. Letting fanciful ideas take place and fill a void that you keep trying to find words to explain. Warm me up, I am small. I have lost myself again. Does anybody wonder who I am? Does anybody want to share and indulge in this pain? When does it become numb again. The walls awaiting my fingernails, with a message underneath. My tear ducts are tired but my heart is wired. Nobody left me a letter in the catacombs. I've lost my spot. I'm flipping to find it again, but its gone. The pause button doesn't work and we know the rewind button doesn't either. I want to stop you from killing everyone. You killed yourself but in turn killed a little bit of all of us too. We wear our scarves just like a noose. And where is that point in your life that you realize that your selfish endeavors and lack of affection and attention subconsciously killed the girl you claim you love. Till the morning light, you are my sweetest downfall. I am human, just like you. If you want roses then buy a bouquet. Cortesia. it died. The literary devices mean not a goddamned thing to me. I'm tired. I'm angry. I'm sad. I'm lost. I'll write you a letter that will never reach your hands. Go ahead, close me out. All I want is someone to listen and share. And you know what? Maybe I am just as crazy as you all said I was. I don't care. The shallow breathing, I cry when I run. I never ran so fast as the day my father died. And I cried the whole fucking time. The painful air filled my lungs and stung like I had swallowed hornets. I regret myself. I regret the lack of effort and the too much effort and the emotional range of a two year old. I regret my inability to learn. I regret what my life has become. It's aesthetic and its pure and I'm not hiding anything. It's everything and nothing. I know myself. and that is all-