Just scribbles on paper.

It's amazing how the brisk of a sleeve can make you feel. Honestly, it's not even about you. You are just an extension of some deep rooted gunk inside me. Ever wonder why we stay in the lines, inside the margins? Ever wonder why we have to practice tricking our hearts into being on the same page as our brains? Heartbreak can manifest itself in almost any shape or form-like an unbeatable boss of sorts. How can you fly with clipped wings? Do you still try? There's something within the grip of the steering wheel or the way the wind blows wisps of your hair onto your cheeks, brushing them with a slight tickle such as a feather, which can only bring nothing but a grin with no other reason. Do I scare you? Do I entice you? Do I remind you of who you are, what you are capable of feeling, what primal instincts you cannot shut out? Does my presence make you fear, not me, but yourself? I've allowed myself to feel a couple of times. I wanted to scream into the sky for no one to hear but the stars that mourn our downfalls. Loving someone hurts. To do everything around their liking to get them to realize the extent of what you feel. Meaningless expression. I remember slammed doors and empty, empty, shallow laughs. Sometimes, I laughed at nothing. Anything to feel any amount of joy-real or not. That's love for ya. A pack of cigarettes and a tank of gas held so much weight even when you didn't care enough to stop me. It was never enough, was it? I could have put it all into a grave if I wanted, it would overflow and it still just wasn't enough for you. Love is pain and pain is love and I get that. Really- I do. But I want to feel it. I want to feel it all over, running and pumping in my veins like an adrenaline rush that just really gets you off. The perfect climax. To hurt for a reason, to hurt for a cause. To fight for something people just don't believe in anymore. I do. But I don't just want to love. I want to hurt. Because screaming and slammed doors and sobbing and watching my lit cigarette burn holes into my pants just feels so much better than feeling nothing at all. I am human. That is the beauty of being human. To feel. When absolute blankness is all you are exposed to-pain just sound so damn good. You can't put love or pain on your grocery list. The universe is a fucking joke that way. I want to love and feel and hurt until it damn near kills me, to fall to my knees, beg for mercy and then beg for more. Because that's the way my body works. That's the way it’s supposed to fucking work. That's the way my mind works and that’s the way my fucking heart works too. Empathy is never the same to another person as it is to you. Hurting for someone who hurts doesn't make their pain any more tolerable. Why do we always fall in love with strangers? Passing by, stopping in your life with a simple kiss-a hug- a fuck- a conversation. Do we ever actually know people? No one knows the thoughts we think before we go to bed and when we wake up. What secrets we hide from ourselves and how are hearts become so heavy in the middle of the night and we can't sleep, but all we can do is think think think until there are no more thoughts in the world to think and the heaviness in our hearts shifts to our eyelids. What is the equivalent to the dull feeling that creeps its way into your body without you noticing until its in full swing? It’s a want. ... a need. But for what? I'm still the same lost girl I've always been. I've not made much progress. I don't know what to do- not sure how to feel. Every feeling I have comes with repercussions and WHY. Why is it so wrong to be human, for me to be a fucking human. Has humanity come to point where we've lost sight of what's important? That we just don't fucking get it? I want it to go away. The winter months- the cold- the sadness. The imprints of my teeth engraved into my upper lip. I want to feel joy at my fingertips to spread to others. The blindness I feel has become overwhelming. There is a hollowness perching itself inside us all and we fucking let it. How will we let it define us? How will you let it define you? That’s the true characterization of humanity. How far are you willing to push yourself. My body has a mild vibration to it as I lay physically drained, exhausted. Surrounded by cubicles, I want to jump up! Shout out for mercy! Shake up the world, tell everyone around me to wake the fuck up! This is it- this is the revolution. When mankind battles it biggest enemy. The enemy that has been around for the longest time. Itself. Mankind is mankind's greatest weakness. To hurt each other and tear each other apart limb from limb. And we don’t even see it. I take comfort in the small things. A film used to watch to help me forget that my father is dead and he will not be able to hold me again. My arms and hands wrapped tightly around my warm belly, the best feeling and touching there is. You will never ever get under my skin. You won't see what beauty there is within this heart because you will not allow it. That goes for all of you. I'd like to go back to a tree in the woods. To enjoy my innocence I didn't know I had until it was gone. I want to remember the flesh that is underneath the threads tied from the graves, the attic stairs, the church bathroom, the black box theatre, the inside of a Buick Century. That's who I am. You're just too naive to know it.

Nothing brings comfort like being alone.

Sometimes you have to jump in without knowing the temperature of the water. Because the truth is, it might be freezing and it might make you wrinkly, but your body will become used to it. Out of the three rainbows I have managed to see this week, the first one was the best. Its odd to me how similar we as people all feel and think. We always think nobody else will understand but in actuality, they might be thinking the same thing. I crave a pulse pressed against my skin. Do not ask me why, but I just need a connection similar to the shock you get from walking on carpet with socks and touching a doorknob. I want to feel an electric current raise the hairs on the back of my neck and I want to project it onto the rainbows that I keep seeing. It's much like this feeling when you finish a book you've been reading for sometime. Its so exciting, and new and once you finish the end...you're not really sure what to do with yourself. I want to center myself around and idea of a peaceful mind, however, whilst my eyes are close, my mind thinks thoughts quicker than can be put into words. How many people would take the time to get to know me. How much certain albums and T.V. series make up of me. I want to be the book you read. I want to make you not know what to do with yourself. I want to read you. Know every story behind every scar. Memorize every freckle only to forget and then remember later. People are just people. Why is there so much electricity between hand touches and deep breaths? So much reassuring in wind that makes your hair tickle your scalp. You are not what you think you are. And do we actually all become the opposite of what we thought? Sometimes I cry for music. I cry for stories. I cry for the breeze. Sad and lonely, the breeze never belongs with anybody yet makes such an impact on the way we feel. I'm tired of my body quitting on me. That is to say, I'm tired of the back pain and the headaches but more importantly, I'm tired of tricking myself into thinking I am content when I am actually not. We all kind of lie to ourselves. Everybody lies. Its kind of sad that the only person you can actually believe in and trust is yourself: the person who lies to you the most. You aren't happy. I mean externally we can be happy but really deep down there is something we're always wanting and needing. And as much as we try to ignore it, that instinct is there. Lurking and waiting for a moment to become obvious to you and just because you recognize its there? Doesn't change a damn thing. Our body runs on sleep, our minds run on expose, but our hearts? They run on lies and comforting ideas of curling up into a ball and squeezing your eyes so tightly that tears can't possibly fall out of them, can they? You want to let the whole world in but all you do is shut it out. Nothing can penetrate your blankets and books and tea. Somedays we want to run as fast as we can hoping to eventually fall off the Earth, but we are simply not allowed to fall off. Someone once told me they envied a dying man. How absurd. But was he wrong? Are any of us ever really wrong? Everything can be chalked up to a gray area. Simplistically complicated. Twist me up and wring me out and tell me what exactly you see pour out of me. Is it beautiful? is it ugly? Another gray area. We all have demons we battle, who's to say yours are any different than mine? Instead of hiding them, why don't we let them play with each other? Let them distract each other. Riding backseat watching drop upon drop upon drop splash onto the glass when I was younger never occurred to me that it would be a significant memory. And in some ways, its not- but I remember. How much of me can I put into a container to save for later- another day-to share with someone who actually gives a damn? I'm tired. I am really fucking tired. I am so tired of putting in effort for no one to put in any back. And even furthermore- I'm tired that it hardly bothers me. A shrug, an eye roll. I should scream. I should scream at the top of my fucking lungs instead of being a clump of apathy. Because this is exactly who the fuck I am. I am a knot. I am a saint with demons. I am every single thing I need to be and every single thing you need me to be to. If only someone weren't too blind to see it. Being blind is a funny thing. Sometimes you don't see what you want. Sometimes you can't see what you need. I built a wooden box to contain my heart. Put it away for a rainy day-a day with rainbows. Maybe I'll bury it. Deep deep deep. A time castle. Centuries later they'll find it, dissect it and see more from it than anyone else has ever tried to. How pathetic. I want to be someone's drug. To leave a taste on your lips that you will never be able to shake from your mind, from under your skin. Something you'd never expect yourself to feel. To be slapped with unrecognizable feelings. To be prevalent and existing and every single part of your skin would miss the feeling of mine. We never really knew what to expect from ourselves as we tuned into what we became. Heroes-villains-standbys. The action is actually all around us and what fate have we chosen? Do we chose fate? Maybe we've all just been dead this entire time and this is Hell and we never even fucking knew. Surprise, surprise. My hands become shaky, my body stabs and stabs in pain and discomfort. Who are you? Who am I? Why don't we try and find out? Let's just be real here. Fear overpowers all. Or rather- comfort overpowers fear. So why don't you overpower yourself?

You never know where that heart has been, and we'll never know how hard it's been.

There's beauty in that pain. The way she bites her lip until it bleeds, the way she smiles while looking out into nothing; what is she smiling at. The way her hair and skin smell like apples and flowers. I want you to want to live on that skin, build a house within the crevices and wrinkles and tender felt. There's something deep within the way you can pretend to fly inside your quaint imagination in loud car rides to no where or nothing. I recall a time when the unsaid feelings we both shared drew us near a tiny, quiet playground, where we swang and played and cried without having to say a word. I wonder if you recall it too. There is something within the water of our souls that connect us in ways we are unable to put into the English language. Sometimes you wonder if you were ever really awake in the first place. The stories behind the paint on the walls hold so much depth that they want to cry along with us. When I was sixteen I was sure the house I lived in cried along with me every step of the way. It's the feeling deep inside the humidity of the air that holds all the feelings of nostalgia and everything feels right. Interpretations of everything she loves is the way into her cavity in which her heart lives. You can either dive in head first, or feet first, either way your bones will shatter. And that's something we cannot prevent because one way or another, you're going to get into that water. I want to exchange my fears in for someone else's. Take them as my own; cradle them, nurture them, and give them back in a better form that they were given to me. I want to fall onto my knees in every sense of self destruction. Destruction is the way to creation. Somewhere inside all of us is a layer of doubts that keeps the demons at bay. What is it that we're all trying feel? How are we so capable of putting our limitations into a cardboard box we can slide under our bed? The monsters we feared as children are real because we made them and never let the idea that something is going to get us when we least expect it go. We pass by so many stories every fucking day and we never even realize it. All we are is big fleshy meaty clumps of fairy tales and stories and hardships and we are all such perfect beings for doing what we have to do every single day. I want to tear down every wall you've ever put up with my fingernails until they are ripped clean off my skin. I want to cry with the walls that are forced to hold all of our secrets, our vices, our pains because we are all too ashamed to share it with anyone else. And why? Because we cannot be pushed when we're ready to jump. I want to rip my fucking clothes off in a fit of anger for no reason other than wanting to be raw. I want to scream until my chest and cheeks turn blood red like an orgasm of sorts, and I want you to yearn for me the way I yearn for human contact. To want it so fucking bad that it hurts. There's something so simplistic in the air that slaps your cheeks through the window, feet on the dashboard, heart becoming heavier and heavier. I feel a hatred burning and bubbling and bursting over and I want to jar it and save it on my counter top until I can smash it on the ground. I feel weightless in my discovery of the person I can be. I want you to want me. I want you to memorize the goosebumps, the scars, the stories, the different shapes of my curves. We are all just tales of rejection, depression, addiction, science fiction. Who I am is not definitive of how I feel. To be pressed up against the wall and feeling your mouth on my body, to feel the texture of book pages between my fingertips as I turn page, to feel the pain in my hand as I punch something that I've never been able to punch. I want you to bleed. I want you to miss the way I observe the things that are engraved in your existence. Empathy is the poor man's cocaine. What we do and experience is beautiful. To be able to witness death in the face and live alongside it with nothing in our hearts besides hope. Wishing upon wishes as if magic were real; it is. Something inside the sounds of the chords on a guitar or a key on the piano numb what we feel momentarily. And to have that option is more overwhelming than we ever realize. So much is taken for granted. The scent of you lingered on top of the scent of me as if they were making love the same way the raindrops do with pavement. And I want to be with the idea of you, the thought of you, the smell of you, the feel of you but never knowing who you are. The way strangers aren't actually strangers, just untold stories, skins unfelt maps of secret treasure. I want to pour out to you like water onto the thirsty plants that need it in order to survive. I want to become that map of discovery. Read me. Find my treasures. Or...just pass by with a nod, a smile, and a shuffle. The other people you come in contact frame you, whether or not you realize it. I want you to hunger for the melodies under my skin and the scars within my heart the exact same way your body magnetizes to mine. Somewhere along the lines we all lost sight of how to dump our insides onto the table for others to see. What exactly are we afraid of? We claim to be comfortable with ourselves and yet we hide our secrets within the subtleties of the things we're actually comfortable with sharing. The beauty of all of us is within the fears we don't even realize exist. What kind of monsters are under your bed?

I wonder if you still read these.

Through all the rough patches and efforts put into becoming who you're meant to become, it shocks you how after a year or so can pass between two people and yet you get slapped in the face with nostalgia and uncomfortable feelings the second you make eye contact with them again. I didn't think the sound of your voice could get my blood pumping again. It's amazing how many people touch our lives in such vastly different ways. I recalled a time where you wanted to run up and down the streets of a woman and how implications were made that the woman was me. I grin at the thought of how 2 am meant more to us than anyone else at the time. The problem with all of these things is that I keep allowing myself to get lost inside my own head. Being able to let things go has never been a forte. A familiar sense of a heavy weight inside my chest plate arose and I kept conjuring up imaginary situations that would just make things okay. But, they never happened. I am trying hard to be everything I should: a person filled with love and energy. The clouds have been making love to the sky in a way that I feel like people don't really appreciate. Some people thrive on being inspiration for art. You've been doing this to me for quite sometime. And, its not even about you, really. Its every single little instance that happens that makes me question myself. I felt like I lost sight of whats important. But then again, what is important. I wanted my blood to boil and I wanted to be kissed after being slapped in the face. I desire your body heat and sweat radiating into a mix with mine until the only thing we can hear is the heaviness of each others' breath. Face to face, chest to chest. I want to hurt for a reason, for a cause, for a purpose. Fighting for something until it nearly kills me. And I'll stand up, with dirt on my face and blood on my hands and smile. Life is funny like that. Getting punched in the stomach at 10 pm on a white wine belly wasn't actually much different than driving home from your place at 11 am without feeling like I accomplished a goddamn thing. A few weeks ago I realized that some people will live their lives the complete opposite way that you think everyone should. But then again, who are you to dictate how others live? Some people make it hard to love them. Those are the people you cannot control but you have to find a way to love them anyway. For your own sake. I fell down a hole. I fell in it so hard I came out of myself and all I could conjure was your face for what seemed like hours. Your stupid face. I used to press my lips on that face. I want a connection to last and build and strengthen together, not strengthen apart. I glimpsed into something I thought would grow and the fact that it died instead made me sad. We all get over sad. But you'll still find yourself questioning whether any of it was worth it in the first place. The sounds from the speakers answer all those questions. The sounds pull you out of the holes, make you smile when you feel like you don't even have lips to use anymore. Every instinct to pull someone inwards towards your core has repercussions. We've had more history then I recalled. Someone recently made me realize that I very well might be a gem. Or at least, I deserve the right to become one. Why is it that you never actually stop loving people? And when you think you hate them...its actually only love warped into something else because we had no where else to put it. I no longer remember the feeling of the goosebumps on your skin as I slid my fingertips across it. You probably don't remember the smell of my hair I used to leave on your pillow. How much love can a person squeeze out before they become dry? The thing is- I don't even want to sit here at almost 2 AM thinking about you right now. That was always the time. But there's just this crazy notion in my head that we need to mend whatever became broken. Otherwise, why would you keep popping up? Ah- that's the thing. Life's funny that way. I want to be craved. To burn an image into your mind. I want you to see me in the light I deserve to be seen in. My tummy ties in knots and I want to cry but don't feel the need to. I want to turn it off, I want to press a button. But I suppose the torment is what makes me human, and I guess that you are too. We're not so different you and me.