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?