You crash. You burn.

Knock knock. Who is it? This one is for the books. I wonder what's greater, the amount of time we stay asleep, or the amount of time we stay awake? Amazing how someone can be such a fucked up individual that they release sorrow from the things done to them but then do them to others as well. No one man is greater than the next. We all have little maps within our tissues and organs displaying the people we will become. You always become the thing you hate the most. I had forgotten what panic felt like. It was me wanting to cry, me wanting to let it out, but being physically unable to do so because I have become so used to this feeling. So? I lost my breath. Panic attack into an asthma attack. Yeah, thanks for that. Bad habits will never actually go away. They just dwell in the back of your mind until you think its okay to let them out. Then you remember why you put them there in the first place. The drugs, the feelings. You usually lock them away. Strange to me how a heart can become such a cold hard callous over the time of it being beaten. This isn't as bad as it used to be. But that one little needle pushed into it hurts but only because its a reminder of what its become. Why am I always fighting? I'm always exhausted, yet for some reason I am unable to sleep. The brick walls I put up for other people to knock down I've realized I've been trying to knock them down for them and pull them in here. The warmth of the sheets in my bed are far better than the false warmth within your soul. You'll live your whole life being absolutely nothing but a let down. You fucking know it too. The cold crept into my feet and the sun started rising. I almost liked it. It made my toes just as numb as the inside of me. Half of me wants to feel it, but the other half just isn't ready. In fact, it was humorous. I try so hard to allow people to use me to make themselves happy. Maybe that's it. The worth of each individual shouldn't be measured by how much you need them. They should be worth as much as any other. You are the epitome of every single thought of angst, loneliness, and heartbreak ever put to paper, screen, melody, or brush. And you will feel it vicariously through the way you are to other people. Every single prick or pain I've ever felt bubbled up to the surface...only to fizzle away. I am in search of somebody to lay beside until the demons go away. I want to sit in the middle of my floor with paint and a canvas with music playing and just keep going until I pass out from lack of energy or creativity. How many times will I drive past my father's grave whilst the rain makes love to my windshield? How many times will I refuse human kindness merely so I can be the one everyone loves to hate? Don't even blink. You kiss every known scar on her body as if your lips were magic and could take the pain of the past away. She can feel your breath on the tips of her hair filling her with warmth and fear. Every single word you've ever let fall off your tongue is a representation of the misfortune that is... you. We all know what will happen. In the back of our minds, we fear and are anxious about the ending that we know is coming. Yet, we choose to ignore it until it presents itself to us but, we are only half blinded by the sting that consumes us. Think about it tomorrow. Never really coming to terms with the hurt of yesterday. Pretending and wishing it all away until one drunken night of open doors reminds you of every single pinch that makes you the human you have become. The youth of your formal self is most likely disgusted of the lack of ambition you've manifested. We always become the thing we hate most. what we swore we would never become. We give ourselves ideals of the perfect goal, the perfect body, the perfect mindset when in actuality each and every single one of us are falling apart at the seams on the inside and the worse we feel, the bigger we smile. Someone always has it better, someone always has it worse, but our pain, our suffering, our madness is the only thing that is completely all our own. His sorrow was uninformed. The tears and rips inside our souls are always going to be there. Some people just bring them out more than others. Our faces are nothing more than paper mâché starting to crack and break from all the years of use. All I want is for someone to notice the little things I do. Someone other than my inner inhibitions. The faint smell of cigarettes on your clothes, the taste of bubble gum on your mouth, the sound of the hums you sing to yourself quietly in kitchen in the morning. They all deserve to go without being unnoticed. That feeling you get when a stranger's scent reminds you of someone you once cared for but you can't seem to place your finger on whom. You remember random memories of your childhood- having no idea that this is where you were going to end up...still having not a clue of where you're going. Shake off the feeling of abandonment, betrayal, being unwanted. Put them away for another day. Never facing the nuances of the shades of feelings towards someone else. Its always the same feeling of yearning, it just misshapes itself every time you allow yourself to want another human being. Tricking you in all its cunning and clever idiosyncratic methods. What is it exactly? It isn't quite love, but its more than attraction. Its feeling the resonance deep down within your bone marrow of passionately stretching an arm out for someone to grab you. Yank you. Pull you. Jerk you. inwards towards them. and them curling you to their body, squeezing you with all their might as if you were drowning underwater and their very touch is oxygen to your water filled lungs. No one has ever tried to save you. Nobody has ever taken the time to noticed you needed saving. They sit their heavy body blatantly on your chest, wiggling around, weighing you down, cutting off your circulation, then when they get off? They leave. My mind is filled with lackadaisical efforts that have turned into absurd jokes. You are a fucking joke. My fingers cramp from stretching them toward you. I can feel you spitting on me inside your mind. Hope you know it. You are the epitome of everything you've never wanted to be. Sometimes, its worth it. Do you feel like its worth it?

delirium.

I am so fucking lost. Floating around like a speck of dust. What am I even doing anymore? It's time to leave. It's time to branch out onto another limb because sitting on this one has no more meaning. But where does this direction take me? What's out there? I fell in love with your voice. It took me back to when I was in grade school and I was within the halls of the music room. You raised all the hairs on my body and I felt my heart beating faster, all through your vocals pouring from my speakers. My pulse matched your rhythm. And I don't even know you. I've never wanted to know a stranger so badly before. I want to collect all my thoughts and paint them. I want to hear all the sounds and write them. I want to see all the colors and turn them into song. I want to be on stage and I want to twist my own intestines for you to see because that is the only way I can ever make myself feel alive. I am the epitome of angst, hatred, sorrow, loneliness and joy. All in one. I do is sleep, cry and make excuses for why I can't do anything. I want to call you at 3 AM. Hear your voice, ask what you're doing in your room I can only imagine. I imagine what your laughter sounds like. For now, I'll dream of living by the beach with skates on my feet and money in my bank. I'll laugh at everything I've been through. My hair will be so long, and I'll be tan and skinny. I'm so broken. I thought I was broken before, but I'm really broken now. Broken into fragments. like a mug shattered but too many pieces are missing. I close my eyes, hoping it will all go away, but it doesn't. I squeeze my eyes shut and ball up my fists. I make whimpers and push all my energy into absolutely nothing but air. I have no tales of love. No tales of addiction. No tales of therapy. Only tales of nostalgia. What a fucking waste. I'm not even sure what the point is, anymore. I dream and dream. I imagine tiny knocks on my window with you and a boom box. fucking classic. The air feels acoustic. My skin blushes as the wind slaps it. I want to put shoes on my feet and run until I am dead. Running from everything and absolutely nothing. Beyond this point of creative flow. Take me. Take all of me. Put me in your novels, your songs, your paintings. Anything to show the world what kind of fucking spirit I have, because none of you even know it. Nobody has taken the time to see it. I don't give up. This life will not knock me into the deep end. You got that? I want every piece of me to linger in your mind. The taste of my mouth, the smell of my hair. I want to be sentences and lines. I'm tired of chasing my issues with a false idea of what could be better. How much longer do we have before the word "youth" is no longer a reasonable excuse for the things we do? They've always called me a late bloomer. My head never stops pounding and my heart never stops yearning. The silence creeps in and is much louder than the trains or the fans in the next room. You all hide in your own insecurities. Place the blame on someone else because its easier to than to just accept the fact that maybe you're a terrible fucking human being. Broken bones can mend but broken hearts grow back crooked. You give me a sense of false hope and I know it is false, but it is exactly what I need. Don't tell me its false, I want to have something to hold on to. Something to take care of little by little every day. If I have something to look forward to, then I don't have to hide for so long. Have you yearned for something so hard that the second its taken away from you, you are too exhausted to care? Its like taking your time creating something into your perception of perfection. How easily it is for something to be taken away from you that was never yours in the first place. So many lost souls out there searching for their own existence in tangent with the pulse of the Earth we live on. Sometimes we dump out old memories to make room for the new ones, but there are moments when you remember the most insignificant of events occurring and the simple beauty of just that is enough to pacify our own screaming mind. Every single thing that keeps me breathing and moving is nothing more than a string of events attached to my existence. Why is it so much easier for every one else to find a place of comfort? I am only comfortable in my sleep. You once told me to wait for you. I have no choice. The fabrications I conjure from below my fingernails and from inside my brain folds are nothing more than an illusion for me to stay put and get going. Always keep going. There is probably something beyond us that is so incredible, so much better, that giving up would be worth it. But that is too easy. And I've seen what giving up can do to other people. You can all ignore me and pretend I don't exist but I will not do that to you. Even if you all deserve it. Strange how you can be uncomfortable but still within a comfort zone. The taste of your skin I can only imagine. Of all the things I imagine, that is my favorite. All of my favorite things nobody has cared to ask. No one is there. It's just me, my adrenaline filled pulse, my imagination, and my fucking spirit. Maybe that's all I'll need to conjure up a point of self worth. Maybe one day someone will ask me how I'm really doing. And I'll tell them how terrible it actually is. Its like being underwater and you keep kicking up to the surface, but you can only get one breath before you're pushed back under again. Everything is so hostile and negative. I'm always sad, but in a optimistic kind of way. I'm just waiting for someone to take the time to notice. I wanted that to be you. I'll imagine you singing me to sleep this time. I'll be able to fall asleep, then.

where does love come from?

I swear to you that one day this sensation in the pit of my stomach will go away and I swear that the very second that it does, I will yearn for it to come back. That's the thing. It's just history repeating itself. And I am very well aware of the outcome, but that doesn't stop my mind from wandering or my stomach from fluttering, or my palms from sweating, or my skin from bleeding. You know what you do. Every objective has a purpose and no one seems to heed to mine. Its like I am in some sort of giant bubble and I can't break myself out. Someone else has to to do it. But who. No one ever really wants to see me for who I am. Sometimes they pretend to, sometimes they never even try. But time and time again, I slice my heart open for someone to dissect and they get a random spurt of A.D.D. and find something better to do. How many times can a person eat rotten food before they realize they're going to vomit and shit all over the place every single time. Too graphic for you? Then fuck you. My bones and joints crunch and pop and I am self aware of the fact that my body is quitting on me. I will still ignore it. Everything is swollen including my heart and my ability to care. I start to get goosebumps as I imagine running barefoot until I get an asthma attack and double over. Everything is fleeting me now. My worries, my lovers, the people who lied when they told me they would always listen. Like screaming at a chalk board until my sounds turn into my fingernails. I want to cry. I want to turn my fingers into fists but instead I use them to click a bunch of keys. I've never been violent. It's always been pent up inside of me and oozes over into angst and sorrow. I'm trying to refrain from puking my feelings into a mess for you to clean up, so I'll swallow them instead. The things we all do, all for our own reasons, but does anybody ever really stop to think about it? I'd much rather be climbing out of your window in my underwear searching for a taste of reality than to be like this. I'd rather be fucking bald from pulling all my hair out than to be like this. I'd rather be exploring in some woods behind the house I used to live in that we had to give up because everything is unfair and I don't get to have a say, than to be fucking like this. Why don't you go exploit your senseless bullshit somewhere else? huh? Why don't you ever hit me like you mean it? Make me bleed, make me fucking care because it is obvious as fuck that you do not. Tell me you love me. I haven't actually heard it. I haven't actually been awake this entire time. Actually, I've been in a slumber, or hibernation of sorts. I've been bruising my knuckles on nothing but paper and cloth. Nobody ever actually wants my attention. Nobody ever realizes that I'm probably the only one who will do anything nice just because I can. Another night alone. Hungry. Sad. Angry. Nobody seems to notice when I don't eat. Or when I start bleeding. Or when I start slipping into depression merely because its cold outside and that just really makes me fucking sad, okay? I can't even have a tale of addiction. Its become so pathetic. Honestly, the lines have blurred between hating everyone, and just self loathing. I literally don't even know how to feel anymore. I sleep for hours just never having to get up. Really...get up. Wake up. Wake the fuck up. Sometimes, every thing is okay. Sometimes, the sun hits my skin just right and it makes me feel human. Sometimes, I wake up and I see myself in a room where I used to live. Where I had friends and a father. Where the worst thing was just a boy who I would be repulsed by when I got older. I'd still eat over the counter drugs and have monologues with the silhouettes of people who I thought would remain in my life but never did. They'd open their mouths and music would pour out of them as if it were its own language. It was. It is. I have become a moth to a light bulb. But someone has turned off the light and I have no idea where I am, where I am going, or how I even got here. I just wanted it, so I went for it. Its like that one time when I realized that nobody else loves the things I love the way I love them, so I went alone. Then I realized nobody ever loves me the way I love them, so I stayed outside alone for hours until money was dealt in order to be thought about. I'm shaking. I'm lying. I'm trying not to be desperate, but I am. Yet still, nothing can compare to the feeling of comfort. Security. The warmth of a pair of arms wrapped around you. Here's to wishful thinking. I am still the teenager who never found her place in the world. One day someone will love me. One day my body will stop betraying me. One day my sexual frustrations will fleet me like my own self pity and misery. Maybe, I'll be a butterfly instead. People like butterflies.

Just another shadow.

I remember a time where the railroad tracks would lie dormant and I would trace them with my fingertips. As a train steamed by I watched in awe as something passed so quickly and so dangerously before my eyes until the railroad tracks screamed in pain, calling out for me to ease their suffering. All I could do was listen. Some people want to suffer with the rails until their bleak and obligatory ending becomes written like the final chapter to a saga of books. I remember a time when the love I had for another person nearly killed me and I have never been able to love since. I felt my stomach twist so tightly it burst into a thousand little pieces, only to regenerate and do it all over again. I looked you dead in the eye with every single fiber of my being wanting every single fiber of yours as you looked at me with nothing but coldness. I don't even know who you are now. People think, and really honestly think that they know what will make them happy. They believe amongst all else, there is the one thing just barely out of their grasp that if they...could...just...reeeeach for it.... It will not make you happy. She won't make you happy, and he won't make you happy. You try to map out your body, all its crevices, corners, secret spots. You cleverly hide obvious secrets in your map so that when they are found, it seems accidental. Every single story that makes you who you are you let burrow in between your veins and tendons with the slightest bit of hope that someone will come along and dig for them. You do this is the search of something pure. Something honest, something real. But it is all just a lie everyone tells you with a smirk and a "cheers" gesture with their poison cupped firmly in their right hand. Why is it so hard to find an individual soul like mine, trying to read the maps we make of ourselves? We count pounds down. We count tears fallen. We count freckles and goosebumps and spend the money we work for to make everything smell nice and look pretty, and for what? To be ignored. She essentially pushes you to the ground without ever even having to utter one word. We are weak. We allow ourselves to be weak. We only trust ourselves and when our bodies give up on us? we have nothing. I know you are aware. I know you are awake, alert, and you are too far gone. I'm waiting for someone to toss me a line to bring me back on board, because I too, feel that I am far too gone. I jump into portal after portal after portal. To another dimension, another reality. There you are, heart in hand. In one piece. You are my subject. I wring you like a rag and use every single drop of you as a metaphor for my own bleak harsh and monotonous reality. All I thrive on is a little green light. It sits there taunting me. Is he there? Is he listening? Does he want to figure me out? It iss all a fucking game. Its my own fucking game. I, myself, am made up of little tiny bits of imagination and ingenuity. Gears and cogs grind in my brain and I can only think about slaying demons in the freudal age looking for tiny pieces of crystal that bring out inner demons, or inner purity. It's like I keep trying to push an unmovable object with the slightest bit of hope that if I just keep fucking trying, it will eventually budge. And that one little budge that might happen is enough for me to keep pushing until my arms turn into gelatin and my body is covered in sweat. I want to sweat for you. Time continues beating like the heart inside all of us. The more tortured you are, the faster your time moves. We all want the same things. We all try to escape from the society that we built for ourselves. We are beautiful fucking creatures. Our bodies are magnificent machinery that when we keep well maintained, can do anything. I am floating, and am stuck, between two different spectrums of behavior. I want to feel a certain way, but I don't. I sleep for hours, hours, hours. In my dreams everything is perfect. You are not there. The lives we live are fueled by anger, emptiness and sorrow. So much so that we become dried up like raisins with no real direction. The way she moves tantalizes you. You are unaware of how or why, but it does. All alone you search for an answer to questions you don't even really understand but are still asking. I gave up the pretense that if I keep perusing an exhausted cause, eventually everything will fix itself. It does not. It becomes much, much worse. My friends would rather take the chance of betraying me then apologizing than just asking permission, which I would have granted. Your sick sad sorry excuse for a person doesn't belittle the fact that what I felt was real, it was painful, and I haven't been the same since. But, go ahead. You'll just end up feeling the same way. I lay my head down on my pillow my body onto my mattress. I think about what you are doing in your home. How you deal with your stress. I wonder how I can pull this together in the way that I want but after awhile, I realize I cannot. A part of me wants to feel sorry for myself, but that time has since passed. I cut my heart open for you and I watch it bleed out but you do nothing. I won't regret a thing. I swam through the halls in search of love, but it was never reciprocated. I am the ghost within your walls holding all your secrets preventing the sunlight from reaching your face. You are trapped inside the idea of what you think you want. Phrases and words make their way around my head as if swimming in a pool of lost emotions and thoughts. We're all fucking trapped in our own ideas of happiness. How are we to escape? We may never figure it out. Stop focusing on the Heavens your branches are reaching for, you will always be rooted in the dirt. Never forget where you come from. The scars and stories that make up your existence. All we are and ever will be is a string of experiences. My ideals bounce within the measures and notes of the sweet melodies that appease my inner soul. I feel warm all over from the sounds that understand me so much better than people do. The manifestation of the sheet music rings through my skull and I smile. This is it. This is all we will ever have. Time to face it with dignity and eloquence. I give you everything. Take it or not, it's all I have.

lingering scents and blood in my mouth.

Brace yourselves for this one. The facets of a person are limitless and we know this but it still shocks me how easily we forget that. I am in love with nobody. I am in love, but it is with existence. Or non-existence. One of the two. Here's the thing: my imagination goes much farther than my actual life ever will. I perceive this as a false understanding better hindering myself into a bleak state of sadness, or nothingness, depending on the position of the moon and the weather that night. Always, after midnight. Sometimes you can even imagine the very scent of another human being. Dream of it. Dream of all the magic that is buried in your bone marrow and wake up with your smile fading because nothing you ever imagine happens. But, hey. It's all good. Nothing is quite ever what it seems albeit right or left. Right or wrong. Whichever. Every thread within your pillow case holds every single thing you've ever wanted to exist. And that, my friend, is exactly where they shall remain. Let's talk a walk. Find a tree. Climb it. And you and I will sit on a branch and become sponges to each others' spills. Then, we will trace each others scars, freckles, bumps, wrinkles, and delve into a realm of laughter. Your turn. Go ahead. You scared? That's okay. There are little tiny things in this world that people find fulfilling. The heat of your breath as you kiss your way down my tummy. The period printed at the end of my favorite sentence in my favorite book, concluding my favorite thought. You are everything in this world that you want yourself to be. A simple turn of the head, flick of the wrist, one tiny smirk. It all adds up to everything and absolutely nothing all at once. We give ourselves checkpoints. Vanity checkpoints, happiness checkpoints...sadness checkpoints. all for our own mindless self indulgence. You gasp for air, hoping that the oxygen stretching out your lung tissue will be some sort of reminder that hey- you're alive. and you're okay. It still won't negate the fact that you're twitching in artificial pain. But...we all know you like it. I lick my lips. I chew the inside of my mouth until it bleeds and I realize that I'm doing it. Its sort of like...a prism. Each side has its own secret story, but once a light shines through the gem, all the sides combine to form a rainbow. You don't really know how you got here, do you? To this exact point in your life? Take a step back. Remember every single word you wanted her to say, but never heard fall off her beautiful, beautiful, lips. Your body will always forgive you for the things that you do. Your heart, however, won't. I muster up some sort of paradoxical idea that not being myself is actually being more myself. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. Is anybody ever really sure how they feel about anything? Your eyelashes catch your sweat, and your fingertips curl into your mattress reminding you, that your body is kind of the only thing you trust. For the most part. I want to feel like a broken piece of glass in the ocean as it smooths me over. I want to be pressed up against the wall with someone's breath heavy in my ear. I want to be lost within the bass of a speaker and have my concerns be bumped away. The difference between me and you, is that I am open to interpretation. I taste your cigarettes on your mouth. The same mouth that lies and makes fake promises. I prick myself with the gift you gave me then demanded I give it back. Because it was special to you but I'm not anymore. I want a tear to fall on the tip of your tongue and you realize how bad sadness tastes. You say the same thing in circles but no one ever hears you say it. You hide notes and letters inside crevices of corners, but the only person reading them is a ghost who never lived. See things from a different perspective. See things with a new taste, a new smell, a new slimy, disgusting, sticky texture and then you tell me how exactly the fuck you feel. The doors have opened a path for you into a new way of seeing every single thing you see every single day. You crush molecules beneath your feet, thoughts and ideas within your head, and you think nothing about it. You're haunted. I'm haunted. We're all fucking haunted. I demand more. The thing about that is only I can make it happen. Every single hair upon my head will be pulled out upon request. I count ceiling tiles. I fit my foot in the boxes printed on the floor. I make sure each side of my mouth chews my food equally. Imagine a world with no melody. Imagine living in it. Imagine living in filthy quietness until one day you scream at the top of your lungs and that is the first sound you've ever heard. The one thing you love the most will be taken away from you after you realize how much you fucking love it. The one time I ever wanted to run as fast as I could, I was wearing shoes that were too big for me. Mottos and lyrics will get you through the day, sounds and images through the night. Always. I forgot what you smell like. Your voice, the bumps on your skin, the smirk on your face. My imagination makes up for it, but I know it isn't right. I let it all go within the words on my shampoo bottle. Let it go within the numbers as I count money. Let it go within the miles I put on my feet. Think stop explode. Sleep. This is it. I have run out of excuses to make.

All the world's a stage.

Its that person you want to hate, but you cannot. They're too much like you. At one time, I felt complete. My purple streak poked out of my short red hair and all you ever saw plastered on my face was a smile. But you see, the time I was complete was a time that I wasn't myself. When someone dies, people expect a month or two for people to get over it. They don't imagine that it takes a year to eat at your sub-conscience, then a few more years to eat at your flesh. People forget that its the little things that make us the way we are. The old boyfriend shirts we cut up from years ago. The purple streak in your hair that you held on to for dear life. Jeans. Flip flops. Zombie Audrey Hepburn. Sup. A bruised ego. If I could take back some of the things I've said, some of the time I wasted, I would. Bridges were burnt since then and I cannot repair them no matter how hard I try. I ran away one time. It was all I ever wanted. Yet somehow, I couldn't manage to escape my problems. My growing hatred has turned to sorrow but my pride won't let it go. Funny how the thing that brought me to that new place was the reason I left. Seasons change and we are growing old. Pain is so constant we've have come to not even acknowledge it. Some days, I'd rather just sleep. And fly. And dream. A phone call could have changed every thing. A nod. A smile. So many friendships wasted. Because of you. Because of me. Needles were pushed through our body parts as a sign of our ability or inabilty to grow up. I'm not sure which. We inhaled until the world muted itself and we were left with nothing but our own inner thoughts. I remember sitting in your spot looking at your back yard. With every cloud of smoke I inhaled everything became brighter and details became unimportant, or more important. I'm not sure which. The world we live in has so many set backs built into it, setting us up for failure. And while our friends all have the time of their life, we stay in the same spot searching for answers. Yearning for acknowledgement. I know there is more than this. There has to be. Its so simple for us to forget. One little scene or even one person can bring you back. You say you're making progress, but now its a big mess. You know its cold this year. The time might have been worse but it felt so good to indulge in it. So good to allow it to overcome me. Close your eyes, inhale, pretend you're not coming back to the same source several times in a row. Pretending is natural now. Remember how easy it used to be? Remember how you could channel it all into eloquent imagery? Its that split second when you realize everything you thought you knew was the opposite. Its that exact moment when the only thing you want to be compassionate about, you can't. Someone born deaf wanting to sing. The blind wanting to paint. Being spit on in your time of expression. You cannot love any person or thing, just sounds and ideas. I am in love with ideas. In that last moment before sleep when your head touches your cold pillow. When you close your eyes hoping for a better outcome of tomorrow, you realize you are one hundred percent completely and utterly alone and that the world will go on as it is without you. When your world shatters no one takes a second out of their day to recognize everything you've been taught as a child and have loved for so long is forever gone. Never. Coming. Back. You show a little skin. Confidence covers the fact that in reality you have no friends, no one to love, nothing to care for. Welcome to hell. But at this point, its not even an issue. You sleep, wake, work, sleep, wake, work, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Puke. I am small. I am warm. Its the same song, the same character, the same show, the same feeling, the same person. Always. Repeat, repeat, repeat. I want it to make sense, really I do. But you. You're just not there to understand. A monologue to an empty theatre. Voice bouncing off the walls into empty ears. Its real. Its raw. Its unheard, and its beautiful. The world continues to turn whether or not anyone else will be there to listen. Its writing notes to ghosts. Its marking out names on my wall. Its swallowing the things I can get my hands on, because they make me crazy and going crazy just feels so much better than whatever this is. Open. Exhale. Breathe me. Use me. Hold me. This is what I am and if you can't make sense of that, that is okay. Because I can't either. Its so many little cogs and gears inside my brain, bumps on my skin, beats in my heart, adrenaline in my veins. Every single second that is me. None of you will take time to figure out. Polaroids of strangers having fun, lights, smiles. Such things that make you happy but you don't know why. Memories of the salty wind blowing through your hair with not a soul sharing in your collective thought. Utterly alone. It's all a lie. Remember a time when it was real and it was honest. Hold on to that until your hands turn white and start bleeding. Push an unmovable force until you realize your body is shaking and your face is covered in tears. They will applaud you. That's all you've ever wanted anyway. Recognition. Take your bow and repeat. Repeat, repeat, repeat. Scene.

Nothing good happens in winter.

What if I told you I could hold all your wishes in the palm of my hand? Would you believe me if I told you that I can stretch out my fingers across any ocean and grab all the stars above them in one move? I blow them out like petals to a flower. Make a wish. My empathy for you has turned into pain, but. I like it. It keeps me warm through the wind stinging my cheeks. Crying never felt so bad before until you cry in the cold. Every tear stings your frozen face. Makes you wonder. Why is it that everything bad happens in winter? Is it because its the time where mourning and sorrow hurt the most? Happiness is a warm gun. Something about the weather change always flashes me back to a better time. When studying was fun and everyone was alive and well. Christmas was fun, and snow was fun, and we decorated for the holidays. From pumpkins to turkeys to a tree. One by one everything fell. Hi, hello, hey there. You're an adult. Naturally every thing you hold onto represents childhood. You're not naive, you're just trying to stay happy. I grab up all the stars in one scoop. I hold them so tight that my hand starts to bleed. So much hope, so much faith into nothing. Why? For what? Dusty books you never finish. Tye dye dreams of laughter and friendship. Imaginary friends to make up for the fact that no one is ever really there for you.Your narcissistic complex you've given yourself to counteract the fact that underneath all of it you really think your thighs are too big, your cheeks are too round, your breasts are too small, your...stop. Remember a goofy face. Remember a girl not much smaller than you sitting beside you as you sob like you have never sobbed before. Remember the yearning, the want, the pain, of wishing for him to be the one sitting beside you. Now he pretends like you two never even met. All while smiling pretending not to care, I'm repairing the giant CRACK that has manifested itself into my heart from all the pressure around in within the past five years. Ultimately, all alone. Blink blink blink. She said she could fly. Told her not to. Once you go up, you won't want to come down. Reality hits. boom. Its gone. Guess what? That one time you had that made you feel alive and restored your faith in people, yeah that was A YEAR AGO. All blotched up. I keep dancing hoping that it will all melt away but it just always comes right back. Rent a book, watch a series. Completely obsess over fictional characters and their love for each other. They're really you're only friends, you know. Heartbreak is literally your only company. Its too cold to cry. Your body betrays you and your friends aren't really your friends. You hide under the covers and discover the power of magic through a small rectangular screen. Come to think of it, I've always done this shit on my own. The fights, the anger, the heartbreak, the creation, the dancing, the imagination. You've always been there for yourself. Never fear. Mascara is only as strong as you allow it to be. I release the stars from my hands and blow them back where they belong. They were never my wishes to begin with. Then again nothing is ever really mine. Especially during the winter.