You could love me if I knew how to lie.

I need to validate my existence.

And I don't mean validate my existence by kissing that boy when I shouldn't, when I don't even like him, but I want to know that I am here. I don't mean validate my existence by sharing my opinions, which just serves to give me anxiety attacks, that make my heart feel like it's going to explode.

I mean I need to validate my existence through something that makes me feel like I'm more than just some girl who is too damn young and running out of time. And I am running out of time, because the longer I remain uncertain, the more looks I get and the more my heart feels like it's going to burst out of my chest.

Let's not even talk about my lungs.

But while my lungs are a mess and my heart is worse off, I think my brain's the most messed up out of all my body parts. And I mean really the most messed up, because despite my aching fingers and my sore ribs, and the burn in my thighs that makes me feel alive, my brain is still so confused about so many things and reprimands me too often for my sanity.

All I really want to do is kiss a boy with freckles and talk about the things deep in my soul that I won't feel safe about until they're settled. But maybe that's my problem. Maybe my soul is never going to be settled, because like my philosophy professor says, there's the soul and then there's the body and they're two very separate things.

Maybe my soul is just too separate from my body and has never really been connected at all.

I'm starting to think my soul isn't anywhere at all. It's not in my body, it's not in my words, it's not in my paint. It's in all those things. It's in the dents I leave in my favorite pen when I'm thinking too hard. It's in the smudges of ink on my fingertips when I've written too fast. It's in the kisses I left in his head that made him like me more than I've ever liked him.

I don't know if I'm proud of my soul. All I know is that I want to make it something I can be arrogant about.

Because what's better than a devastatingly beautiful soul?

I can be honest under starry night skies.

Sometime between here and there, I forgot who I was and became who I am.
And I keep thinking my name should stick, but somehow it doesn't seem to fit as well as it did.
Maybe that's because this is the end, or a kind of end.

It's also a beginning, though.

Because that's what all this is about, really. Endings and beginnings and the middles in-between those two things. Maybe it's a little about tops and bottoms and how nice his bottom is and how I wish he'd stop staring at my top.

And somewhere from when I decided to be T.S. Wilde and I forgot who I actually was, I became this person stuck between the two. I don't even care anymore. I'm graduating. I'm graduating from all the things that have seemed to always bother me and at the end of this, I might burn a few things. I might burn my journal, because I know at the end of this, I'm not going to be that person anymore. It's never going to be the same.

I accidentally became this.

Maybe that was my goal all along, was to get to this point where I don't know who I quite am anymore and where I think my older brother's friend is cute and where I'm not actually sure what my heart wants, but I can talk to my soul a lot easier. Maybe that was the whole point of this, because I know I said that this was about becoming my version of infinite, but somehow with the pretty words and the no-fucks-givens, I've ended up becoming something completely different.

I'm glad I'm moving out in August so I can figure myself out a lot better.

Though if we're being honest here, I'm not sure I'll ever achieve self-actualization. I don't think anyone does though, not even Princess Mia, despite what Meg Cabot wants me to believe.

I used to play the violin and I'm glad I don't anymore. Ask me a few questions and you'll discover I used to do a lot of things that most people wish they could do. Trust me. They're not all they're cracked up to be.

But here's one last confession before I get real and tell you who I really am: I hated my wind post. And I know I got eleven comments on it, and I know everyone thinks it's fantastic, but if I'm being real, that post came from me sitting on a mountain on a particularly windy day in March because I needed to get away and I'd rather just forget all about it. I still love the wind, though.

And I know I said that was the last, but I'm a liar, and here's another thing: I really want a cute boy who likes to write as much as I do to talk to me over the summer. Please? I know this is desperate, but really. I'll buy you Starbucks or take you to that new grilled cheese place that has fantastic tomato-basil soup or attempt to just make you laugh.

I guess I should just shut up and spell it out for you.

P.S. I now own 1,874 books. My mom says I have a problem. Maybe I do, since I bought 18 books in the past month. I don't mind, though.

Give me some music like the duke used to play.

"Sometimes I think you don't trust me."

"That's because I don't."

"Why not? I want you to trust me."

"I don't trust anybody."

Which is so cliché, might I add, and I'll never really forgive myself for saying something like that. But I had to say it, because when it's the truth, sometimes -- cliché be damned -- you've just got to say it. And I don't think you really got that I was serious, but I was. I really have no idea how it happened, but somehow, I've ended up with trust issues.

Maybe it was from her telling me who I was and I started hating her a bit. Or maybe it was from his promises and how he never kept them. Maybe it was even from him never listening to me and when he finally wanted to, I couldn't believe him long enough to stop choking on the words.

Somehow I've got bitterness growing in creeping vines all through my body and I never even saw it planted.

 

Back it up and do it again.

I remember I used to put a pillowcase over my head whenever I cried when I was little, because even then, I knew if people knew I wasn't strong enough not to cry, I'd get eaten alive.
And I remember being so proud of myself anytime I got hurt and didn't cry. And I remember not being able to cry and how suddenly that wasn't a good thing. I remember not crying for over six years.

I remember not going to the doctor for over six years, and how, when I finally went, there were all these potential problems I'd had no idea about and that suddenly there were all these surgeries I could have.
I remember hating the hospital and the nurses and not hating that one nurse, but finding out later that was because she was a children's nurse and one of the nicest ladies in the building.
I remember the needles and discovering my veins are very, very, very bad for IVs, and how doctors and nurses don't like dealing with my veins.

I remember when the jokes about the meds were just that. I remember when I used to think my family was normal and it wasn't until later that I learned how weird my family was.
I remember when I learned he was going to therapy and I still don't know why. I remember asking him about it and him telling me, "You don't need to know, there's no way you'll ever be in a place as dark as I was." and how badly I wanted to slap him and him not getting why I was so mad afterwards.
I remember the awful year with that lady who shall not be mentioned and my mom's mental breakdowns that followed.

I remember when my mom left my family for awhile. I thought she was never coming back and I remember being so scared that it was all my fault.
I remember when my dad scared me so bad I cried and wouldn't look at him for awhile and how sometimes I still flinch.
I remember a few weeks later when my friends told me they loved my parents. I remember smiling and not saying anything.

I remember when the shaking started and the doctor telling me it wasn't a problem. And wondering how my world vibrating could not be a problem, but not arguing because he went to medical school and I didn't.
And I remember not knowing which hand was left and which was right because I wrote with both, until my kindergarten teacher yelled at me for always coloring with both hands. I remember not arguing with her, either, because she was an adult.

I remember when I stopped believing in adults and when I suddenly turned seventeen and in just a year I'd be one of them.
I remember that terrifying me, almost as much as college does and almost as much as being patronized angers me now.

I remember every word to Shania Twain's, "Man, I Feel Like A Woman" because when I was five, I used to dance and sing to that every day and I'd belt it whenever it came on the radio.
I remember when I never doubted God and how I always thought he was so lonely, so whenever I prayed, I'd ask him to bless himself before anyone else. I still think he's pretty lonely.

Mostly though, I remember sneaking out just to sit outside, before he got caught sneaking outside and my dad started paying attention.
And I remember when I thought everyone spoke to the stars.

Staring wide-eyed at the destruction we've left.

Don't tell someone about someday, because somedays are painful.

Somedays are what get people killed. Someday I'll be happy. What if someday never comes? Somedays are unreliable, because you'll never know when they'll back out. Somedays always have their fingers crossed behind their back, even when they promise that they don't.

Don't believe in somedays, because they're liars.

You want to rely on somedays? I hope for your sake, you aren't suicidal. I hope for the sake of your somedays, you don't have a plan.

Someday I'll be pretty. 
Someday I'll be smart.
Someday it'll get better.

I hate somedays.

You wanna know how to save someone's life? Really?
Don't talk about somedays.

Talk about nowdays. Ask how they are, and listen. Not just vaguely smile and wait for the scripted reply. Really listen. You want to know how they are? Do you really? They don't believe that you actually do. Every "How are you" is a death sentence weighing down on their emotions. Every fake smile is a slap to their nighttime fears.

Somedays are what they cling to, because no one seems to care what their nowdays are really about.

He talks about somedays and it hurts me, because I know he just keeps hoping for it to get better. He keeps waiting, waiting, waiting.
"Someday when I get back on my meds" 
"Someday when I have more money"
"Someday when you love me back"
And he always finishes it with, "I'll be happier."

I hate those somedays.

I don't talk about his somedays. I don't tell him he's right. I don't tell him how to make those somedays happen. I ask him about his nowdays, I tell him about my nowdays, I tell him about my pastdays. And it makes him smile.

He is happy without those somedays.

You wanna know how to save someone's life?

Don't ever tell them, "Someday you might be able to handle it."

There are worse flowers to be named after.

He told that girl her eyes were beautiful and it made her happier than she's been in a long time. Maybe because the other boy used to tell her all the time, or maybe because everyone stopped noticing.

He collects knives and dated that girl who used to cut herself, but somehow they were happy. She ended it though, maybe because he was as sharp as his knives and she was tired of bleeding, or maybe because she didn't want him to get covered in her blood.

He said that girl was an open flame and everyone else was dripping gas. But then she said that girl was as cold as ice and anyone who touched her would get frostbite. Maybe they both just think that girl is better off alone, but she finds herself unable to pull away. That girl is just too selfish.

That girl has been told she is lots of things. Metaphorically and literally.
She gets told she is fire, ice, winter, snow; she gets told she is Love, of all things. (That girl likes that one best of all.)

She is named after flowers and called after harmful things, with no one remembering why until they're lying on the ground with a bullet in their gut.

That girl is called things she does not believe she fits. Labels and stereotypes that fall at her feet in a heaping pile, waiting for her to don their titles. That girl does not feel identified in the slightest. She is without a species and she feels alone, but there is comfort in that. There is comfort in her loneliness, because she knows though she does not fit, she it still loved.

Somehow that girl has found places to squish into, between the cracks. Maybe that's what makes her happiest of all, or maybe it just makes her smile.

And when she smiles,

it lights up her whole face.

Stealing happiness is what you're best at.

"I love you," she said.
He agreed and said, "I love you too."

"I miss you," she said.
He sighed and said, "I miss you more."

"I hate you sometimes," she said.
He nodded and said, "I know."

"I'll never forgive you," she said.
He sat and said nothing.

"I love you," she cried.

And discovered 

that she had been alone 

all along.

Where have they gone?

 I carry beautiful words in my head, but it's sad really.

I'm inarticulate.

On the way to my mouth, they turn into dust.
Tragedy, because my words are my heart but no one knows their language.
Even I don't know how to speak it.

I've got flowers in my hair to make up for the dirt behind my lips, because I'm afraid society's turned my mouth filthy. And I don't quite know how to speak in a way you'll understand, because I think my words aren't just falling on deaf ears, but my accent is just too strong.

I never can say my "T"s or "R"s exactly right.

I wish I could share my heart, my words. I wish you could read what it's my head instead of me trying to translate it.

I almost failed Spanish class for a reason.

English was always my second language, whether or not anyone will admit to that. Listen close to a child and you'll understand that they're speaking something you used to know.
It's what my heart speaks, cryptic and nonsensical.

God was my first language and I've forgotten how to speak it.

The records on our shelves are dusty now.

    

 Dreams recognize the machines in us.    The deadliest attention comes from loss.

 Remember to always adventure far away.

 We all had a survivor in us to struggle and inspire.

Somebody call the police before they harm themselves.

"Promise you won't say anything? If you say anything but 'okay' I feel like we're just going to put distance between us. So don't say anything. I care about you so much because I'm still in love with you." ― Murder victim. (J.F. Alexander) *

How am I supposed to stay silent when you say something like that? Especially when you know that I felt the same way, once. But you won't let anything happen. You're the worst. You hold me at arms length because I'm one of the only people who's ever managed to hurt you. And you just can't handle that, can you? You can't stand being vulnerable.

"It's been over a year and I'm still not over you. You'd think I would be by now. But you're just... everything I've ever wanted. I can't explain it. I mean, I should be able to explain why, but I can't. You're pretty much perfect. I love you." ― Not yet mentioned. (B.S. Anthony)

We're best friends. You know I love you, but I know it's not the same way. I hate that I can see this eating you up inside. I hate that I can't do anything about it. I see how sad you are every day and I know that there's nothing I can do to make it better. And I feel bad, because I can't just give you back your feelings; can't just stamp 'Return to sender' on your heart that you've left with me. I wish I could.

"I know I was supposed to be paying attention to her, because she was in the foreground. But I never was. I was always paying attention to the background, because that's where you were. And you were always prettier. I was never in love with her. Always you." ― Summer. (I.H. David) **

You don't know how happy this made me. You'll never know, will you? You, with your fiery hair and your impulsive actions that have nearly gotten you killed more than once. You left and I'll never forgive you, because you still have my damn heart. I haven't managed to get it back. You've ruined me. You've left me broken, with missing pieces. How could you? I really want to be whole again, for someone else.

"You're amazing and brilliant. And you've saved me from some of my darkest days. Saved my life. I'll always be biased towards you for that. And I'd marry you in a heartbeat. You're my best friend." ― Boy. (M.H. Aaron) ***

I've saved you? Where are you now, then? When I'm sinking so fast, it's only a matter of time before I drown. Where are you? Not here. I'm your savior and you can't even be bothered to say goodbye? I'm worth that little to you? I'll always hate you for that.

I'm so damn sick of love. I'm so fucking sick of it.

I would say rip my heart out and take it away, 

but I'm afraid that's already been done, 

my dear.

* Post 1, Post 2

** Post 1, Post 2, Post 3

*** Post 1, Post 2, Post 3

Set the bed on fire and burn us where we sleep.

They told her she was Winter.

That red wouldn't suit her, because she was Winter.
Red is alive. She supposed that meant she was not.
They gave her blue instead; blue to match her lips.
Blue to match her heart.
They gave her ivory to match her skin and ebony to match her dreams.
They told her she was beautiful.

Then Winter met a boy.

He was Summer, they said.

All bright suns and fluttering steps.

He was red, orange, yellow; every wonderful thing in the world.

Red is alive. She supposed that meant he was.

Red wouldn't suit her, she knew.

She was blues, whites, blacks; all cold nights and lonely walks.

But he told her she was beautiful.

Summer touched her and burned her skin.
He kissed her blue heart and left it pumping.
They had given her blue to match her lips.
But he left her blood laced with red.
They told her that red wouldn't suit her, because she was Winter.
He told her nothing and left her with only lingers of red.
She knew red had soiled her beauty.

They told her she was Winter.

That Summer could never be hers.

Summer left her so she supposed they were right.

She missed him; his warm hair and sun skin.

Her ebony dreams are fringed with red; her ivory skin is burned.

That's the type of man Summer was.

They don't think she is beautiful anymore.

She doesn't find it in herself to care.

Red suits her just fine.

You left me to die when I was buried alive.

x.o.

What am I supposed to do about the next chapter?

I seem to remember less and less about you each day that passes.
And with each day, you get further and further away, though I'm sure you haven't moved.

I had a dream about you.
I woke up and cried.

I've been listening to the same song on repeat for the past five days because it reminds me of you.
I really wish you would come back so I could give it to you.
I haven't talked about music to many people since you left.
I don't think I've made a CD since you left, either.

I think when you left you took a piece of me with you.
At least, I haven't been myself since you forgot to say goodbye.
I need it back, please.

I'm terrified I'll never be the same without it.
I'm terrified I'm falling apart and there's no way of stopping it, because you aren't here.
I'm terrified I can't keep anything together when you aren't here.
I'm terrified I'm starting to become the old me.

I don't need any promises or anything more than what we had.
I don't even know if I really need that piece of me back.

I just need my best friend again.

Spreading your legs for the boys.

Like all your other dolls, they do.

he smells of stale perfume and broken promises
she rustles with moonlight and forgotten dreams

he wakes up next to strangers and leaves with his love
she puts on her shoes and greets the night like morning

his smile tempts and keeps hearts racing
her eyes whisper truths and swallow tears

in the background she watched (and he noticed)
it was a sad day in Hell when even his smile couldn't tempt her
it was his words that rang in her head and broke her chest
(still, even his words won't make him stay)
he never filled the space in her sheets (but she took his heat anyway)

now he smells of crumpled letters and stained cheeks
now she rustles with his love and silent hopes

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart*

*i carry your heart with me
by e.e. cummings

Leave me in the cold with water damage, embedded in the rain.

There are one-hundred, sixty-nine books in my room.**

One-thousand, eight-hundred, twenty-eight books in my house.

One-thousand, four-hundred, forty-two books if you don't count the picture books; one-thousand, four-hundred, thirty-four if you don't include the library books; one-thousand, four-hundred, twenty-five not counting the ones that are borrowed; and one-thousand, four-hundred, twenty-three if you count out the ones that are stolen.

I'm going away to college soon. The idea of picking which books to bring and which books to leave behind is more terrifying to me than anything else.

Sometimes I think I'll miss them more than my friends or family.

Maybe that's the scariest idea of all.

P.S. Writer's block is a bitch. And so is counting books.
*173 as of 3/30
*178 as of 3/31

The streetlights hang above while we dance below.

the Wind has always been better than me.
Always knowing how to be all the things I can never get right.

He plays with my hair the way no one else does. He gives me the sweetest kisses in the world, so beautiful they make me almost want to cry.

the Wind kisses the way no one else can.

He can whistle, unlike me, even when I've always wished I could. the Wind sings me to sleep at night when there are too many nightmares and not enough moonlight or cold sheets.

He makes the trees speak, when they've always been so silent before.

the Wind's a tease.

He flips at my hair and the pages of my books, especially when I write about him, like he's embarrassed to be mentioned.

I like that the Wind is shy, like me. How even if he's cold, he's also gentle.

It makes me just the teeniest bit sad that no one will ever love him the way I do.

But maybe it's okay 
to keep the Wind 

all to myself.

Do not go lost into that mute sky.

She takes his hand, this innocent, simple creature and they walk into the dark night where barely any dare travel. It is cool; a light breeze slides under the hair at the back of his neck. It is not unpleasant. Not yet.

"Where are we going?" he wonders. But she just lifts a finger to her lips.
"Silence," is her only response.

He doesn't understand her. She never asked him to before now.

He is incandescent and full of gold. She is vague and full of charcoal. They are oppositions to one another. Yet he finds it in himself to trust her and she, him. That is why she has taken his hand. That is why he does not turn back. His fingers fit easily in the spaces of hers. Comfortable.

Deeper into the night they go. Where the black is ink and the shadows are light. She has told him little of what awaits them, only that she has to show him. He has wondered what is in her dark hours for so long. He can barely hold in his excitement.

But there is apprehension, also. She is so important, so beautiful to him. He worries at the horrors they may face. Horrors of her own mind's creation. She sees his worry and does not try to reassure him. She does smile at him, small and quiet. There is little she can honestly do.

And she does want honesty. Oh, she has never wanted it so in her life. She has been content, but he has stirred her. Mixed up her insides and taken some for himself. She can't bare to let him away for long, knowing he has those parts of her.

She wants him to understand the other parts he does not yet hold before he can take more.

Soon their walking has led to their destination. They have arrived and what he finds there, in this place of her own design, is frightening. More frightening than he can begin to comprehend. But she stays with him, holding his hand. She wants him to understand. She wants him to know.

He tries. It is not easy, but he is earnest.
Eventually, he does.

And when it is over and the nightmares have all been met, they depart. Back to the light, back to his day. He understands her now in ways he never has. They have grown together, grafted branches twisting and gnarled.  Just before they arrive at morning, she turns to him with words burning her tongue.

"Thank you for the stars," she whispers.

"You deserve them," he replies.

The little things are what make you awfully interesting.

The Moon has always been my kind of guy.
He's a bit far away. There's that expanse of space, where it's just a vacuum. It sucks away at everything, except for his light, and it makes the distance okay.

Then I remember, maybe the Moon isn't my kind of guy, since his light isn't his own.

He steals from the Sun, who was never really my type. He was always too bright and hot.
Then I took another look, and I couldn't get enough of him. My eyes are damaged now from staring in longing at his too-bright face. The Sun is even further away than the Moon, however, and that's a distance I've come to loathe.

It makes me self-conscious.

What if there's no way for us to cross that distance?
What if one day the Sun remembers that iron is what will kill him and that I'm made up of 0.0004% iron?
What if he realizes that for me to live, a star had to die?
What if that star was his old lover?
What if he loved that star more than he's ever loved me?

Maybe I've over-estimated my ability to cross space with my Sun.
Maybe he could never forgive me for being a star killer.
Maybe I haven't spent enough time at space camp.
Maybe the Earth is too pretty for me to compete with.
Maybe there's just no way someone so bright could love someone as dim as me.

And before I knew it, my Sun was gone, taking all my worries away with him.
And I was left with just the Moon.

I guess 0.0004% was just too much iron for him to handle.

That's enough social interaction for one day.

Let's get something straight before we do anything else:

I am going to disappoint you.

There are eight drafts on my blog and not one is good enough.
They're all too personal, too boring, too plain, too ridiculous. I can't post that, that's about my dad. I can't post this, because if I do, she might take it offensively and we're already fighting. But then again, who gives a shit, might as well, because I haven't gotten the chance to apologize yet and I know I'm going to keep screwing up so might as well add to the things I need to say sorry for. I won't post the list of things that piss me off, because it swears too much and I'm trying not to scare off everyone with how many times I might say "fuck" in one post.

So instead of trying to make myself post anything like that, I'm just going to write shit.

This is where the whole disappointment thing comes in. Because here's a confession: I'm not some lost, tortured soul. I'm not really poetic. I'm just some insomniac girl who loves fluffy things too much, laughs at butts, and tries to be full of good intentions. My life is full of my cat watching me brush my teeth, my dog farting and then wagging her tail until you pet her, and my family making fun of me because really, we're all a bunch of insensitive assholes.

Forgive me if I take after them.

My blood and my bones don't get along, which is probably due to the fact that my blood is intent on harm and my bones just want peace. My brain likes to plot and dream and doesn't make sense more often than not and my heart has been missing since I was twelve. It likes to pop back in every now and then, just to let me know what its plans are, but I can never convince it to come home.

I'm going away to college soon and I can't help but hope it at least follows me there.

The doctors like to speculate about what might be wrong with me, but they don't really know. I've given up on trying. I hate the way the hospital smells and all those white walls give me a headache. Plus my veins hate the doctors and needles hate me.

This whole thing is rambling and like I said, it's shit, but maybe I just need to write it somewhere.
Maybe someone can relate.

All I know is that my dog snoring makes me think of how he used to laugh at me for snoring and how he told me to go fuck myself yesterday. And how that hurts even worse, because last week she told me, "Fuck you."
Who can really blame them, though?

I think I take after my family more than I'd like to admit.

Do forgive me if I said fuck more than was comfortable. I wasn't joking when I warned that I had a swearing problem.

I guess I should write something worth-while now, but all I feel like doing is curling up in a towel on my bathroom floor and sleeping.

If you read this, hope you like being disappointed.

It's what I'm good at.

Bearing the holes in the soles of her shoes.

PART ONE
IT BEGINS
            , 1995, 9:16 A.M.

A baby is born, c-section because she had a fever and they were worried.
Her body is red and she is crying, covered in blood.
Her mother holds her, glad to finally have her child after the nine months and six hour labor.
She is glad she is not blue, like her brother.
She is glad she is there, in her arms.
The baby won't walk for at least another year.
The baby won't talk for at least six months after that.
She is a bundle of potential, finally in the world.
She exists.

PART TWO
BEFORE AND AFTER
March 3, 2013, 11:39 P.M.

A girl sits in the dark, hiding from the nightmares.
Her hair is dark and unruly, like her father's.
Her nose is small and round, like her mother's.
She looks at her bony wrists and her tiny hands, crippled and wrinkled just at seventeen.
The joints aching like an old woman's, and no one seems to notice.
She doesn't know where they came from.
Her days are slowly deteriorating, she can feel it.
Like the acid eating away at her bitter insides.
She's already escaped death a few times now.
She knows it's only a matter of time.
She waits.

PART THREE
IT COMES TOGETHER; IT FALLS APART
January 18, 2020, 7:34 A.M.

A body lies broken, cold and dead on the ground.
It is pale and silent, covered in blood.
The time of death is recorded after it is discovered her heart is quiet.
The accident is reported with diagrams indicating her collapsed lungs.
It is counted as a tragedy, the life ending so soon, at just 24.
The funeral is full of mourners, as it should be.
It is a closed casket, her body too mangled even for viewing in that false, plastic perfection.
Her mother cries. Her father doesn't say a word.
Her brother retreats further inside himself.
People move on, living their lives.
She has left behind only memories.
She ceases.

I ain't even playing my own game.

I'm a murderer.
Who did you murder?

Him and me.

And yes, he was my obscure "You".

I'll never forgive myself for giving into the cliche and writing about "You" and I'll never forgive Nelson for giving me the idea to do so.

But mostly I'll never forgive myself for killing him and me.

No one will ever understand why I did it. But I guess that's the case will all murders.

It has nothing to do with the other hims and everything to do with me.

It has nothing to do with my love going away, because that's not how love works. It doesn't die. Love is the only eternal thing, ever. That's why people forget that Romeo and Juliet is supposed to be a tragedy. Because sadness isn't eternal, but love is. And no matter the shallowness of your love, you'll always remember it.

But I had to do it, so I did.

Don't say you're sorry, because I knew it would hurt.

I knew it would hurt to kill him and me, me and him, but I did it anyway.

Now he is gone and we are dead, but in all the wrong ways.

Now I can bite my fingernails, because I'm not growing them out for him anymore. So I do, so short my fingers bleed. I can stop eating, because he's not around to worry about me anymore. So I do, and my food goes in the trash when no one is looking. I can kiss someone, because I don't have to be there for him. But I don't.

I still don't know why that is.

Maybe it's because I'm still in mourning over the death of us.

Does a murderer normally mourn the death of her victims?

Probably not.

Guess I'm just not a typical killer.

She never was the best at following the trends.

Once there was a boy who told a girl her eyes were beautiful.
He described the color of them as if they were such perfection, no one could ignore them.
Believing the boy, the girl always told everyone the color of her eyes as he had told her. She became entrapped with her own irises, always becoming excited when she saw what he saw.
Then one day the boy left and never returned.
Now the girl, when she has the confidence to meet her own gaze, wonders how he ever called her eyes beautiful.
"All I see is plain brown," she thinks. "Two pools of dead mud."
Her best feature has been stolen, and her beauty is gone.

Once there was a boy who gave a girl the music of the world.
He shared with her a kind of magic only tunes can carry, giving her the notes to their spontaneity.  He'd play his guitar and she her violin, and together they'd laugh and mess up notes, but be happy because they were writing things no one else could. They were making their own tunes, making their own magic.
Then one day the boy left and never returned.
Now the girl sits alone, missing the sound of his guitar and his songs.
She forgets how to make notes the way they did, forgets her magic, and her violin rusts away.
Her music has become rotted, and her talent is gone.

Once there was a boy who said he loved a girl.
But one day the boy left and never returned.
Now the girl wonders if he ever really meant it.

Once there was a girl who didn't cry.
She used to sleep, and now she walks through the night. She used to dream, but now her dreams have become nightmares.
She used to believe she loved a boy.
Then one day the boy left and never returned.
Now she has an emptiness that no one seems capable of filling. It's a void she can pretend isn't there, one that she wishes were gone.
But in the quiet, when everyone is gone, she wonders.

"Where'd you go?" she asks.

"Somewhere you can't follow," Silence answers.

I hope it's not just a bad dream.

fear (noun)
1 an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger
2 anxious concern
3 profound reverence and awe, especially toward God
4 reason for alarm

"And they feared God, for he was great."

Please excuse me for my irreverence, but I just can't be afraid.

Don't think me egotistical for having nothing to be scared of.

I know I should be frightened of the dark.
For the things it's done to me.
For the things it's done to others.
But do forgive me if I only find it peaceful.

I know I should be frightened of death.
For the way he takes away.
For the way he never gives back.
But do forgive me if I've already met him once.

I know I should be frightened of being without.
For the idea of "never having".
For the idea of "forever empty".
But do forgive me if I'm used to being hollow.

I know I should be frightened of what used to haunt me.
From all the memories in my brain.
From all the ways I'm damaged.
But do forgive me.

Because I just can't remember why they scared me to begin with.

I'm afraid 
of all the things
 I can't ever remember to be afraid of.

Beating hearts, like two drums in the gray.

This is dangerous.
Thinking, I mean.
About you.
Thinking about you like you're the only one.
Like I maybe love you.
Like there's no way that I don't.
It's dangerous because I'm young. I'm young and I'm stupid and I couldn't possibly love you this much.
Could I?
And let's not mention the other one. The one that I'm constantly trying to forget.
I don't want to think of him. Get out of here. Out of my head.
I only want you. Just you. That's what I want to believe. But my heart lies.
And my brain thinks.

Thinks.

                              Thinks.

Thinks.

I think about you like Reckless thinks about Forbidden.
Like Lust thinks about Desire.
Like Love thinks....
"I want you."

Oh no. No, no, no. I'm so young.
I can't want you this much.
I can't.

Can't.

                             Can't.

Can't.

I say that. I think that.
Think about that like cuts think about scabs.
Like my scabs think of bleeding every time I pick at them.
Like I think, "Gross."
But the thoughts creep in. Of you. And him.
If you please, would you leave? If you wouldn't mind, could you remove yourself?
My heart can't take this.
Is it possible to be consumed by one person?
And think of them constantly?
Like Life thinks about dying.
Like Death thinks about living.

Lately it hurts to say, "I love you."
Why does it hurt, when I know it's true?
I know I love you.
Real love you.
You've made me cry. You've made me laugh.
There's no way I don't love you, not with all that.
Maybe I just miss him too much.
I can't do that to you, no, never again. You'd be too broken. You'd be too lost.

I've already broken you once.

Besides, who would want me after that? After they know what I've done? What I'm doing?
I'm a hopeless wreck.
A burnt up car on the side of the road flipped over with the guts spilling out.
And no one is dialing 9-1-1.

You say I've changed you.
You've no idea how much you've changed me.
I'm dependent on you.
"How do you always know just what to say?" I ask.
"You might fall apart if I didn't," you say.
My soul aches with the truth of that.

I'm frightened of you.
Of being with you.
Of being yours.

How can I give myself completely over to someone when I've barely started figuring out who I am?

I'm a burnt up car on the side of the road, flipped over with the guts spilling out and no survivors.

"Don't bother calling 9-1-1. Everyone's already dead."

Run away before I think of you and you die, too.

It'll soon be worth it when I get there.

People don't like anger.
They hide it away and keep it under the rug.
No, you can't yell indoors. No, you can't break that vase. Those are the rules.
And why wouldn't they put it in the dark place no one likes to go?
Anger is ugly.
People don't like ugly.

I'm an angry person.
Does that make me ugly?

My friends think they get it. They think my anger is when I yell every day or when I glare or threaten them.
It's not.
My anger is deep down inside me. It's a beast.
It's wild.
My anger is when I go silent. The kind of silent that sucks the color out of the world.
It's scary.
My anger makes me shake, makes me vibrate, makes me see red at the fringes of my vision.
It's bright.
My anger makes my veins burn with adrenaline. It sets me on fire.
It's hot.

When I'm angry, I run. Run until I cough blood and my legs ache. I pace and turn and inhale, exhale. The cold air makes it better, makes me remember I'm here and can control my anger.
If I break myself, I won't have to break others.

When I'm angry, reason fades away. There's only the now, the moment. There's the threat and the option of fight or flight. Anger makes me pick fight. Anger makes me hurt them. Makes me want take their ability to breathe.
My anger is explosive and frightens me.

Now please don't be afraid. Please, don't think I'm broken. I promise I won't hurt you. I promise I won't explode on you. No, darling, don't apologize. Never you, I'd never hurt you. Don't look at me with those eyes, those eyes that see that dark part of me. The ugly part of me.

Anger is ugly.

I guess that makes me ugly, too.

But I already knew that anyway.

This thing here is wearing thin.

Sometimes I draw things no one else gets to see.

In the dark of night when everyone else sleeps, I go for walks through my neighborhood.

I make up songs and write them down lots of times, but never share them with anyone.

I pick up the pennies I find on the ground not because they're lucky, but because when I was little my mom used to say they were a gift from my Nanna in Heaven; while the belief is gone, the habit remains.

A lot of my words are stolen from books or songs.

I've never been afraid of dying (and I'm positive that isn't very normal).

Lots of my talents have wasted away to nothing and now I don't have them anymore.

I'm not a proper human being.

This is me writing down these words because they aren't good enough but they're all I have right now.

I never meant to block your sunshine.

When you're in that city with those lights and you stand in the crowd and close your eyes and you can hear all the noises and all those people, when you start to feel the people living and breathing and moving around you, you begin to hear that silence. The silence beneath the city that comes from being alive and where whispers are held and secret gardens are quiet.

That is a kind of love.

When you're left broken and weeping on the floor with the mess they've left you, when they've beaten you down and you're picking up the pieces they made of yourself, when you start to realize it was for the best, that you didn't need all those bad things, you begin to remember. To remember the good times and you feel the littlest bit ashamed that you could want someone that badly, that even after all the bad things, you almost wish you could have them back just so you could have the good.

That is a kind of love.

When you're sharing a secret with yourself so large and big it eats away at your insides, but you keep it, this secret because you know if you share it, it would reveal a web of lies and deceit five years deep, and you'd lose her, him, her, him, them and that scares you more than anything else in the world. Scares you so much you hang on the thinnest threads of trust you've managed to forge over the lies and cry when even without the truth, they walk away.

That is a kind of love.

When you're sitting up at two in the morning talking to that person who makes you feel like you're flying and nothing could ever be above you and you're sipping at that drink they've gotten you and you're laughing at their stupid jokes and telling them to shut up when they say something that tugs at your insides and insecurities, but the right way, the way that makes you blush because it's something you've always secretly wanted to hear but didn't ever dare hope for. They make you smile so much your face hurts, the way no one has ever made you smile and you try to fight it because you're young and you couldn't possibly care about someone so much it hurts.

That is a kind of love.

When you're listening to your favorite song and close your eyes and forget the lyrics and just listen to the base music, the minimum of the song, the instruments and the tune and the melody, harmony, you're listening and you've never heard it this way before and your heart swells and a smile crosses your lips because you've found something new it something you thought you knew better than anything else. You discover it inside it, this new thing, and you want to almost keep it to yourself because it's so precious and it's yours, your favorite.

That is a kind of love.

When you mix all these things up together inside yourself and get a dirty, broken mess, a thing that is wholly and completely you, individually with parts that you yourself and others have made together with all these different kinds of love, all the pieces come together in this jumbled thing that's your life, you start to think about some of the negative things and forget some of the positives, and maybe even start to dislike or hate yourself a teeny bit. But then something happens, something your hate didn't count on; you start to remember and suddenly, you might start to like yourself a bit. Maybe even love.

That is a kind of love.

And soon, you realize, your life is love.
You are love.

Everything is just love.

In the end they'll judge me anyway, so whatever.

I hide behind the lies that fill my daily life.
It's easier that way.

If I admit to the truth, it makes it real.

It's easier to hold it deep inside myself. Down in the dark depths of myself, where no one is allowed. Where it's just an abyss.
You might think you can see it, this abyss. But you've got no idea. None at all. You think you know me, but you don't.

You don't know me at all.

There's no way you could, not with all these lies.
They're burying me alive. And you all talk like it's so easy. Like I can just dig myself out and be free.
It's not that easy.

It's easier to pretend the lies are the truth. So I make more up, pile more on, more on, making them more believable. Add depth to my lies, because that's how you spot them. Lies are flat. The truth has form, it isn't two-dimensional. So I add depth.

You have no idea the depth of my lies.

Oh, I can lie alright. I can make the truth be the lie, if I want.
I'm that good at it.

I'm not proud, no sir. Never proud of that. But I can lie just as easily and say I am.
I can look you right in the face and never crack a smile while saying I'm proud.
You'd never have any idea if I didn't let you. Because when I don't like lying, I give it away.

I know my tell, but do you?

I'm a deceiver and it's easy.
After all, I've been keeping these truths buried for years, hiding them beneath the lies.
And the best part?
The truth isn't even buried underneath.
It's deep, down: In the blackness, in that abyss.
So far down I don't know if I can ever tell the truth.

I just can't be honest.
(But maybe that's a lie, too.)

How to say goodbye in robot.

I breathe, and it makes me remember; even though I'm heaving through corrupted lungs, I am alive.

I bleed, red blood. Dark like love, thick like bitterness. And it means that I am real, even if most of my feelings are dead or gone.

I love, bright and hot, and it makes me lucky. Because I know I'm bitter and hateful, but there's still that little spark even if none can be spared for myself.

I have scars that prove all this and more. Scars he left on my heart, scars she carved through my trust, scars they left on my body, scars I sliced into my skin.

My bruises make me more than just alive, they make me more than real. They make me here.

They prove I don't know what I'm doing, that I am biased and angry and feeling, even though sometimes I forget that I can feel anything besides hate.

I forget and I hate myself and I forget more.

Because forgetting makes it easy, because it's hard to remember.

It's hard being real and alive and here.

I see the scars and I remember and I see your face and I remember and I think of who I am and I remember, remember, remember.

It hurts. It hurts, hurts, hurts, as if I'm setting my insides on fire.

But.

But then I breathe and it makes me remember.

0100100100100000011000010110110100100000011010000111010101101101011000010110111000101110

[I am human.]

The universe in ecstatic motion.

Here it is. The beginning. Everything starts with a beginning. That's what we'd like to believe, anyway. We like lines, we like points in time where things start and where they end. We don't like infinite.

Here's what it's about. It's about stealing, it's about being raw, being uncensored, being a kind of infinite. It's about taking things and changing them and making them yours, ours, mine.

This is about the mine.

This is not about being me. This is about being T.S. Wilde. Being wild. This is about becoming who I want and being who I want and writing what I want. This is about being infinite in a kind of magic only dreams, words, thoughts can give. Infinite in my ideas.

This is about being my version of infinite.

This is about making mistakes and leaving them in their messy, accidental beauty. This is about being a kind of beautiful I can't really be.

This is about pretending and being more real than ever.

This whole thing is about how I can make no sense and more sense than ever and still have something that I can hold onto. This is about not doing what I'm supposed to.

This is about the can and the can't and the will and the won't and thinking everything is possible and anything is impossible and that there's no way nothing couldn't happen at some time, some place, to someone.
This is about being here, in this moment.

This is me complaining and inspiring and being cynical and snarly and contradicting.

This is about my being finally, completely enough.

This is about me hating myself and everyone else because I can't get past that.

This.
This is accidental.