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.)