I have hatred in my heart.

This isn't going to be anything but emotional vomit, so I apologize.

I have to write this down because I am sick. Like, literally sick to my stomach over a horror movie.

So I know that sounds lame, and I haven't even seen this movie. But it's this horror movie coming out this year I guess. I don't even want to know the release date. That is how completely sick I am over this movie.

This horror movie is called The Forest. I had the misfortune of watching the trailer while scrolling through my instagram (because ads these days are everywhere whether you want them or not), and I had the urge to scream, vomit, and nearly lost my faith in all humanity all in one moment.

Because this movie is vile.

I don't even know all the details or the premise but I don't care. This movie is a horror movie that supposedly takes place in a forest in Japan called the Aokigahara forest. This forest is nicknamed "the suicide forest". Because every year a disturbing amount of people go there to take their lives. This is REAL and Hollywood took this real issue real people are dealing with and turned it into a horror movie. A horror movie which as far as I can tell from the trailer, is completely white washed and utterly lacking in any actual cultural sensitivity or understanding whatsoever.

I am completely horrified. If that was Hollywood's goal, to produce a movie so awful it can make someone sick just from viewing the trailer, they have accomplished their goal. I can safely say I have never been so disturbed over a movie in my life.

More than anything though, I am sad. I am so unbelievably sorrowful about this movie. Because besides the Golden Gate Bridge, Aokigahara has the most suicides annually, yet instead of raising awareness of this current issue, the filmmakers decided to throw all of the feelings and suffering of all those people into the proverbial trash just so they could make money. Depression and suicide are real problems real people suffer with every day. But because this forest isn't in America, isn't a suicide place for white people, it can be made light of. It can be turned into a form of entertainment. 

And I know some ignorant people would try to argue with me about this, but the only movie related to the Golden Gate Bridge suicides is a DOCUMENTARY ABOUT DEPRESSION AND THE POOR VICTIMS WHO TOOK THEIR LIVES. It is a social wake up call to the real issues of people suffering with severe mental health problems. It is a plea to help others. It isn't even close to a fucking horror movie. 

Dishonesty isn't my strong point.

I'm writing this here because I want to write something dishonest and my letters are not allowed to be dishonest purely on principle and maybe I like keeping promises sometimes.

But right now I want to tell a lie.

I want to lie and say I like the boy who thinks I like him more than I do. I want to lie and say I wish I could be the person he believes I am. But every time he reads something I write and tells me what it must mean, I have to bite my tongue to keep from yelling at him that he's got it all wrong. I have to lie to him and say "Yeah, maybe that's it" and smile and pretend that it's not making me want to rip my hair out. I have to lie and laugh and then I say something true to make up for the lies because I don't know what else to do, so I say "I love you". I don't like him, though. Maybe I do. Can you love someone while not liking them?

I don't know.

I want to tell a lie.

I want to say that I don't love him. That he isn't the cutest boy I've seen since my brother's friend, that he isn't the boy I think about constantly, that I don't die inside every time he smiles at me. I want to lie and say I didn't fall in love that night we had a sleepover and my arm didn't fit perfectly on top of his and his sleepy face didn't make my heart shudder from the weight of it. I want to lie and say I don't like him. I want to lie and say I haven't thought about the way his lips felt on mine every night when I go to sleep and that when we both smelled of salt I didn't think about how the salt might taste on his mouth. But instead I tell the truth, whispered to my friends and nervously told to my nails who can barely take my habit.

I want to tell the lie that I'm every bit as edgy as I used to believe I was. I want to say fuck like it's some cool, hip thing. I want to lie and say I'm different than other girls, that I'm a feminist because it's the hip thing to do, that I don't care. I want to lie and say boys don't matter, that feelings are for chumps, that all that matters is if the cool bloggers like your torn up poetry.

But the problem is I'm not very good at lying. I always end up telling the truth.

The truth is I really, really like that boy with his silly jokes and the way he tilts his head down when something is funny and smiles at the ground, as if it's the one who told the joke. The truth is I love that boy who is far away but I don't know if I can keep on loving him the way he deserves. The truth is I'm a feminist because I care about equality for everyone. The truth is I'm not that different from other girls, because no one is that different from other girls, not even boys and honestly I'm really sick of people pretending they're some special snowflake because having things in common with other people rocks, it's call you have something to talk about besides yourself, stop being such a boring person. The truth is I like emotions and feeling happy and I'm not edgy because I'm trying to learn to love myself and the things around me. The truth is I love wearing dresses. The truth is I look for comments every day on my blog but I rarely pay attention to who they're from, I'm just happy my writing meant something to someone besides just me.

The truth is I said I wanted to tell a lie but I actually wanted to tell the truth.

Because Nelson asked what happened and told me I'm the realest.

Avery told me this sounded like an English teacher's orgasm. I said good, because I hated writing it and pretending my friendship had any deeper meaning other than insanity and insomnia. But whatever, it got me an A.

Who Needs Lullabies to Sleep? (AKA How Our Friendship Got Me An 'A' on my Personal Narrative)

“Put on some pants.”

That’s how late night adventures with my friend Ben always start out. I tend to have an extreme aversion to pants in general and this is something Ben and I have in common. Knowing this, whenever the desire for a late night escapade hits, one or the other will begin the night with those four words. “Put on some pants,” one will demand and the other will always comply, ready to start off on yet another ridiculous adventure.

Usually these adventures take place at an absurd time, between the hours of midnight and four in the morning. There aren’t many activities to do at night - nothing is ever open past ten. Because of this, we often have the task of improvising an activity that most people wouldn’t even consider in the daylight, not to mention in the wee hours of the morning.

On one such evening we had wandered into Wal-mart, as per the usual (since Wal-Mart and McDonald’s unfortunately are the only establishments open at the hours we are awake) after donning pants and backpacks. We were browsing the aisles, not looking for anything in particular, only hoping that tonight we might find something interesting to occupy our time or give inspiration to the night. Innocently we passed by aisle after aisle until one shelf managed to catch our attention. Our eyes fell upon the boxes of sidewalk chalk stacked neatly one on top of the other in a display of impressive grandeur beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Ben quickly snatched one of the boxes from the stack with excited eyes.

“Now with new bright colors,” he read off the green box, the yellow lettering bubbled and nearly as cheery as his voice.

“How many are in there?” I asked, straining up on my toes to read over his arm.

“Twenty.” We looked at each other and the wheels in our minds began to turn each other’s as we both reached a conclusion at the same time.

“We’re buying them,” I announced. I took the box gently from his hands and placed it with the other miscellaneous items yet to be purchased. “It’s a present,” I said quickly when I could see he was about to protest. Ben grinned, big and childlike. The art major in me was already thinking up ideas of how to use these twenty blessed sticks of chalk and I could see he was doing the same. The night seemed vast and endless in that moment, waiting only for us to find the perfect slab of concrete to cover in colors and shapes from our imaginations.

After leaving Wal-mart, we headed back up to campus and set out for the tunnels on the south side of campus that run under the highway. These tunnels are covered in chalk drawings done by students much like ourselves who want to embrace the inner child within. We settled on the second tunnel we visited and decided on two panels of cement right next to each other. My brain was filled with infinite ideas as I opened up the box. I stared blankly, wondering how we were ever going to decide what to draw. Ben was much more confident than I and taking up a piece of chalk, began to scratch away at the cement and slowly cover it in color.

I could only stand back and watch. He took simple chalk meant for children and turned it into something great and beautiful. Blues and reds mixed to create a whirl of colors, shaping out the galaxy in his head. Ben soon noticed my lack of participation and turning, threw the chalk in his hand at me.

“What are you doing? Get to work!” he snapped, his words and actions contradicting the large smile on his face. I could only laugh and after returning his throw, get to work as he said. We colored and scraped away at the cement before us, turning gray to bright hues of greens and pinks, purples and yellows. What had once been a plain wall was turning into a massive array of planets that to anyone else probably wouldn’t look like much, but to us was a symbol of our nighttime adventures.

By the time the once-blank panels were finished, we had managed to disintegrate all but three of the pieces of chalk down to mere lingering dust on our fingertips. We stood back, taking in the beauty of our creation and shared a high-five. Though we had not done anything physically strenuous, our lungs were heaving as though we were out of air. It was exhilarating in a peaceful way I can’t really explain. We had barely spoken any words to each other the entire time we had been creating, and what words were spoken had hardly mattered. What did matter was this drawing that would never be as bright as it was to us in that moment. Collaborating without words, understanding without trying to. I felt our friendship had become invincible in that moment, just from throwing some chalk on a wall.

The night could only last so long, however and eventually everyone has to sleep, including us insomniacs. We left that tunnel and made our way as warriors of the night across our abandoned campus. We were champions, unstoppable and capable of anything. We could steal a golf cart or sneak into locked back doors or throw sticks and yell like banshees. It didn’t matter, because we had the night and no one else owned it like we did. We said our goodnights and goodbyes finally sometime after three in the morning knowing that the other wouldn’t go to sleep for at least another hour. As I slipped out of my chalk-stained pants I couldn’t help but smile. I knew that once the next night came, Ben and I would set off on another adventure to conquer the night once again.

I don't have my ears pierced anymore. Two fell out because I'm a restless sleeper and the other two I got too frustrated with to manage anymore. I'll try again when I have money.

 I failed my Sociology 3200 class and maybe I wouldn't have if I had actually gone to class more than the 20ish times I did. It's okay, I only owe $600 and need to retake the class. (By which I mean it is very much not okay and I'll probably hate myself forever but I shouldn't talk like that.) Just to get a bit more real, my grades this semester were A, B, C, D, and F. Like. How did I even do that? I don't know. But it happened. Spring makes me depressed.

Actually continuing off that, summer gets me depressed too. I just want fall to be here so I can be happy again. But let's face it, when am I ever really happy?

My hair isn't red anymore. It's sort of blonde with orangeness and it just looks bad and I want to bleach it again soon so it just goes away.

I feel like I'm completely fake, but I guess I'm not. Maybe my fakeness is what makes me real.

I met a new boy and he makes me laugh and really really insecure at the same exact time. I'm not sure how to feel about it, other than nervous.

I still like that stupid boy with the stupid piercing and the stupid smile and the stupidly clever laugh and he won't fucking date me and it makes me extremely frustrated with life and it just makes me want to simultaneously kill and kiss him.

I still can't spell for shit. You'd think college might've helped me grow up. Nope. Hoorah for spell check.

Twitter is my life.

"Don't even look at me" - how I feel every single day since I started getting fat again (aka since summer started).

I've never been insecure about my stretch marks, but every time I go to the store and see that cream that supposedly makes them go away, I wonder if maybe I should be insecure about them.

I just don't know what I'm doing with my life and I feel like I'll never accomplish anything on my own without piggy backing on someone else's dreams.

Do I even have dreams of my own?

I don't even know anymore.

I just want someone who will hold my hand. I don't even care about anything else.

I'm pathetic.

My room is the messiest room in my house and I've cleaned the majority of those other rooms but refuse to touch my own. What is wrong with me.

I'm so excited to move to my own apartment next year.

I've filled out 92 job applications since I moved home and not one person wants to hire me and it makes me want to cry but I just try not to think about it because my anxiety is best left alone.

I need a person for late night phone calls with no life like me.

The 90s called and they want me back.

I'm supposed to be writing a personal narrative for my English 2010 class right now or maybe writing a paper for my sociology 3200 class right now or maybe studying for my oceanography exam or maybe my intro to sociology exam which I both have on Friday but instead I am sitting here.

Staring.

And I just keep staring and staring and I decided if I have to write something, it might as well be my thoughts because writing a personal narrative with a theme and some deeper meaning is hell.

Literal. (just kidding, not literal, but literal) Hell.

I don't do deeper meaning, because let's be honest here. I kind of just
Throw it all out there.

There isn't any hidden meaning behind this shit. I pierced my ears on Monday and got four holes in my body and there wasn't a deeper meaning.

I was just bored and my friends told me I should and I thought

Why the fuck not?

So I did it. I went and paid $38.38 for four holes in my ears and I am happy about it.

I bought a box of chalk and my friend and I drew a massive space mural and used almost all the chalk (like we disintegrated that shit, man) and it was great and I'm pretty sure we inhaled too much of that chalk because next thing I knew there was butt selfies and twerking and a lot of creepy tunnels that happen to be around my campus that I didn't know about before and lots of thoughts of stealing golf carts and that's just sort of my life.

How do you put deeper meaning into that?

Maybe if I could swear in my personal narrative, I wouldn't hate it so much.

And I keep thinking maybe if I could use fragmented sentences I wouldn't hate it so much, either.

Fuck.

I just really like swear words, okay?

Sorry, but not really.

Sometimes I think I'm so shallow, it causes me pain and then I remember that I'm more real than most anyone else and everything becomes okay again.

I just don't want to write something that's flat and 2D and makes me seem like I'm trying to give deeper meaning to something that doesn't actually have deeper meaning at all.

I want to redye my hair soon to a brighter, more Ariel-esque red, but it's too soon for that.

My parents are probably going to be surprised I pierced my ears. They'll probably be surprised that I want to get another one, too.

People keep outbidding me on eBay and it's making me angry because all I want is a damn camera to take shitty pictures with, okay?

I went on a hike today to a concrete ruin and drew some graffiti and it didn't have a deeper meaning.

Why do art majors and English majors always want deeper meanings except for me?

"You out-hipster the hipsters." - What my friend told me the other day when I was complaining about how uncomfortable those stupid mason jar cups-with-the-straw make me.

God, the boy I like is adorable. Everytime he sends me a picture of him smiling, I probably die a little bit inside. And I just want to tell everyone but I feel like I'm way too annoying and I just want him to say he likes me so we can just be cute together and I just want him to hold my hand. Is that too much to ask?

I mean, I've only known him for two years and liked him since February.

Maybe that's not long enough.

I feel like I'm a really horrible time bomb that's been broken but is still ready to blow at any second.

I hate this goddamn personal narrative assignment. Someone come make up a story for me to write down so I don't have to tell one of my own.

This red thread is about to break.

If you say you don't believe in love, fuck you. Because you are essentially saying I will never be able to fall in love. There is no such thing as "lust" for me. That doesn't apply to me. That isn't what I can feel. I do not feel sexual attraction towards anyone. And you're going to sit there and tell me that love does not exist, that I am going to be forever left alone, that the only option I have is lust?

Fuck you.

This is not a matter of opinion. This is a matter of personal pride, that I have to defend myself and others like me against views like this. Because you are basically denying me the right to feel. You are degrading me and my feelings and you are dumping me in the gutter, saying I am not even human because all I am supposed to have is lust, something I can't feel.

Fuck you.

The radio told me I am redefining love.  Good. Because obviously it needs to be redefine. I understand that love can do terrible things and I understand that love doesn't save you and I understand that lust is a thing people mistake with love. But the fact of the matter is, love exists. You can not deny the existence of something just because you have never seen a positive outcome of it. There are things love can't save you from, things like anger and depression. I have seen people who are so in love with each other, but it didn't save them. That's not what love is supposed to do. It isn't supposed to be easy.

Love is hard.

It isn't eternal, it isn't forever, it changes. Like any feeling. You think you're happy and that you couldn't be happier, and then sometime later you'll feel something strong and you have to keep calling it happy, even if it isn't the same. Words are imperfect and so is love. How the hell do you define love? How the hell are you supposed to take this feeling that is so encompassing and so complicated and pin some pathetic little four-letter word like "love" on it and point to it and say, "That's it."

Because that's not what love is.

So don't you dare go telling me that something like that doesn't exist, because if I can't believe in love I can't believe in anything other than lust. And I've got no hope of ever experiencing any relationships if I can't have love.

And I'm sorry, but I don't think I could handle being that hopeless.

nobara no hanayomeGood

Nothing of value ever came out of my mouth.

Even I get self-conscious sometimes.

And I know that I'm really bad at being a normal person. Probably because of that whole asexual-thing (not like the asexual reproduction, I mean like I'm not sexually attracted to anyone including you) but also because I just don't know how to not be sarcastic and surly.

That's just how I am. And I'm trying to keep up my poetic spirit and all but it's really difficult when I seem to have lost it sometime between last May and now.

Maybe it's because I haven't been to Paris in so long that I've just forgotten what it feels like to be a tourist or maybe it's because my heart disappeared with him last December.

I didn't have nearly as many medications and I didn't have nearly as many friends but I also didn't have to miss my cat so damn much.

Please just forget about me and pretend I don't exist so I can be negative all on my own.

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.