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

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.

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.

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.)