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.

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.

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.

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

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.