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.

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.

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.