Strain.

My fears climb up my spine like spiders. 

My hair is in tangles along with my stomach. 

Music doesn't sound half as nice as it used to.

My muscles and nerves and tendons are stretching to be closer.

I want to feel your bones on my bones.

Heavy.

Dunk my head in a tub of my own forgiveness. 

You can hold me steady beneath my own weight of fear. 

I'm gasping for breath and clawing at the sky. 

The world is quieter under my own weight.

Six feet.

I went to a funeral today. It's got me thinking about death. I feel like Maude. The only yellow umbrella surrounded by mourning black umbrellas.

It's odd, planning a funeral for someone who is still alive. Asking a breathing man what kind of flowers he wants when he's six feet beneath the ground. Getting his opinion on what songs should be sung while he's deaf and dead in a closed casket. I can't imagine how badly it must have terrified him, having people swarm around, busy planning his ceremony of death.

I'm not asking for too much when I die, but I want to be cremated. I want to be planted with a seed to grow a tree. Maybe my bones will grow with a tree someday, and when someone cuts it down, they'll see and they'll know.

I want to donate anything I can to save others. I want to give my eyes to somebody who needs it. Maybe if they have my eyes, they'll dream of my memories, they can see what I saw when their eyes are shut.

Second chance.

When my body goes, plant me with a tree so I can keep growing. You'll feel a rush every time the leaves begin to fall.

Vacancy.

I feel like melting and seeping through the cracks in the floor.



I feel as if my mind is vacant and my heart hallow.



The heat burning through my skin only seems to drain me from myself.

I want to live inside your delicate bones, melt into you like a second skin, I want to love you so terribly.

A toast.

Here's to the end of another shitty year we'll one day be strangely nostalgic for. Drink up!

Memory

I remember every word you said.
Every word.

They follow me around, casting their shadows. Blocking my sunlight, forcing me to walk around them. They leave a lasting impression on me that lasts for the rest of the day. The rest of the week sometimes. And just when I forget about them, they come back again. Bigger this time.

I'm afraid of the day when I'll have to walk miles just to get around them.

The storybooks
that we read when
we were kids
didn't tell us that
the monsters
under our beds
are the creatures
we become
when we grow up
and the world
turns us into
broken,
angry
things.

Dreaming in the morning.

Insomnia is a type of torture. Because while the world is fast asleep, you're up all alone, your mind buzzing with every random thought in the universe. And sometimes the thoughts will reach a standstill, and your mind goes blank. You become more aware of the silence. And it is during this moment that you realize how terribly alone you are.

happy birthday, baby jesus.

It was a really wonderful day, despite the face that I was struggling to disregard everything that happened last year on Christmas and how happy I was.
I got a kitten, a key to my mom's car, Harold and Maude, and socks. Everything I wanted. <3
Merry Christmas, darling.

PS:

I love you, I love you so much. I love your smile. I love your eyes. and your eyelashes. I love your hair. I love what you wear. I love how nerdy you are. I love how smart you are. I love your soft hands. I love how silly you are. I love what you read. I love how you draw. I love your room and your inscene, (if that's how it's spelled). I love how you love grammar. I miss you. I love you.

-Anonymous.

Whoever sent this to me turned my week around.

Ghost.

This is a feeling I thought I’d forgotten. The emptiness of the streets, the bareness of the trees. I want the down and the thread counts, I want the flicker of the candles and the flaps of bird’s wing’s outside of our windows. The howling of the wind while we’re having all of the strange conversations we used to have. Your shoulder blades and the curve of your spine will be the roads I take every day. I heard your voice today. You didn't know I was there, but I heard you, and it came at a complete surprise. I hate how shocking it is to me to even see you in existence. I sometimes like to imagine that  you have died, and that's why you are completely disappeared from my life. Whenever I see or hear you, I think that I'm in the presence of a ghost. You're not real to me.

Deformed.

Birth marks and deformities on people are believed to be the site of a fatal wound in a previous life. Phobias are believed to be linked in the death of people in previous lives.

I think that in another life, everybody whom I loved died of old age. That's probably why I'm so afraid of growing old.

________________________________

I have skin and hair. I have blood and guts and fearlessness. Not the good kind. I have the type of fearlessness that is mainly recklessness. I have hair and blood and guts and a face that always, always has my current feeling (hoplessness) painted all over it.

Sixteen!

Well, yesteday was my birthday. I'm sixteen years old. Hella dank! (I'm a complete gangster sometimes.) It was pretty dreadful, actually. Turns out, I have strep throat, and I had to endure that all day yesterday. I was living off of four hours of sleep the night before, and I just wanted to go home and sleep the entire day.

Jenner picked me up from my house to take me to school, and all of a sudden, we were on the freeway. We skipped first two periods, and he took me to Village Inn for breakfast. We then proceeded tot he mall and we tried on the most idiotic clothing imaginable. It was really dumb and amazing.

I don't really feel like growing older.

83.

I have two hands. They're discolored and awkward, but they used to fit perfectly in yours.

It's been 83 days since I have spoken to you. The last thing you said was, "I'll talk to you tomorrow." I walked away from you car, clueless to the pain I would be feeling throughout the next three months. If I knew that was going to be the last time I would ever speak to you, I would have told you so much more. I would have told you everything. My fears, my dreams, the reason that I asked you so many questions, all the letters I wrote to you, every dream, every last thing. Everybody told me that every broken heart mends itself eventually, and that has been happening lately. It doesn't hurt as much as it used to. I only think about you at night. Part of me really misses you. Part of me knows that everything happened for a reason.

Unf.

This week has bee excruciatingly long. 

I can't describe how excited I am for the weekend.

. Oh, and my birthday is on Monday, but no big deal.

Dear God.

Make me a bird, so I can fly far, far away from here.

Story time.

When I was a kid, probably around four or five, I had this huge, beautiful tree in my back yard. It was where I hid during the day to spy on my cat or to find some birds.

Well, one day I fell from this tree. At first, I managed to hold on to a branch. I was up there for a long time and waited. The silence, the pain in my arms, the blood pumping in my ears. Then I fell. I could not remember what happened after I hit the ground.

All I could remember was the agony of holding on
and the wonderful feeling of letting go.