She writes in third person when she's hurt.

If she doesn't use "I" it never happened.

Although she hurts, it could never truly happen to her.

Sweater sleeves balled around my fists to keep warm on nights under stars where the sky gives the plastic glow-in-the-dark ones a run for their money.

I sometimes wish I lived a life under the sky.

I randomly feel pangs for evergreens because they are as old as the notion that there will always be more to explore.

I probably do not seem like the type to want this, to believe that I could survive on Mother Nature's beautiful yet cruel paths,

Where the sunsets are magnificent and then the cold sets in.

Where the rain pelts for hours only for the clouds to part and shed some light.

Where the waves crash all while washing away the shore to show more.

Maybe I do not seem like the type because I sit behind a screen and type about it instead.

But I feel it. I feel the breeze in my hair and in my heart. I eye at the world the way girls want boys to eye them. I lose sleep to daydreams of nights alone in woods. I seek thrill and want to feel alive because I'm chancing my own on a force that cannot be reckoned with yet is so utterly vivid and encompassing.

It all scares me shitless to think I could pack up and go alone yet I think that is all I really do want-

To prove myself wrong and go alone, venture out of the box I put myself into and look at the stars and follow them instead of the paths paved before me.

The stars on my ceilings allude to the possibilities of the real ones outside

And all I've ever wanted is to fall asleep from watching them shine.

White lilies in May faded to grey now,
Initiated treaties among a fray in the shadows,
All that's left embraced of the pure textured fumes is pale.
A lonely parchment reading vast memories and
Lore, intricately encased once demure expressions felt frail;
Only crunchy remnants
In an hourglass vase by the door.
Looking glass perceptions:
From the outside looking in,
Twirling round in a chrysanthemum bed.
This infestation is a shot of Novocaine,
Like braille on fingertips;  
Manifesting an understanding,
From the heart through the lips.
Tuscan breeze passing along, caressing my knees,
Stinging softly like cotton-stitched-pillow bees
Cascading down my wrists.
Brisk taste of freedom.
Attraction comes back round like
A bracelet of Saturn.