You don't like me.
You like the idea of me.
You like the idea
That someone who is
Suicidally depressed
Can make you
Extraordinarily happy.

You like the idea
That my deep
Cynicism and scepticism
Can fuel your
Overjoyed optimism.

You like the idea
That I'm  the
Wonderful, beautiful
Intelligent, nerdy girl
You thought I was.

I am nothing.
I am empty.
I am not an idea.

Ideas are dangerous
Exciting, giggly.
They fill the idealist
With roaring delight.
Such a fantasy
Couldn't be real but in
The mind of a
Surrealist, Idealist
Socialist, Capitalist  
Fascist.

I am not an idea.
Ideas are fun.
I am not an idea.
Ideas get things done.
I am not an idea.
Ideas are good.
Ideas aren't real.

I am real.
I wish I was only
Your idea of me.
I wish I wasn't real.

Give them to me.
All the pieces of your broken heart.
Give them to me.

I'll take them.

All the rough-hewn misshapen bits of your shattered dreams.


Give them to me.
I will take them.

Give them to me.


They are wanted here.


All the parts of your misspent childhood. All the regrets of ticking seconds behind you.

Give them to me.

And we will build a cathedral. A stained glass window of who we are as tall and as beautiful as it should be.

Let me have them.

And we will make a mosaic that stretches as wide as the sky. Showing every color your heart gained from the bits and pieces left on the ground.

I will take them.

And forge a sculpture of how beautiful the ideas are that we cast out in our failings and we will cast it in our failings.

Let me have them.

And we will ***** a monument of all the small things in the shape that you remember them.
Towering. Looming. Striking. Beautiful.

Let me have them so we might bind the words said and regretted, (or worse) left unsaid in leather and call it scripture.

Our Psalms. Our Proverbs:

“The tip of my finger dangles like my tongue. Wanting to touch something beautiful.”

“If it were not for him, it would have been us.”

“You were all my brightest colors.”

“I wish I were more like you.”

“I wish I were less like me.”

“I am sped.”

And we will read them at dawn like litany.

Stretching our voices to the corners of the universe. Asking for the wishes you make when you are scared. Or alone. Or both.

That we may take them.

And make a blanket.

A blanket to cover our childhood and let it rest at last.

I will take them.

All the parts you no longer want.

Give them to me.

Because they are what make us beautiful.

Give them to me.

That I may forge them into pitch and feathers and craft mighty wings.

That I may take flight from your worry. And soar on the updraft of your misconception.

Give them to me.
I will take them.

Because I would rather burn like Icarus than to have never dared to fly.

Lets go outside and cry in the rain.
You can watch my tears wash away.
See my pain flow down stream and disappear.
Just to be replaced by the love we deserve.
Always, forever and now until time runs out,
Because I can love you more than rain can tell.
No matter what.