Everything in the world, the universe, came out so very perfectly. The perfect amount of matter to sculpt something everlasting. Something that will outlast even us.

You, and all of your flaws and imperfections will always mean more to me than all of it, no matter how absolute your colorless sense of carelessness for me, it doesn't matter.
Forget about me if you like, but remember this always.

I start looking at past conversations as I wait for a reply, my heart has sank. I am shaking as if I'm standing in a winter wind, but I'm alone on my bed.
This girl that I once loved speaking to more than anything is terrifying but calming me all at once.
I get her answer, and I realize that she doesn't hate me. It's something far worse, I am no longer someone she cares for, I am unexistent to her, I am nobody.

And when she responded, some buried part of me that never sees the light wished that I was dead.
Perhaps I would be somebody then.

I was six, heard a sound in the night, I slept the night away. Woke that night, tired, confused.* We leave, gripping my mother's hand as she yells.
This is it.
The day comes and we are back in that claustrophobic house, I'm choking on cigarette ashes, thirsty. Slight memory of the crackers in the cabinet I could never reach. I had a bath later, and little to my recollection now, he was there, my mother is there, vaguely remember. Faint sounds of loss of breath, splashing.
They aren't there now. I had forgotten entirely. My sisters had not.
I am  twenty one now, a loss of innocence grips me, I am angry everyday and I hurt the ones I love. Everything that I never want to become brings me fear, and haunts like a sound in the night.
Tired, confused.
**This is it.

1386

Summer—we all have seen—
A few of us—believed—
A few—the more aspiring
Unquestionably loved—

But Summer does not care—
She goes her spacious way
As eligible as the moon
To our Temerity—

The Doom to be adored—
The Affluence conferred—
Unknown as to an Ecstasy
The Embryo endowed—

I've come to terms with being forgotten, being left behind. I had gotten too far ahead of myself, I thought my life dreams were right around the corner, but my life is more than just a teenage love story.

It's a Shakespearean tragedy.

We are our own scapegoats, fate is simply numbers and empty space. Love is a chemical, heartbreak is excess chemicals. The will to live, is only bullheaded stubbornness.

And it just so happens that the things that we fear are also the things that we love, and people are caused more pain by the things closest to them. I am the one that she loved, and I am the one that she hates.

I called you out on your *******, and you called me out on mine. And now I think I know what Bukowski once knew.

It's all *******.

But I only want to live, and I only want you to live. I only want to live in you and all of your *******.