Despite living in San Antonio my entire life, I had never seen inside the Alamo; The same way you said you used to drive around my neighborhood on your way home from work every Sunday, but never inside.

If you or I had turned in, though, I'm sure we wouldn't have liked the view very much. Crooked, outdated, houses lay out along uneven roads, paved decades ago; The ghosts of those who had died fighting a battle that seems so irrelevant and far away, trapped inside heavy stone walls. What was the point?

They're just buildings. Another sight, seen.

How small the must the world be for us to pass each other in our day-to-day life, ignorant to what the future holds?
How many times had I seen you out and about, without ever longing for a deeper connection?

If it wasn't for meeting you, I still wouldn't have went inside the Alamo. You would've kept driving around my neighborhood every Sunday night.
We both would've been unaware of the ghosts that reside behind these heavy walls.

Maybe I would've found a reason to go, and maybe you would've too. Curiosity? Boredom? Perhaps we would've ran into each other. (I like that thought).
Maybe, at that time, instead of embracing these ghosts, they would've scared us away for good.

Either way, I would've never gotten to know you, and that's more terrifying than any ghost we could find in each other.

I often think about our impending doom
How one day we must say our goodbyes
And go our separate ways in the universe
Whether we are complete or not

I like to imagine that you’ll move on to be
The brightest star in the midnight sky
On the first night of a new moon
When it’s hard to see past the darkness

That’s what you’ve always been to me
A light only bright enough to help
See that tomorrow can be a certainty
And that the night can only be so somber

Often times I look up into the sky and wonder
How I managed to find a star brighter than the sun

Although I’m sure my presence is starting to become more than a little vexatious, I still hold your hand as often as I possibly can. Partially because I find how rough your hands are compared to the rest of your body to be very pleasing, but mostly because I feel obligated.
Don’t take it the wrong way, I don’t feel obligated in the sense that I’m being forced. I just know that we humans come into and leave this world alone, and I know all that you’ve seen.
So I’ll hold your hand while we lay in bed at night, cross the road, and walk through the grocery store, readjusting my grip as our fingers start slipping.
And when I notice you start slipping and losing your grip on this world and all it has too offer, I’ll readjust whatever it is that need readjusting. I’ll hold on even tighter so you don’t have to.
Just don’t give up. I know it’s hard, and I know you know that we humans come into and leave this world alone. But when I hold your hand, I have the entire world at my fingertips.

I’ll readjust as needed.

Sometimes I think I'm a ****** human being, until I remember the ***** who walked past me in the bathroom last week without washing her ******* hands. Or until I think about the fact that there are people in this world that forget their hot pockets in the microwave for five hours straight- Or even worse, pizza rolls.
Don't even get me started on those ******* who have the audacity to leave the comfort of their homes at 5:30 in the afternoon, when they know **** well there are 500 tired people taking the same highway to get home that they're using to pick up a jar of pickles from Walmart.

But I digress.

Sometimes I think I'm a ****** human being because, despite it being all I have; this world, everything, and everyone in it still isn't good enough for me. I step heavier just to spite the world for only giving me 360˚, mumble under my breath when I'm not simply given what I want. I'm not grateful enough for what I have.
I throw pennies in the trash instead of the wishing well because, just like my wishes, I know nobody will be able to retrieve it. When I wish I only think about myself, knowing **** well I can drive a mile in any direction and see somebody that has it much worse.

But you know what? **** that.

I have the right, as a human, to be angry when I'm breathing the same air as those ****-tards who are ****** up enough to leave their poor, helpless pizza rolls in the microwave after only three ******* minutes. Three. *******. Minutes.

Sometimes I think I’m a ****** human being, but at least I’m not that ******.

I wanted to start a dream journal until I realized I haven't dreamt in a while. A long while, now that I really think about it.
As gloomy as it may seem, laying in complete darkness isn't as bad as you'd think. Not when I'm next to you at least.

I haven't dreamt in a while. A long, long while, now that I really think about it.
The last time must've been a little before we started crawling into bed together, waking up tangled in each others skin. I don't mind it. Not dreaming, that is.

I spend a lot of time daydreaming these days. My anxiety takes place of the nightmares. I'm used to thinking out every possible outcome of every possible scenario. My anxiety, these nightmares, have been around for a while. As long as I can remember, now that I really think about it. I'm so tired of it crawling into my head, pealing back my skin.

I've been thinking about starting a daydream journal instead, but the nightmares are too constant. They've been around for so long that it makes laying in complete darkness every night feel okay.

I embody the bad vibe felt in a room; the heaviness on your chest. I am both the rock and the hard place.
This world is not made for me; I can do no right. My birth was an error, my death is inevitable.

I long to belong.

You have this scar on your right collarbone, about 4-5 inches long. Rods underneath help keep it intact, you can feel the screws if you run your fingers over it.
You said you broke it while skateboarding 6 years ago, I figure you tried to do some trick that felt right in that moment. A trick I would probably drool over, if I'm being honest.
Sometimes you get insecure when you notice me looking at it or touching it, and I don't understand why. It's pink hue reminds me of the sky at the perfect time of day, when it's not too hot or too cold outside.
I imagine you went through a lot of pain to acquire that piece. I hear that pain is beauty, and it's definitely more beautiful than any sunset I've seen.

Can you believe it only costs $4.17 for a 10-pack of razor blades?
Free if you pocket them.
But after paying for every mistake I own, it seems so wrong for suicide to be so free.

After weeks spent parading around, letting everybody and their mother know the day is near, we are finally here. It’s the night of your 21st birthday. 3 shots, 2 beers, and a joint or four later, and I’m feeling pretty alright.
Your mother brings out your baby book, the entirety of your childhood life simplified into pictures and momentous small enough not to cause the pages to crease, meticulously placed between two hard covers.
She flips through the album, licking her fingertips between every other page and reading aloud the entries with the most significance to her. Suddenly she stops and points to a date.
January 19, 1997. The first time you smiled.
I look over at you and you smile back at me. A smile so radiant, there’s no need to explain the significance.