Sometimes I almost remember
A small village of mostly sheep farms,
And little shops that are run out of people's homes.

And I almost remember
A forest I've been to a thousand times.
And sometimes the leaves are new.
And sometimes sharp icicles reflect light into my eyes.

And I see him.
And there's something about his eyes.
I recognize them.
They're just like mine.

Because something inside him is sad and dark and broken and bleeding.

And you can see it right through his eyes,
Almost.

But there's still a fire in his eyes.
A light.
Something that wasn't supposed to be
A permanent solution
But it stitched up the wound,
And he hasn't tried to do anything else for it since.

But my favorite almost-memory
About this place,
Is the little yellow house
With black shutters
And a second floor veranda,
On the top of a grassy green hill.
The house smells like black tea
And fresh apple pie.

I can almost remember.

But then I don't.

Sometimes I get so scared
That you only spend time with me
Out of obligation.

Sometimes I get so scared
That you only talk to me
Because you feel responsible for me.

I worry that I am no longer fun for you.
That I no longer light that spark in yiur heart.

It scares me so much
The idea that you've gotten sick of me.

I cannot breathe.

I am an introvert.
I rebuild myself from silence.
I isolate myself when I'm upset.
I recharge all my stores of energy when I'm alone.

But I am also very bad at being an introvert (just like how I am very bad at most things, especially things that make up key parts of who I am).

I do not like being alone.
I cannot successfully live in a quiet house.

I need some type of noise to soothe my constantly-buzzing subconscious.

I have,
For the most part,
Been the truest type of alone
For the majority of my life.


But I can't keep it up.

I am alone all the time.
Pretty much everyday,
And I wouldn't be surprised
If it turned into every night, as well.

I am always by myself.
I always have been.

I don't think I can do this-- any of this-- alone anymore.

But I don't really have much of a choice.

I love you so much.

More than the moon and stars.

I love you so much,
That I would lock myself away forever
If it meant you were finally given some type of peace.

I love you so much,
That I would anxiously give away
All the scars and memories I have
That I'm so twistedly proud of,
If it meant you could be happy.

I love you so much.
You are the air I need to breathe.
But I would gladly
Die of asphyxiation and oxygen deprivation
If it meant you were safe.
If it meant you could be okay.

I love you so, so, so much.

And I know it doesn't mean much,
But I am going to keep my promises,
Even if they're already broken.
I'm going to fix this, us.

I love you so much.
Though I understand if you don't believe me.

I mean, how could you believe that someone
Loves you
When all they seem to do is leave?

I want to tell you that I know that I wouldn't be able to believe that either.

But what you need to know is that I already don't.

And once again,
I'm probably going to end up being
The scared, stupid, naïve little girl
Sitting in the corner of her closet,
Listening to the rain, the wind, and the thunder,
While waiting oh-so-hopefully for the person she loves
To love her back again.

All because she was dumb enough to think there was something in this world that's permanent,
Other than *"Goodbye."

My brain doesn't work right.

Most of the time,
I feel like I'm not real.
Like I don't exist.
But more like I don't consciously exist.
It's a very faded feeling.
It's, I guess, like being a ghost.

It's like everyone else is alive.
Like they're real.
They have real live bodies.
But, in comparison, it's like I'm not physically real.
I'm just a dull flicker of consciousness that occassionally flares into a full word.

I'm sorry, but I don't know what that word is, yet.

My brain doesn't work right.

Sometimes,
I feel too much.
Even though I might only be feeling one emotion or I might only be having one thought,
I feel all of it.
I feel everything.

I've been told that it's part of my illness.

That when people have the same chemical imbalances I have,
We feel things fifty times stronger than most people's.
Our emotions cut deeper.
Things mean more to us.

I guess that's why pretty much every great sentimental artist in history was thought to have some sort of Bipolar Disorder.

I guess, people become great and wise when they have Manic Depression Disorder.

But, I guess, only after they die.

Right now, though,
I can't bring myself to feel anything at all.

I suppose it's because some intuitive, subconscious part of myself knows that I'll be feeling much more than my fair share later.

I am always so scared, these days.
I mean, I've always been afraid of what
Is scaring me so much right now.
But right now it seems somewhat plausible.
And right now, if it happens, it will all be my fault.

Because all it seems I know how to do
Is break people and run away.

People like me,
We were never taught about
How to love,
How to have a home,
How to be stable.

People like me,
We were only ever taught how to survive.

Which means we run, and we push people away, and we handle all our troubles on our own.

And a person can only survive like that for so long, before they stop being an actual person.

People like me,
We were taught how to survive.

No one ever taught us how to live.