I like to think about what we were.
Those times when we'd smile and laugh like there were no worries.
In those moments I liked to pretend I was mentally stable and I bet you were hiding under the guise of a smile too.
But we were together, happy.
As time passed for some reason the happiness started to decline.
Each year started to become a time stamp for the ones who left and tears were lost for.
Months were spent on lost sleep and tear stains were left to disappear gradually.
The fragile confidence broke away until it couldn't be pieced together the same way it was before.
We were hesitant and faltered constantly yet all those hours of lost sleep and the seemingly neverending sadness was worth so much.
It was precious the way I lost myself and became anew so much stronger.
I am not as I was.
The happy times are not as abundant as before yet I feel so much more fulfilled as a person than before.
What we were is just a distant memory.
What we are right now are clumsy teenagers looking to find our way in this massive world.
We are not perfect, we are just right and we will find our way no matter how far away we stray from each other.
Looking beyond what we were I hope you can change and become even more beautiful.
For now, let's reminisce.
We were beautiful dreamers and we still are.
The light in you, I hope it never dies.

When I write, I no longer want to fear myself.
I wish to bleed myself dry to these pages without wondering if anything I do is of any worth.
When I write, I no longer want to doubt myself.
I wish to gnash my teeth together as my truth flows out in an array of colors and emotions.
When I write, I no longer want to erase my emotions.
I wish for tears to fall down my cheeks as I bare my imperfect soul to a computer and its keyboard.
When I write, I no longer want to grieve about unsaid words.
I wish for the past to become palpable and remind me of how I got here and those that I left behind in the process.
When I write, I no longer want to compare myself to every other individual in existence.
As I sit here, I realize that writing is a vital part of myself.  
In hating writing, I begin to hate the child that dreamt of writing a book.
That child, I hold her tight in hopes of realizing her everlasting happiness again.
I wish to come home to her again one day.