Friendship is a playground. Monkey bars and Slides. Swings and See-Saws. Slung arms around necks and giggles echoing throughout plastic tunnels. Climbing up, up, up- only to hurt yourself falling down. Sometimes there will be the same slung arm around your neck to carry you to help. Sometimes you lay on the ground for minutes that feel like hours and wonder if no one saw you fall, or maybe everyone else just decided to go home instead. Sometimes you look at an empty playground and see an abandoned circus with joy that use to be there only to be lost, nothing but a memory to the metal toys that once held everyone I have loved. Every piece still in its place but frozen in its child-like wonder.

Once the seed of doubt is planted, it takes over the garden, infecting healthy roots and making them docile and weak, unable to stand when the wind gets tough.

You're always the bad guy in my dreams, what if my subconscious knows you better than me

Starlight boy, made of constellations, you are my guiding light. You carry the sky, or are you the sky. The waves of purple to navy to black, a collection of your shades. Every one as beautiful as the last. Your night sky never gets tiring to look at. Shifting, moving, covered, but forever there. Within and without, miles from where we are but so close I feel like I could reach out and touch you. So present and so distant, you my starlight boy are a collision of feigned hearts and scrabbled messages. You’re so hard to read, but it’s all never made so much sense until I saw you. So sing me sleepy and say goodbye before sunrise interrupts your melody. But I’ll see you again my love, every night I have left on this Earth, I’ll look towards you.

And the boys see your tears as nectar. Flocking, not seeing the cyanide flowing from your eyes, wanting to be the savior. They’ll never be the anecdote, but, after all, a savior isn’t needed, just wanted.

I do not know how to not spiral. I don't know how to catch myself when I fall. I don't know how to put up my hands and make the darkness turn to light. I don't know how to sleep when tonight won't strike 12. I can wait, but then I sit. Waiting for the moon to tell me that it will be the last thing I see and it will be beautiful. But what if I cant bring myself to believe it? What if 12 never comes? What if it never leaves? What if Im stuck there? What if theres just always another 12 to wait for in the inevitable tomorrow? What if I dont make it there?

And for the butterflies dont migrate through and straight. We all must be ready to move to the will of the winds.