You promised.

You swore.

You said you would.


We drank a little whiskey and I smiled at your goofy grin. I laughed when you bet me a stop sign that I would get sick on my 21st. Little did you know, I can handle my liquor  magnificently. We put some music on and swung-out to that 40s rhythm.


You promised you loved me.

You swore you would never leave.

You said you would always hold my hand.


I turned 21 last week and I sat in my cold apartment, alone. I did not drink, I did not smile, I did not laugh, I did not dance. Instead tears burned through my cheeks like acid rain. Instead my nose leaked into countless tissues. Instead I ignored my world.


The promises are broken.

Swearing is just curse words, now.

My hand is empty.


I turned 21 last week. I did not get sick. Now, all I can think is




Where the hell is my stop sign?

-t.s.

I hate to see you doing well.
I know its shallow, petty, and sad

but call me all those things
because right now I'd rather you be alone.

You should be alone
after what you did to me.  

How is it that I'm the one fighting demons you created
and you're running with my dream that we created together?

I hate that you're doing well
and I wish that you weren't.

-t.s.

9:47 I sit on my couch, staring at my bed.

I'm not supposed to lay down until at least 10 o'clock.

It's supposed to "ward away depressive states" so I don't "stay in bed all day long."


9:52 If I go just a little early, that won't be a big deal, right?

No, I better listen. I better try.


9:55 Only five more minutes.

That's funny. We used to use that to avoid going to bed, now I'm using it to count down until I can.


9:58 Do I have everything I need? The temperature is set so I won't get too hot? I've got my glass of water, my phone charger, my fuzzy socks?


10:00 Sweet relief.


I'll never leave you again.

I promise.  


"Depressive state", my ***.  This is the only place I can be safe. The only place I'm home.


-t.s.

I swore I'd never write about you again.


You aren't supposed to be worth my time.


But my time is worthless and my hand knows nothing besides you.

-t.s.

Because we're all just a little messed up.

Some of us are a lot of messed up.

We hide and hope people never see it but what can we do?

How do we hide who we are?



And who we are is nothing.

-t.s.

I don't like new notebooks.

I mean, I like new, beautiful, clean, pristine notebooks,
but I don't like using them.

I don't want to ruin it.

I open up to the first page and it's so blank, so white, so pure,
there's not an imperfection in sight.

I don't want to use it because I don't want to mess it up. I want it to stay perfect, and beautiful.
I don't want that inevitable ****** drawing or poem to **** it up.
I don't want my uncleanliness, my messiness to spread to something so perfect.

I do end up using it. If I didn't, I'd just have a bunch of empty notebooks lying around which honestly I'd prefer.
But I take forever to do it, to break the seal.

I have to have the perfect thing to ruin perfection because if it's not perfect, it's not worth it to ruin it.

It goes two ways though:

The first entry is perfect, beautiful, inspiring, deep,
and then I never use that book again.
Because now it's perfection is magnified.
I couldn't possibly follow it up with something better or just as good,
and it's quite possible that the more I try to come up with something good to match, the initial piece deteriorates and it becomes disappointing, thus resulting in the notebook not being used.

The second way this goes is the first entry is trash.
It's disgraceful and I want to tear it out
but suddenly the book becomes less daunting, less intimidating because now, it's imperfect.
Every entry to follow doesn't have to live up to some grand standard.
But I'm reminded everytime I use that book that I failed, that I created garbage.
It makes everything that comes after, not as good as what I want to do, it lacks passion.
If I tear out the initial entry, the cycle starts over.

No matter which way you spin it, we just don't get along. I end up with a bunch of half used, disappointing books sitting around haunting me as I walk by.
A notebook is reflective of who you are,
it displays the deepest parts of you.

What if your unhappy with what you see on the page?

What if what you see isn't you?

What if, this blank, empty page of nothingness is better than what you are?

Why would you want to ruin something so pure and perfect with your mess?

Because nothing you ever write, draw, sketch, compose or create on it will ever be as good as it's once held purity.

-t.s.