My birthday comes in a little over 2 weeks and I think when people talk about birthdays, they are secretly talking about status in blocked hours.

Somewhere in that 24 hour block, a person was born, and that person was me. .....well Yay I guess.

I don't like my birthday. And the reasons for that, are more complicated than you think.

When I was 13, I was really into cupcake birthday cakes. I asked for one, every year, for a long time.

When I turned 15 and 16, my best friend baked me cupcakes and brought them to school for me, and I shared them with my peers. You see, I considered her my best friend, and I guess that's not enough to be the best friend.

It's like unrequited love if you put poisonous platonic friendship in my blood first.

When I turned 17, she did baked me my last set of cupcakes, but I no longer had a best friend. So I spent my birthday mentally by myself while my family sang otherwise.

And right now, I hate cupcakes, and superhero films because they remind me of her. But saying that is the weakest thing to do, since everything, reminds me of her.

I will never admit I loved her, the same way she will shamelessly say she never loved me. I can't hate her, but I can't see her without hating myself.

You know age, goes up, the same way sadness, goes down. Pulling you into another 24 hour block just so you can say.

"Hey. I made it another day."

I will admit that every day without her is another day without cupcakes, and another day without sugar is another day without happiness. And people may have asked me "How can you flip-flop between preferences like you're not the biggest homosexual in the closet." So when I tell people I'm straight, they tell me I'm not allowed to change my mind.

I loved her, but she left me and took all of my friends with her. And I thought that real friends wouldn't abandon me, but there is always time to be wrong. By the time my birthday comes, I'll be crying, and she doesn't even remember what day my birthday is on.

By the time I read this out loud, I will have been through this birthday, like a person walks through fire. Turning 16 is less about age, then it is about school, and turning 18, is less about the number, and more about becoming an adult. And no amount of adult can neutralize pain.

I have accepted the fact that no man will ever really want to marry me. And no Christian, will ever truly want to love me.
And if I am wrong, I will have to repeat this lost love forever dragging it out in my life.

And if I have kids one day, do you really think...

That I'm going to tell everyone if it's a boy or a girl...

By making blue or pink...

...cupcakes?

I can’t sleep because I’m too tired. I’m so tired that what I just said makes complete sense...

I can’t sleep because I’m not tired at all, I would run around the world and come back home and still be awake. If I could... If I wanted to.

I can’t sleep because counting sheep is stupid.

I can’t sleep because I want to pull an all-nighter. I can’t sleep because I don’t want to pull an all-nighter.

I can’t sleep because I plan to wake up at 6 am tomorrow morning. Or 8, or 12, or 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

I can’t sleep because YouTube.

I can’t sleep because I can’t wait for tomorrow, and I can’t sleep because I don’t want tomorrow to catch up with me.

I can’t sleep because I have a scheduled 3-hour long conversation with God and something tells me we are definitely going overtime. We just have so much to talk about.

I can’t sleep because I’m hungry, but let’s not risk waking my family of the sleep I don’t get to have.

I can’t sleep because I’m afraid of dying in my sleep. You can’t tell me it would be peaceful, or comfortable, when I’m subconsciously fighting for my life, and a rest I will forever never get to have.

Rest in peace right? More like rest in pieces, I am a broken body sprawled out across a bed that is too small for me because I hate sleeping on a diagonal, I keep tossing and turning, so no, I am not resting in peace.

I can’t sleep because I will never be comfortable, I will never be able to sleep in a straight line, or on my left or right side, so lets just stare at my ceiling and wonder why I even bother trying.

I can’t sleep because my dreams will always become nightmares in which I wake up the next morning to forget my dreams of yesterday, I did not ask for a tomorrow, I did not ask for my alarm clock, I did not ask to wake up. Tell the sun to go back down for five minutes.

I can’t sleep because I will wake up to find that my arms are wrapped around my pillow, where I thought your body was. I am not hugging you anymore, because I have woken up. I don’t care it it’s not real, let me dream for just a little longer because I just wish you were here. I cannot forget how lonely I have become.

I can’t sleep because I’m waiting for the phone to ring, for a message to be sent, for burglar to sneak into my house, because I am awake and ready to fight. I will defend what I can see. But I can’t see in the dark.

I lay awake, wishing that you were here to tell me it’s safe to sleep, but we both know monsters exist in the dark.

I can’t stop wishing that you were here, I’m sorry that I can’t stop thinking about you. I just can’t explain myself, and I will stay up all night thinking of something to say to you. But I can’t…

I can’t sleep, I can’t let myself fall asleep I might never be as alive as I am right now

STAY AWAKE!!

I have so much I need to do, so please don’t let me fall asleep again. Because being here alive and awake with you is already a dream come true.

I haven’t slept in 2 years. I haven’t eaten in 5, I’m not lying.

People lie everyday. “Little white lies” we call them. They mean nothing at all. It won’t hurt anybody. What could possibly happen if I told a lie?

Some people are bad liars, and some lies are just bad.

I’m not a bad liar. But people just don’t believe me when I say anything. Everything I say becomes a lie in another person’s ears, they won’t listen.

So if I tell bad lies on purpose will anybody notice? I’ll mix up the truth with bad lies and see if people can tell the difference.

I’ve never broken a bone, I’ve never been drunk, I’ve never forgotten a birthday. Do you know which statement is true? And which one was the lie?

I’ve been sick for 10 years, my IV is made of tears, my cereal tastes like regret, I’m not lying.

I’ve forgotten my own name, I forgot where I came from, I left my consciousness on the bus. I’m not lying.

It’s very easy to ignore an obvious lie, when you know the truth. But I’m not lying…

My heart is broken, my dignity stolen, and my future is no more. I’m not lying.

My friends are gone, along with my dad and mom, my sibling disappeared. I’m not lying.

My chest hurts, my ribs are shattered, and as for me. Well, there’s not a lot of me left. I’m not lying.

I can’t stop myself from constantly running away from the truth, lies are just so much easier to tell.

They say the truth sets you free…
Ok… Let’s try again.

The poem is filled with lies, some of them easier to say than others. But I want to start telling the truth now.

I want to start this poem over. I want to be better than this. I know I’m better than this… And maybe you can hear it in my voice. But I promise. I’m not lying…

Kind of a loaded question isn’t it?
Is there something you’ve lost?
Something you’ve spent?

Put yourself behind and look ahead
Don’t you gain something if you give something instead?
Do you have a family? Or friends? Who you’d do anything for?
Do you value yourself but see that they’re worth more?

I’m not a perfect person, that I can say
I’m only human but is selfish really the way?

Maybe you’d give up time for pain or for strife
But when it matters the most, do you give up your own life?

Maybe you’ve got it all, and you’ve got a life to live
But those who lose everything for others always have more to give

Maybe you don’t care, you’d give up nothing at all
You put yourself high up on that shelf, I hope you enjoy the fall

After reading some words that needlessly rhyme
I’ll ask the same question, but you answer this time

If everything matters, fate, destiny, and luck,
This question falls to you:

So what do you give up?

The truth about being a superhero, is that only certain people know when to call us at exactly the right time. When the world is about to break into chaos and when the cities need us to be there.

But this isn’t exactly the job I thought it was going to be. I have devoted myself to being the best I can be for the people of my city, for freedom and justice, and for you. And for the first few months of my job, I was everywhere.

People knew my name, I was in every newspaper, children looked up to me, put me on their lunchboxes, they wanted to be me…

They say heroes aren’t born, they’re made. But I was born! Of  the kindness of my mother, and the bravery of my father to create this image of strength. I am a superhero! I can fly, can you fly? Can you wear this suit? Can you handle the responsibility?

Not all of my city wanted a superhero. Some of them became the villains. And it’s not like I can’t handle a few bad guys, but sometimes, the citizens are my kryptonite.

Sometimes they don’t want me, one day they praise me and the work that I’ve done, the next day, they say they don’t need another hero, I’m just another problem, they say “Leave us the way that you found us: broken. And not needing anybody around to fix it.”

But I’m not perfect either. I can fly, but gravity still brings me back to earth, I can run, but not from my problems, I can carry cars with my two hands. But the weight of the world still sits on my shoulders.

The day they told me to leave the city, I reminded myself that if I harmed any one person, broke my promise to be the sole keeper of freedom and justice for all. That I would hang up my cape and quit.

And I did. I became human again, I am not as strong as you made me out to be. You told me I wasn’t needed. And soon after the villains had returned and they were shouting for me to save them again.

I thought you didn’t want me, stop it, I’m no hero, I’m just a person. Please, my powers only do so much. Do you still need me to save you? I’m just an alien, a science experiment, a mutant, a drawing in a comic book.

I am not your superhero! I can’t do this anymore! It was you who pushed me away, you fear my powers, you fear me. But I didn’t do anything wrong.

Please… Just let me go.  You are the heroes now. Just let me go.

I haven’t caught feelings in 4 years and it’s just as terrifying as I remember it.

You drive me ******* crazy. I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t focus.

But **** I don’t want to be without you. I don’t ever want to leave you.

You don’t think you’re pretty and I don’t know you any other way. You’re fantastically funny and caring. You care about me, you listen to all my crazy banter.

How did you find me? How can you call me yours so easily?

I don’t deserve that.

I’m drowning in Frank Sinatra songs and sugary coffee, I am on cloud 9 with a stomach full of knots.

I have all the confidence in the world and none at all.

I’ll write all my best music for you.

Being lovestruck is as much about being struck as it is about being in love with you.

I’m scared to be crazy about you.
I think I’m more scared of you being into the train wreck I am.

But **** it you’ve got me.
They say love hurts, but I don’t really mind right now.

It almost kills me that I gotta keep you a secret. Crushes are weird like that.

I’m stuck looking at you, not knowing what to do, but incredibly happy to be where you are.

You make me better.
Stay with me a bit longer.

I love you.

And saying that terrifies me.

But I’m willing to risk being scared for awhile.

I am so neck deep in this, I might pass out.

I love you so much, it might **** me.

I feel crazy. This might be crazy.

But you say you love me anyway.

And that’s good enough for me.

I have never been employed or earned any money for the work I do. And yet I still have a job to do.

For I am the door keeper, a guard, a lookout... a friend.

My job is simple yet complicated, for I have many jobs rolled into one.

I stand by the door and wait for people to approach me. Some talk to me, most people don't. Don't you know that I do my work for you? I don't get paid for my work, but I still think it's worth it to keep working.

I am the door keeper.

I stand by the weak, injured, and the broken with the strength I still have. When the people who I help finally regain their strength, they walk away from me, not even leaving a "thank you".

I am the guard.

When danger arrives at someone else's doorstep, I am there to see that they are not harmed, I will warn the of danger and guide them out of harms way.

I am the lookout.

Whenever you need me I will be there, I'll hold your hand and help in any way I can. I will always be here.

I am your friend.

I have always been here, but people don't see me anymore. I have become a ghost. I wonder what it takes to become alive again. But I can't just leave, whether or not people see me. I need to keep working. My job doesn't cost money, it costs lives.

A treasure more valuable than money.

I can't stop working.

I am the door keeper watching for their smiling faces. I am the lookout for their lives, and the guard of their hearts. But most importantly a friend.

A friend they might never see, but I'm still here.

I can't leave just yet. Because I still have a job to do.

"Rereading her texts doesn't bring her back from the dead."


And I'm dead anyways. So read my texts all you want.

Somebody pick a fight with me. Set this all ablaze and watch the photos burn.

No.

I can't do that. I will not give the world the satisfaction of being right about me. That I'm this monster...

Rereading her texts doesn't bring her back from the dead.

But she's not dead.

So let me rephrase:

Rereading her texts... doesn't bring her back.

~September 5th, 2017~
~Sometime between 10 and 11PM~

Her:
You're an empath.

Me:
I guess so.

Her:
Have you ever thought about it?

Me:
Being an empath?
I never knew there was a name for it.

I never knew there was a name form my kind of pain analyzation. Like I have some kind of supernatural power to read into pain of all kinds.

Her:
Is it that you understand other people's pain or your own pain or both?

Me:
I think I’ve always done both.

Her:
I had a feeling.

Here we go.

Her:
How does it affect you?

A loaded question, and being the person I am I answered it the only way I knew how:

Me:
I always get this feeling that when people are sad or hurt, I have to be too.
Sometimes it’s just my way of showing that pain is just something people have.

But mostly, it makes me helpless to stop other people’s pain.
I get sad, like some kind of way to share the pain that isn’t even mine.
And when it is my pain, nobody can seem to understand it fully.
And it’s not like I completely understand someone else’s pain,
but you see and hear a lot when you turn silent for awhile.

Lots of people try to say that people aren’t alone when they suffer.
And most of it is comfort.

But most of the time I see people in pain, and I don’t see a reason to comfort.

I see more of a reason to just be there.

Experience something beyond yourself.

There a certain type of selfless peace that comes when pain is no longer just one person’s fight.

It’s not about being together in pain. It's about experiencing life with pain just passing by.
It’s been said in books, “Pain demands to be felt”
I don’t know, something about that makes me wish I could do more.

But yeah,
I’m empathetic a lot of the time.
Maybe that’s why I stick around even when I shouldn’t.

I stop. I've said enough.

Me:
Sorry, I’m rambling...
That’s a ton of text.

Silence

And for a minute, I wonder if anything I say is being understood.

Her:
The way you speak is beautiful.
I'm marvelling in it.

... I sit in awe. Grasping at a full acceptance of the way I convey myself in feelings, but more importantly, here, in this moment.

Her:
You speak poetry.

Me:
No wonder I’m a poet.
It’s like destiny or something idk.

Part of me wishes I would have spelt the whole phrase out, it has the same amount of syllables.

Her:
I'm here for you.
I **** at comforting and that's not what I want.
All I want is for you to know that I am present.
And sharing the fight.

This, THIS right here, is companionship, and friendship, saying that "I can be here", and that will be enough.

Her:
I want to fight with you.
Even though I'm not very aggressive.

Hearing this said, "I want to fight with you". Not "I want to fight for you". This says more than any kind of battle with someone at my side, this is real, in this moment.

Me:
Hahah, we’ll fight it with music or something.
Doesn’t have to be aggressive.
Faith, hope, the essentials.

We're believers in things like love, God, and good songs that rock the world... and we don't need much more than that.

Her:
That said, music can be aggressive.
But we'll stick to the essentials.

We'll stick to our guns and hopefully, we won't have to fire.

Her:
Please know that you can ramble to me as much as you like.
I love it.

I know... me too.

Her:
Goodnight, love you.

And as we come to an end, we fall back into a small but familiar silence between us.

Me:
Goodnight, love you too.

-End-

Sidenote: I highly recommend listening to these songs/watching the musical, it is amazing.

Example:
Song title: Lyrics *My thoughts/feelings

Anybody Have A Map?:

Anybody maybe happen to know how the hell to do this?*  
I'm in this confusion so deep that I can't find a way out.
I'm flying blind, and I'm making this up as I go.
Ha. Me too.

Waving Through a Window:

Step out, step out of the sun if you keep getting burned.
I've been burning forever.
Waving through a window!
Put your soul into this song.

For Forever:

We share.
Together.
All we see is sky for forever.
An ecstasy I do not know.
All we see is light, 'cause the sun burns bright!
Shouting hallelujah from here.
Life will be alright for forever this way.
I hope so.

Sincerely, Me:

All that it takes is a little reinvention!
I need that.
All you gotta do, is just believe you can be who you wanna be.
Just believing right?
Sincerely, ME!
Yep.

Requiem:

I will sing no requiem.
Neither will I.
I gave you the world, you threw it away. Leaving these broken pieces behind you.
I know.
Everything wasted, nothing to say.
I know.
Within these words I finally find you.
The words are not mine.
Now that I know that you are still here.
I am?

If I Could Tell Her:

But he kept it all inside his head, what he saw, he left unsaid.
Secrets work wonders do they not?
If I could tell her, tell her everything I see. If I could tell her how she's everything to me. But we're a million worlds apart... And I don't know how I would even start.
How do we begin to say the words?...

Disappear:

No one deserves to be forgotten. No one deserves to fade away.
Nobody.
No one should come and go, and have no one know he was ever even here.
I'll make sure of it.

You Will Be Found:

Well, let that lonely feeling... wash away.
I should let the weight drop from my shoulders.

To Break In A Glove:

And a little uphill climb.
Just more work.
For a kid who's lost control.
I'm just trying to make sense of it all.

Only Us:

Try to quiet the noises in your head. We can't compete with all that.
No we can't. But we try.

Good For You:

And you say what you need to say, so that you get to walk away.
Everyday.
I hope that it's all that you want and more.
I'm not proud.
And you play who you need to play.
I did.
JUST LET ME OUT!
I am not okay.

Words Fail:

I never thought that it would go this far.
I really didn't.
So I just stand here sorry. Searching for something to say.
I am still searching.
There's nothing I can say.
There really isn't.
Words fail.
They do.
That's a worthy explanation, I know. Nothing can make sense of all these things I've done.
I wish I could make it up to you.
So how do I step in...

Step into the sun?

I wish I knew how...

So Big/So Small:

And I knew I'd come up short a million different ways.
And I did.
And I do.
And I will.
And I will... I already have...

Finale:

Today is going to be a good day, and here's why:
Because today, at least you're you and that's enough...
That's enough.

All I see is sky for forever...

Curtains close.

I'm going home.

Yeah... I'm going home.

Truth be told, I probably need therapy, or counselling I'm not sure.
But I'm not going to get involved in that.

So instead I go to a karate class twice a week. And it's a good outlet for anger.

Just imagine the person or thing you're currently mad at and go crazy. Punch, kick, fight!

Make it known that you are blazing mad! Don't back down until you have won!

When the class is over, you're probably tired, you've used a lot of your energy, so you can maybe sleep your anger off.

But somedays, you rage does not give up, it sticks with you and you're still not satisfied with the service, you want a refund? Well too bad, you don't get one! Remember, this is not a real therapy session...

Maybe I should go into therapy -- or counselling.

Because even if you fight with all your rage and anger and hate, you won't win a fight if the person you're mad at --

If the person you are fighting...

Is yourself.

Fact:** My sister is a wonderful human being.


After hearing about the tragedies happening around us, she decides to make paper stars. Lots and lots of stars.

She asks for empty bottles from the neighbours and her friends. She fills the bottles with these stars, folding away all her problems into glass bottles and jars of all shapes and sizes. After she fills the bottles and jars she hands them to her friends and family.

She gives one to me.

The paper stars in a rainbow pattern, they seem so full of wonder. Even if they are nothing more than paper encased in glass.

I take the glass jar and place it on the top shelf of my school locker. Reminding me that I can keep a piece of home and happiness close to me.

But it didn't last.

After I made some mistakes I didn't feel as though I wanted any happiness near me. I wanted to take every bit of hope and hide it away.

I took the jar of paper stars out of my locker 2 days ago.

Holding it close to my chest as I walked down the halls of my school.

My head hanging.
Eyes glued to the floor.

Walking away from everything.

But still sort of hopeful...
Wishing for a bit more optimism.

A shining star.

At 10 years old, I argued for my time back. I don't to play piano anymore, I want my 10 000 hours back.

This is the brokenness I am

At 13 I had a double, nothing in common but the title of their being. And yet that is all it took to become nothing.

This is the brokenness I am

At 14 I spent time with a locker, the only friend I had in the jail of a building.  A homeless student living amongst the rich.

This is the brokenness I am

At 15 I was trying to put life together, but it didn't work. Making myself angry about it. Maybe you don't have to accept that life doesn't like you, that people don't like you. That you don't like you.

*This is the brokenness I am

My Dear Friend,

It’s been a long time since we’ve talked, I’ve tried writing this letter at least 10 times because I can’t decide how to write it. Friend, life has not been treating me well.

You see life is like a video game. You can make choices, say certain things do certain things, you can choose to progress, or hit pause for a while. But I’ve never saved my game. I always try to restart and redo choices to stop making mistakes, I try.

But in the end we never do win a game that we were never taught how to play. We were not given a manual to tell us what to do.
Ages and birthdays are like levels friend. A checkpoint to come back to but sometimes… I find it difficult to try playing this game again, maybe I just got bored again.

I choose to write you a letter because talking to you in person is sometimes a challenge I don’t have the strength to face. And I’m not afraid to talk to you. I’m just afraid of talking.

If I say your name too many times it might lose its meaning, repeating words over and over again until they don’t mean anything anymore. So I will say your name only when I absolutely have to. Your name means too much to me, I will not let it lose meaning.

Listen, I’ve been praying for you every night that you’re still alive. That I’ll see you soon. I haven’t slept in what seems like forever, but I don’t really see why sleeping is something I still have to do.

I’m losing consciousness and I can’t speak in full sentences as well as I used to. But this is the price you pay for playing a risky game.

I should probably send this letter tomorrow, but I’m tired. And if I don’t keep myself awake I’ll never get up in the morning. But, I haven’t said anything in this letter that makes any sense. I’m trying to figure this out on my own. But you’re not exactly close by.

When you get this letter friend, please... Come home.

I’ll be waiting by the street corner, and we’ll watch the stars like we used to.

Be safe, be kind, and be brave. I’ll see you soon ok?

In John Green’s book “Paper Towns”, the main character believes that every person gets a miracle. A single miracle, a gift to you, possibly from God, that allows you to feel like you might actually be a lucky human being for once.

But this statement is not true. Because everybody in this world doesn’t get “one miracle”. I mean sure, you can get one miracle, but that doesn’t have to be it. You could get millions of miracles if you were just a little more patient. If you waited just a little longer.

Miracles can come in different shapes and sizes, different people, different amounts of money, different words, or sights, or stars. You, yourself can be your own miracle.

I believe that every friend I’ve ever had is a miracle to me, every song I write, every word I speak, I am shouting miracles at you, even if you’re at the back of the room my voice will make it to you if you just wait a little longer to hear it.

Some miracles happen more than once, like a boomerang coming back to you, you keep getting something and you pray as hard as you can that every miracle you ever got comes back to you.

And every boomerang will come back to its thrower if you just wait a while.

Now if your miracle is a person, you must be willing to be the most patient you’ve ever been in your life. Because people will change direction, this boomerang sometimes decides it wants to take control of its path before it comes back, and it will come back. Just wait a little longer – Just wait – because if you leave you won’t be there to catch a miracle you knew the joy of having.

God has sent me so many people. So many boomerang miracles, and I’ve been waiting for too long. But nothing can move me, I am rooted to where I stand, I will wait for as long as it takes for my person, for my miracle to make it back to me.

Sometimes I doubt. I consider walking away, and maybe somebody else can catch my miracle, and call it their own. But if I believe that God sent you to me. And I’m the one walking away, then maybe I’m the next boomerang, but I promise I’ll make it back to you – this is all I know how to do. I have been waiting, for so long...

Please God, I need these people to come back to me. They mean so much to me, more than they will ever know.

So I wait, and I will keep waiting, until God sends you, one of my many miracles, back to me.

1.  I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.

2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.

3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.

4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...

Yes...

5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.

6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.

7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.

8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.

9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.

10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?

Don't get me wrong, I like elevators as much as the next guy. But there's always been something about stairs that just interests me in a way elevators can't.

If you've ever watched me climb a flight of stairs, I usually skip every other step. Mainly to save time because I live life too fast, climbing stairs so I could slow life down somewhere else.

I have this one staircase where all my friends hang out, less than 10 steps with a door at the top. That door wasn't opened very often, we called it the -- "Suicide Door". Only to find that it was a room where there were tons of stacked boxes willed with paper. But we still hung out on that staircase anyway.

Lately, the conversations that take place on those stairs are less than amusing, we don't laugh about how stupid people are. Rather we rant about who we want to **** in this world, and who's mad at who for thier gender or religion, I don't feel safe there anymore.

I fear if I say anything that I'll be shut down because I don't like people's use of "free speech" when it's used to put people down. And yes, I know, I'm not innocent here. There are conversations I regret saying that I have left on that staircase.

We don't talk about those conversations because we know out opinions are still changing. I may not remember any of this when it's finally over.

We don't talk about conversations we had behind closed suicide doors. But we never talk about the ones we had on the staircase below it. Sometimes that door seems like it's locked forever, and we choose to believe that our staircase leads to nowhere.

I miss the way thing used to be, when conversations weren't poisonous to those who heard the even by accident.

It makes me want to take elevators with strangers. Sure, it would be awkward, but at least nobody would want to rant about people to a bunch of strangers.

I sat by the stairs again. All my friends were there. But the school bells ring and everybody leaves. Nobody bothers with a "see you later" of a "c'mon, we gotta go, you'll be late". They just leave.

I'll stay there for a minute, gather my things, and wonder where they all went.

And whether or not they'd come back.

After all, the stairs aren't all that important right?

And these stairs, out of all staircases, just lead to nowhere...

I met you 3 years ago.

5' 2" and terrifying.

You never got any taller, but your rockstar personality shot right to the moon and back. And you never let anybody bring you down or tell you what to do. I admired that about you.

I remember the dumbest things about our friendship. I remember working with you on a group project we both didn't care about. I remember becoming friends with you like it was an easy thing, like we both knew we would be friends eventually.

I remember the first song I ever sent to you, and not expecting you to like it but you did anyway. You told me the song would even get stuck in your head. I promised to send you every song I would ever write.

We were close. I would always make time to talk to you. It didn't matter whether or not you were interrupting anything, I would set anything aside to talk to you.

We shared our jokes, and our pain. Our laughter and longing, we were good friends and we never let each other down.

Until now.

And I will admit that this is my fault.
Please don't place all of the blame on her.
She may be guilty, but so am I.
2 out of the 3 problems were caused by my impulses.
I can handle 66.7% of the blame and consequences.
I can do that.

You can hate me if you want.
You tell me you don't want to talk to her anymore.

I tell you I respect your decision and that I will be here if you need me.

I am sorry.

I know I ******* up our friendship, and I wish I could take it all back.
I wish you could remember me as the innocent songwriter who held out arms of comfort instead of words of contradiction.

I am terrible.

And you don't need me.

But if your heart finds enough forgiveness to see past this.
I will give you a way out.
And if you choose not to take it.
Then maybe you believe that I am worth taking back.

That our friendship is worth fixing.

So tell me:

If I am worth that much...

Are you okay with the idea of starting over?

Because I want to make this better.
You don't have to be around me if you don't want to.

But if I can start over.

I will live through my life thankful that I got a second chance at all.

You ever walk from place to place with your earbuds in and music turned up? I do that a lot. I’m a hallway walker myself, used to run everywhere at first but not anymore.

So since you’re a hallway walker, where are you going? You got somewhere to be? I find myself walking halls a lot. Sometimes it’s for absolutely no reason. And sometimes we all just need to walk out our problems or feelings.

You get used to seeing the same walls and doors along the way. Sometime that halls are empty and hollow, and sometimes you’re trying to walk through a crowd...

Have you ever wondered about where other people are going? Maybe they’re walking the same way you are, or maybe they’re walking to nowhere. Either way, we’ve all got somewhere we have to go. I hope you make it there safely.

And hey, don’t forget where you’re going, but don’t forget where you came from either. The journey is just as important as the destination. Thanks for finding my letter. Now keep walking, I mean, don’t you have somewhere to be?

~Letter Writer

It's 10:00 at night and it's been at least a half hour since you've eaten something. You make your way to the kitchen, empty bowl in hand. You place the bowl with the ***** dishes and the world slows down as you turn to see the small container with your name on it...

I hate it.

You grab a glass of juice and stare at the container down. As if the black that so neatly stamps your name could stare back. You open the kid proof cap and pour out half its contents into your dominant hand.

Just to feel the weight of death in you dominant hand. "Take 2 twice daily." They said.

The half orange, half yellow capsules still in my palm. Feeling the plastic-like coating I feel like I could crush in 2 seconds flat.

Freeze.

Time stops.

This, is when the protagonist eats as many pills as her body will allow, when she gives in, when she dies. This movie is almost over...

Nobody else is awake, it's just you and your handful of pills.

No.

This movie goes on, the protagonist will live.

You-- are not built on a mountain of clichés and stereotypical archetypes.

You.
Are.
Here.

And still alive!

You pour the pills back into the container, with 4 still left in you hand. You take 2 but you still feel like it's stuck in your throat, so you eat something small to force it down. Even though these pills are supposed to be take on an empty stomach...

You get a glass of water, and set that aside with the 2 remaining pills for tomorrow morning.

Now go to sleep, make sure this protagonist lives to take the Hollywood medication tomorrow.

It’s 11:30 at night, and I’m staring at a screen that no longer notifies me that anyone I know is awake. For I am once again avoiding sleep, but I am waiting for a reason to stay awake. I do not want to sleep for fear of never waking up, but if you send me a message, I will have a reason to get up in the morning.

Fact: Our communication is more body language than it is words but not that this applies to the text message you will send from your phone. For the only thing that doesn’t involve words in a texting conversation is silence.

You’d be surprised at how often I’ve had to be silent for the sake of others. You see, I have been told by many that I am too selfless, and that I need to look out for myself a little more. But I can’t. I do not have the ability to stop caring about people who need me, even if I am suffering more than they are. It hurts…to know that people I care about are in pain, so I pretend my pain isn’t there.

But slowly, I begin to realize that listening to others and caring for them is not a bad thing, but it does give me a reason to ignore my own problems. I don’t want to ignore my own issues, but I don’t have the courage to tell them to my own friends, why is that?

One time, my brother was so sick he could barely swallow without feeling pain, so I only asked him yes or no questions so he could nod or shake his head to answer. His pain, kept him silent, and my pain keeps me silent. The only difference between his situation and mine is that my communication with him was working and this silence within me prevents me from even saying hi to people.

I want to tell people everything, I want to have 5-hour conversations about everything that makes me silent and I want to be able to send you a text message without worrying about whether or not I just interrupted your life for 2 seconds. I want to tell you that I’m having a bad day, but I can’t because seeing you makes my day so much better that I have to smile. I want to tell you why I hate the weekends because I love school because my friends are at school, and that I had a fight with my parents, and that I hate looking at my own reflection, and that every time I say to someone that I’m sorry, I’m also trying to say that I love them. I am sorry…sorry… I want to tell you that I sometimes feel so much pain that when you say hello or goodbye, I will only have enough energy to give you a small smile and a wave, I am lonely…


I want to get better, I want to say everything and be honest and just WHY GOD WON’T YOU HELP ME?!? I want to play music, and have fun, and live my life, please somebody hear me…

Ding

1 New notification:

“Hey, are you still awake? You seemed a little out of it today. I’m always here for you if you need me.”

It’s 12:00am and I’ve missed the moment where today became tomorrow. So maybe today is the day I tell you everything. Maybe our communication isn’t broken. I write back saying: “Thanks for checking in on me, it means a lot. Now that you mention it, there is something that’s been bothering me, I have something I need to tell you…”

Alright, alright...

Let's me be honest when I call myself out for being a narcissist.

Because I am a narcissist when it comes to things like music, or poetry, or worldview.

In short, I'm pretty terrible.

But in my narcissism, there is a bit of a God complex.

Feeling like I am invincible and unshakable. Like no one is above me and like nobody can possibly be in my way.

Like I am in control of everything.

Like God.

But definitely not like God.

I try to pull myself away from that kind of thinking because it dehumanizes me. It makes me something I don't want people to see.

It doesn't matter if I enjoy the insanity while it overtakes my body because eventually I will come to realize that this is not the life I want.

That I am better than this.

I mean...

Am I not better?

I don't know.

God?

Can you tell me?

You just can't help but love the feeling that you know something they don't.

But at the same time, you can hate that feeling until the secret explodes from your heart.

But in the event of this good secret, I can only watch people be oblivious and love that this secret won't stay a secret forever. Because I know something that will hopefully make them happy.

But when someone is dying to know the secret...

You can only hope you don't disappoint them when you finally tell them what it is.

Because you've been holding this secret for 3 months.

And it means something to you.

Hopefully the same applies to them.

Hey God...

I have a confession.

I am not a good person.

I know it isn't original, and I know you've heard this too many times from too many broken people.

But it's the only shred of honesty I can give so please accept it...
Because I do not know how to forgive myself for this tower of lies I built over the last month and a half.

I am not a good friend.

I try...

And you know I try. But I haven't been trying as hard as I used to.
But I want to try and make things right.

I have convinced myself that heaven seems too high up for me to get to.
And I'm here asking you to tell me there is still a chance for me to be saved from my life.

I went to church today for the first time in months.
I saw old friends, and read new verses... I learned more.
Although I still feel like an outcast in this place we call "safe".

I can't feel your presence near me even when I pray.
It's like I've cut the communication lines and there is no repairing them.

I am willing to work for my life.
I will build houses of faith and sing praises until I drop, but it won't be enough.

I work well under pressure. So if you told me that getting to heaven was as simple as building a ladder as high as I could in 24 hours, I would work through war and hellfire to get there.

I would climb every rung until the ladder ended above the clouds and started feeling like the solid foundation of a life restarted.

I can only hope you will accept me with open arms, forgiveness...

And a "hello."

1.  Dust is constant. It is a symbol of time telling you that either something needs to be cleaned, or you need to take a picture.
There will never be complete cleanliness so when people say "cleanliness is close to Godliness" promptly hand over an invitation to have dinner at your dusty house. And then show those people where you pray. Notice that sacred space has dust.

2. Chairs are complicated. They can have 4 legs, 5 legs, no legs, wheels on their legs. Chairs are such a wild forever changing species that we don't really have a good concept of what a chair is. Which begs the question, what is true chairness? Plato believed that somewhere somehow there is a perfect concept of such things. Which begs the question, what is it to be truly human? From where I stand, we all wear skin, breathe air, and hate high school anyway.

3. Appreciate your couch. I realized this at a young age when I figured out that dying means, never seeing a couch again.

4. The bed is not sacred. It is not a stronghold or sanctuary. It is the place you go when you are either done or satisfied with the world.

5. Windows are the windows of your house. It doesn't sound as good as eyes being the window to your soul but my point still stands. The windows are beautiful. And snowflakes freezing on them is a captured moment of nature being transparent.

6. Take a painting class. Learn how to make art on a canvas and hang that **** up. Buy a painting for no other reason other than that it costs more than $50. Travel and bring back a print and frame it. Learn to cross-stitch and hang that up too. The walls may change colour from time to time, but at least hang something on them.

7. Look for imperfection. When I was a kid I took a pencil and wrote in jagged penmanship "The end" at the bottom of my staircase. My mother, of course, scolded me for writing on the house, but for whatever reason, she kept the phrase there. Maybe because I knew the end had to be somewhere and I might as well end in the home I started in.

8. Buy refrigerator magnets that teach kids the alphabet. Organize them so that reading a message in the morning makes breakfast seem a little more inviting. And as a firm believer that breakfast is not a necessary meal, I too, need something in the morning to make me feel less alone.

9. Fill one closet with cleaning supplies. We may never get to the end of many tasks, but we can clean this house. Clean the cupboards, wash the windows, sweep the floor, write on the walls, just so you can erase it. And when you finish cleaning, and you bring all of your supplies to that closet, organize your closet. Notice that there is a small amount of dust on the shelves of the closet.

10. Work around the house, big or small, is never completely over.

My headphones are on.
I know what I'm hearing.
And I hope you can hear my heart break with every hit.
There is no excuse.
There is no cover up.

You wouldn't allow me to sit idly by and listen to you drain the blood from your hands.
I've been there, I've done that.
100,
200,
300,

Are you even counting? I'm not, and even I know you've doubled up on the hits.

I can hear it.

Can you?

I'll wake up earlier than usual and for a split second, I forget what happened 24 hours ago. It seems like a blur, like it didn't happen.

But I know it did.

And I can't change that.

So I'll throw on a checkered shirt and look at myself in the mirror as I put on my key necklace and rings, looking dangerous and ready to ****.

I wonder whether or not it's worth it to button up my shirt, but I seem to like the aesthetic of looking like I'm helpless. So I leave the shirt open to seem lazy too.

But I will roll up the sleeves. I'll always roll up the sleeves. Can't risk snagging the cuffs of a good, bad, decently fashionable looking shirt.

Pick out a complimentary hat and go.

Face the day why don't you?

Because I know I'll still end up crying eventually.

And I'd rather have those shirt cuffs in tact to wipe away the pain when I do.

My first thought when I wake up:

Is that I hate you.
You make me so mad
And you cause me so much pain.
You -- are my reflection.

And I'll say a prayer by my bed just for you.
Dear God, teach me how to love myself.
Amen.

Is my last thought when I go to bed.

The three poems I have made private here are all about you.

It seems like everything about my opinion of you is some kind of private matter.

Honestly...

I still care about you.
I think you're amazing.

Maybe I still love you.
But not in the same way I used to.

I'm sorry I'm not worth all that much nowadays.

I just wanted you to know that I'm going into therapy soon.

Getting help.

After all.

You said I needed to "sort myself out".
Okay.

I've been through a lot of things that shouldn't have happened to good people like us.

Or maybe I was never that good person.

Who am I kidding?

You're not reading this.

Last time you did, things went wrong and now all those poems are private.

So.

I can't even muster up any courage to say "hi" in any situation.

So I won't.

Makes things easier.

Okay.

Sorry I didn't try harder.
Sorry I wasn't there.
Sorry I called you late at night.
Sorry I still remember the circus.
Sorry I still want to send you gifts for your birthday and Christmas.


I...

Sorry I didn't say anything the right way or even at the right time.

Anyways... talk later?

Or never I guess.

You'll be busy.

And I have a therapy session to go to.

It was a Monday afternoon...

4th period, first semester 10th grade. Drafting class.

You hated the class. And I... didn't.

But we had fun anyway. I had a headphone splitter and while we worked we watched YouTube videos together. You introduced me to Panic! At The Disco, My Chemical Romance, All Time Low, Bring Me The Horizon, Black Veil Brides, And Jon Cozart.

And I showed you FadeIntoCase, Dodie Clark, and whatever YouTube had to offer that interested me.

Our friendship was good. We never had to worry about boyfriends or girlfriends, we were just kids. But I guess looking back, I can say that we were definitely better people than most.

I feel bad about that one day you were rewatching the Deadpool trailer over and over. You asked me what Deadpool video we should watch next.

And I told you I thought you should calm down.

You pulled the headphone splitter out your computer and chucked it my way. A sudden disconnect. I immediately apologized and when I realized you didn't want to hear it, I stopped trying to get your attention.

I know that's a stupid memory, but I still feel bad about it for some reason.

But I also remember that Monday afternoon that would test our friendship. We were in class and you were... not there, mentally I mean.

You were crying and I felt like something needed to be done. So I went and asked the teacher to let you go... and he did. As soon as I told you, you left.

And I felt bad. I knew I did the right thing, but I felt bad because I was going out of my way to make life better for someone I truly care about. It was overwhelming but I did it anyway.

I took your bag and waited for you outside the classroom. But you didn't show up. I found another friend and began crying in her arms, telling her how I couldn't do it anymore. Eventually you did find me, you took your bag and left.

I felt bad because I felt like my efforts went unappreciated time and time again. But they weren't.

I went home to write the song "At what cost?", which I performed the next day. You asked me why you hadn't heard the song before. I told you I wrote it after what happened. And I promised to send you every song I'd write from then on. And I did.

I still do.

I wrote you letters and cigarettes, I meant everything I wrote. And now where are we?

During the musical, I made and effort to wish you good luck before your big song, every single show. Every show...

You baked me cupcakes for my birthday.

The last time we FaceTimed was a Monday night. We listened to Disney music while you worked on art. You offered to FaceTime... I felt lucky that you would want to hang out with someone like me.

I would give you a hug everyday before leaving school at the end of the day...

In the last cigarette you gave me for my birthday you wrote "I couldn't ask for a better person to go to France with."

And I believed you.

So while we were in France. I can only remember watching a part of an episode of Riverdale with you and thinking to myself, "she still cares... we're okay".

We played games of 31 and that felt normal. But then we played cards in a different crowd and suddenly I didn't feel safe around them. I felt judged, by them, by you.

I don't even know if the locks mattered to you. You gave the letters back as if they didn't matter... I don't know how to fix this.

I remember walking slower to get the attention of a guy. And you saw me walking by myself and tried starting a conversation with me. I told you I was in the middle of another conversation. So you left me to try and talk to him.

You even said, "It's been awhile since we've talked." AND YOU WERE RIGHT!!

I should've stayed back and talked to you.

I wish I did.

I still care about you. So much so that I'm willing to leave you if it'll make you happy. I'm sorry.

How much I remember makes me cry because I will never be able to take back everything I did wrong. And now it's too late.

When I asked you if you thought we'd still be friends after high school, you said you didn't know.

And I believed you. But I still hold out the smallest bit of hope. Everyday, that you'll tell me it's gonna be okay, and that our friendship didn't just...

Pass by...

That I was somebody to you.

On your birthday, at the stroke of midnight, I texted you saying happy birthday the same way I did the year before. And you just said, "Thank you".

So I guess...

Thank you for being there. Thank you for existing. Thank you for being my friend. And if, in the future, I do make things right and we become close again, than maybe I can drop this guilt and shame for what I did.

Because I need too know...

If I'm worth your friendship all over again.

I'm sorry I ******* up. And if I could do it all over again, I would. And I would make all the right choices, making our lives better.

And if this really is the end. I just hope that you listen to my songs once in a while and remember me as someone who wrote a couple good songs for you.

Because "Rush" is still my best piece of work. And it's yours.

That is as honest as it gets.

And I'm not talking about all the political BS and how the world becomes more and more broken each day.

I've already put that in a spot in my mind where I don't venture often.

I try not to venture at all really.

Most days, I am awake but not conscious.

I am eating and not filling.

I am composing and not thinking.

Very much has changed about my life and I do know that most of it was my own **** fault. I have been there.

I have one person I wish I could talk to always.
She is close to me and not close in range.

I am sometimes the embodiment of a donut.
Sweet on the outside with no center.
No soul.
Nothing there deep down.

I am sometimes a corpse who hasn't yet realized its full potential.

A bed is no resting place for a lazy student turned zombie.

I know these things.

So why did 2017 make me this way?

Well... it didn't.

A year by itself cannot make you do anything, it only marks the time that I marked day by day in hopes that the next day would be harder to hate the last.

It is a constant reminder that time is the only thing you know when you don't know God.

It is an epitaph to your future saying "I'm sorry I knew the way out and just didn't take it".

It is to shove in your face that sometimes no resolution is the only kind of resolution you really like to hold.

If only for 365 or 366 days you didn't hate yourself for it.

That you are not only lazy, but self loathing and lazy.

I didn't come home from a war or natural disaster, but I came back a changed person.

And as the clock proceeded to march forward to midnight.

I felt nothing.

This was the second year in a row where my family didn't celebrate with another to bring in the new year. No, they went to bed.

Or at least, most of them did.

2017 was 2 parts trauma, and 1 part self concocted pathological fear of everything.

Eleven... out of twelve months... were disastrous.

And I did not even try to make it better.

Lying is not my strong suit.

So I will once again pass with the resolutions nobody tries to keep.

Somethings are supposed to get better.

This may be the first year when my birthday is once again a forgotten 24 hours nobody knew was important until I said so.

So yeah, 2017 was the worst year of my life.

I just hope it wasn't the worst year of my life so far.

She was there.

7:25pm

I'm out with some friends., we find a spot on a hill, I know some of the people, I don't know some of the people.

I'm there having a good time. Trying to make conversation, not seeming like a complete loner loser.

I make due with what social skills I have left.

10:45pm

The fireworks have started, sparks of colour fill the sky and loud exploding noises fill my ears.

It's so dark out.
I watched the sunset not too long ago...

The sounds, the exploding bursts of shimmer and shine.

The fireworks are so vibrant, so alive...
I don't feel scared to die right now...

Maybe I should, but I don't.

11:30pm

I found my car and the parking lot is filled with people trying to get out. I grab a map and sit on the trunk of my car as I wait for an opening.

The night is calm if you don't pay mind to the drivers.
And I don't, I just stare at the map, searching for a way home.

12:30am

I made it home about 10 minutes ago and I'm not tired yet.
I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and sit at my computer watching episodes of an old sitcom from a time I didn't live in.

2:00am

I'm here.
Lying in my bed, next to nothing and no one.
It was only hours ago that I didn't feel so scared.
And now I'm here.

She wasn't there was she?
She couldn't have been...
If she was, I couldn't possibly have...

She was there.*

She was.

Our paths just missed each other.
Never crossing.

Just hours ago, I was watching fireworks.

And now I'm here.

Watching the darkness.

There has always been my family...

And My Family.

Day 1

I was born.
This girl was born to her parents not knowing anything. Living her life through school and music with her sisters and little brother, this is her life.
This is her family.
This is my family.

9th Grade

I meet a girl, and she is the definition of deafening headphone music and larger than life punk rock music. These types of instantaneous connections are too strong to ignore.
I knew right away, we would be friends.
She introduces me to her friends and I find myself in a group hug of my new friends, people who decided to accept me.
This is her family.
This is my family.

10th Grade

The same girl is my closest friend. But I am not her closest friend. I feel her pull away to be somebody else, and that is okay. I will often run to her crying and sad and she will do her best to pick me up. And she does.
The friend group we have is more like home than the house I sleep in. I forget about my parents and find comfort in the arms of my friends.
I feel conflicted about which family means more to me.
I tell her, "I know blood is thicker than water."
She tells me, "The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb."

...I have never heard that before.

Is this her way of saying that we are more family than anything?
Maybe we are.
Or maybe we were.

We walk together knowing that we are never giving up on each other.
This is her family.
This is my family.

11th Grade

I meet another girl. A friend of a friend. Jealousy builds. Attention is a fight nobody wants to lose, I have become the 3rd party nobody asked for.
Families are supposed to fight. But now my family is not one that will fight for our happiness back.

But I want to.

I always have.

But I cannot fix this because I am not the only person involved.
Why are we fighting?!

Day X

I wish I could take back my mistakes.
One friend describes her life connected to 4 people... one of which is no longer talking to her.

And that one friend is also part of my family. And if losing 1 of 4 people you love is a tragedy, than for me...

It is losing 1 out of the 2 people I have left.
The two people I care for most will not talk to each other. And I am the biggest mediator the world never needed. But I cannot let go of either of the two people I love and care about.

I initiated the disaster. I started the dominoes. And I will pay for it.

I have to.

Nobody expected this catastrophe to affect me, or her, or the boyfriend, or the girlfriend, or the best friend, or the lost friend...

The victim
The aggressor
The manipulator
The cryer
The coward

Me

I cannot fix this with my own two hands.

I look at the two people I care for most.
They will not talk to each other.
And to a point, it is my fault.

I look at them.
We all had to suffer and bleed for this covenant of friendship and family.

This is their family.
This is my family.

This was my family.

There's a guy I know who once used an entire 2nd period class to draw out his entire family line on the white board.

He explains in great detail the divorces, the half siblings, the brothers he truly cares for. And you forget that somewhere in this family tree, he exists.

And he talks....and talks....

It gets to a point where you forget he's monologing.

He stops talking about and slowly begins talking about his view on love and relationships. I forget that he comes from a somewhat messed up family.

I mean, I'm still optimistic about love. So much so that I forget that people don't see the world the way I do.

And he is... not as optimistic about love.

Or rather, he just doesn't see love as an opportunity worth chasing. He explains it as, "I can develop feelings for someone, but I don't act on them because I don't see the point."

Or something like that...

And well, I can't think like that.

So I'll leave this mindset here. I guess it's something worth talking about. I guess...

I used to walk down the block to the bus stop everyday.
Whether it was a bright sunny day, or a dark icy winter before the sun woke up, I was there...

Walking.

Backpack slung over my shoulder, alto saxophone in its case in my right hand. Leaning to the left to balance out the weight so I didn't fall over walking over the uneven rectangles of grey rock.

Artificial building blocks that make the world flat.

When I was little, I rode my bike to a nearby school park. They had a water park right by the school and surrounding the drain was a wide circle of bricks set in the ground.

But they had to take some of the bricks out of the ground, I don't know why. But they filled the gap with cement...

And lucky for me, I had gotten to that water park just before the liquid rock turned to solid ground. I pressed my right foot into that patch of grey. Just barely leaving the treads of my shoe in the cement.

I sometimes stop by to visit that old water park. Some 10 years later and that mark in the cement is still there. And no one will know it was me who left a temporary mark on that patch of grey all those years ago.

My footsteps are bigger now. I can run faster now.

Or maybe I can just walk.

I am older now. I don't take the bus much anymore. I drive my car to get where I'm going. I run everywhere, I don't take the time to walk through my life. I live too fast.

I've made mistakes.
I have regrets.

And even if I don't want to...

I have to walk with them.

I have to accept my actions and live with the consequences. I must walk slowly with my choices. My rights and wrongs... my own self inflicted pain.

I step in rhythm with the music playing through my headphones. I don't step on the lines that divide the building blocks of my pathway. I follow the grey brick road, not traveling with anyone this time.

So now I am leaving.
I will take everything.

My guilt.
My shame.
My regret.
My heart.
My mind.

I will go...

Song lyrics slung across my backbone...
Guitar in my right hand.
Ipod in my left hand.

I look ahead at the sidewalk before me.
I feel the sun on my skin, and the wind in my hair.
I breathe...

And I walk.

I woke up sick.
And I feel awful.

But not for the reason you think.

I can assure you that I am fine, I just need some time to lucid dream and wish my worries away. But that might never happen. And honestly, that's okay with me.

I'm wearing the same infected clothes, and wrapping up in the same infected blanket hoping to get better.

I've gotten the rest of my family sick, so good for me.
Because my family is made up of some of the strongest people I know. We never get sick.

And yet, here we are. Bound to our beds and eating soup like it's the elixir of life.

But we will get better. Physically...

As for everything else... we can leave that until tomorrow.

But I'm still in these infected, sick clothes. But I'm too tired to do anything about it. So I'll sleep.

It's the best thing I can do right now.

Don't you think?

I'm still in my car after the school day ends and I cry again.

It's non stop.

And I have to wait, for my brother to show up and then I can drive him home.

And not long after I start crying, he shows up.

He gets in the car and sees me in my guilt ridden, sad, apologetic state. All wrapped up in my pain.

And he tells me, "You should know that I love you."

Time stops.

My introverted brother, who rarely shows any affection towards any of our family, reached out to me in my time of need.

And God couldn't have given me a better little brother.

Despite all I've done and all the pain I've caused...

He could still say that.

And I drive us both home. Still crying, but definitely feeling a sense of hope again.

I still act as his role model most of the time.
And he listens to me.
And for a guy who doesn't talk much...
Listening is the thing he does best.

I have never felt stronger than when I allow myself to make choices that nobody else would dare make for me. Because I am the divide between the words “yes” and “no”, I am a choice.

This choice comes to us in many forms but for those of us who wonder about how many choices we have left, we ask ourselves, “Where can we go from here?”

I have never attempted suicide, but I have thought about it many times. I have seen death in many forms. Usually, they come in the most harmless appearances.
I too, have held pills in my hand and felt the weight of death. And it didn’t weigh anything.

Death is a lightweight… and a heavy subject.

I rely on my faith to pull me together but if you turn things the opposite way they can become something terrible. My faith’s cross turned upside down is a representation of the devil and a simple necktie turned upside down is just a fancy way of hanging yourself.

Simple things can become deadly if you let them. The window you used to gaze out of, marveling the world, is now a doorway spiraling downward and few people stand up when they get to the bottom, but everyone stood tall at the top.

A plastic bag can hold your food, a necessary thing for you to live, but plastic can take you oxygen away, another thing you need to live. You need water to live, but you also need water to drown, at least in most cases.

There is a red rope hanging on a hook on my bedroom ceiling, representing a story from the bible, a woman wanted to be saved because she knew that her city was going to crumble into pieces. So she hung a red rope from her window for God’s people to find her and take her away from death.

But the red rope seems to close to a noose now…

So why couldn’t I do it? Why couldn’t I even try to attempt a choice only I have the ability to make, why can’t I do this to myself?!

I know there are people who will actually consider a choice, and go through with it, or they will fail and suffer afterwards. But for me… I have wondered who will miss me when I go. Who will be the first to know, the first to cry, the first one to consider the same choice I made after I made that choice, this choice… Is mine to make…

But I decided to stop. This is not a choice I make for me, it is a reminder that I still have another day, that I have another chance. I am the divide between “yes” and “no”. So for the people who still care about me, I looked death in its eyes… and I said “no”.

Usually, I'm pretty impatient about well... anything. Like this trip for example. I kind of wish we were already there. But at the same time, I'm not too eager to rush through today. Making this experience last as long as possible.

Getting as much out of it as I can. Living like to the fullest sort of thing. And yet, this plane ride is becoming sort of draining. But plane rides are usually like that. Not much to be done about that.

So for right now, I'll enjoy some time to lat back and try to relax. More air time above the ocean.

There's really nothing more to be done about the time left on this flight. And writing seem like the best time killer I've got. But it's not that I'm bored of writing. It's just that I'd rather be singing or playing my uke.

I could still be writing... But I'd be creating a song or poem or something new.

Something good. (So like I don't know, the bachelor?)

Something... (Yep. Definitely the bachelor.)

But I have to continue to wait out the flight. But again, I'm not really complaining.

I have the whole trip ahead of me.

When walking through a gravesite, you forget that several feet under lies the body of a person you may or may not know.

I have a surname and plot number...

This could have been my family.

Maybe it is.
Maybe it was.

I don't feel worthy enough to sit in the grass before the tombstones.

To place my hands on the stones... they're so cold.

I've read the inscriptions.

Never forgotten by wife and son.
Faithful unto death, may he rest in peace.
A soldier of the great war.
Known unto God

Known unto God

Known unto God.

I have a surname and a plot number written in roman numerals, somebody tell me where I can find the plot under the number 30.

I ran through the gravesite only to find 29.

And I ran out of time.

So tell me where I can find him.

After all... an unknown family wrapped in a common surname is all I really know.

Look, I never said I was that smart.
I say stupid stuff all the time.
It's not like I'm always awake.

I'm rewriting my life story.
Impossible?
Maybe.
But we all wish some parts of our lives were different.

I'm rewriting my DNA make my skin less red, my spine less curved, my mind less distracted, to make my body hurt less.

I'm rewriting my backstory, one where I didn't worry about much other than my life at home. I never told anybody how dangerous my life used to be...

From "Unsolicited Advice To Adolescent Girls With Crooked Teeth And Pink Hair" By Jeanann Verlee*

"When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you're a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won't have anything to grab when you head-**** her...


Then, head-**** her."

Most of my life is a forgotten cliffside. There's nothing you can really do about it, it's just the consequence you pay for being alive.

I don't remember a lot of my childhood. I can remember my schools, my friends, my parents, my teachers. But I don't remember my sisters. Only my brother, the little boy carrying the family name on his shoulder blades... But he is not ready for that.

As for my sisters... I do not officially "know them" until they begin to leave. I was 11 when they started leaving my house, and 13 when they started re-entering my life.

There is no excuse for arriving late to my life crisis. But what crisis is there anyway?

I grew up alone.

Sisters too old, brother too young, parents too protective.
And me...

Too eager to run through the halls of my early life, and high school is not what I expected the years to be. But I am still here... alive.

And there will always be that to hold on to when the sky falls from the stars that pin up the rest of the universe.

Or the the clouds fall from the blue sky just before that cliffside collapses into the abyss.

This is the artistry that is my life on a power surge. Feeling the shock of the first kiss, and the break of the last word.

The many voices, and single sayings. The before and after. The push and then the fall.

The feeling of all my memories being shot.

But not killed.

This is the joy of living off of the electric tower... or the Eiffel tower.

This is life made wild, love made public, friends made family, me made whole again.

Me surviving the cliffside fall for the 378th time this week.

Safety nets were never written in the fine print of this circus act.

But this feeling can **** as much as it can save. It is, and always will be a cosmic shot across the front of my skull...

Opening my mind into eternity. Until I decide to go back to that cliffside...

Again.

I'm afraid I'll write this all too fast because of how eager and nervous I am in this moment.

Because you are a million miles away it seems, but all I have to do is say your name and suddenly you are...here.

I never knew how much I needed you until I spent months hearing from you, but never hearing you talk to me face to face.

But my dear, I long for the nights where I will receive an out-of-context text from you at 2 am only because of the timezone difference.

My hands sweating for no real reason.

I guess I really am trying to tell you I love you.

But I'm always to cutesy about it.

Always saying "love ya!" in a text, but I want to say it as though it means so much that the universe will get my words straight to you.

I've never loved anyone more than I love music or God, but I want to come close to that sometime soon.

I don't need a single day to go by without you knowing that you are so beautiful.

And people love it so much they almost hate it.

It is that genuine.

I'm sorry I can't always think of you and remember that I am also a living, breathing person.

I forget myself far too often in the presence of so many good people.

Or I guess...

People who are too good to have me in their life sometimes.

You're probably asleep right now.
Now who's up at 2am?

Ahaa....

I'll just be here.


I love you too much to wake you up.

So just sleep a while.

I'll see you soon.

Or at least I hope so.

Oh!

I almost forgot to say this...

In case you forgot.

I love you.

You said if I ever write a poem about you, that I should read it to you. Well here you go:

You should know I’m never the best at making first impressions. And although this isn’t the first time we’ve met, I still think I have something to prove. We never have as much time as we thought we did, and maybe that’s because we only have so much time to begin with.

Because you’re a story of sorts. And I’m not much of a reader anymore, but I can’t seem to get enough of how you view the world. Let me assure you, I’m listening.

I don’t really know how to say that I sometimes seem to want to know somebody even though we’ve never met. I remember handing you math notes, only to find that you’d disappear from math class like math notes disappear in school binders. How strange is it that you’d reappear from math notes to music notes?

A scripture of musical notation written on your skin and suddenly I needed to know who you were. But here I am asking about your tattoos thinking, “We’ve never met”. Only to be reminded of math notes I didn’t remember for tests I didn’t study for. So my first impression happened twice it seems.

And you seem so nice, offering your writing for mine. Offering up stories like it was over a nice dinner… or some type of wine was it? Offering up my listening ears only to find out how different we truly are. And how odd is it that we’ve met before?

Now that I’ve met you, I can’t imagine chalkboard hearts without wondering for whom the heart beats. Scrawling signatures like the chalk was meant to be permanent. I’m not much of a cursive writer, just a songwriter of sorts.

Like I said, we don’t have much time. You’ll leave soon, and I’ll wait another year to wonder if somebody else will offer up their hands as a gesture of kindness. And they will, but they won’t be your hands.

Forgive me if I ever forget your name, or the reason why I wrote this. But if we meet again and I ask about your tattoos, you can tell me all about them all over again. And between music notes and math notes, I’ll look at you and ask with the smallest bit of doubt, “Have we met?”.

And this time, I’ll let you make the first impression.

It feels like a trial.
Like everyone knows you're guilty
And yet they still want to hear you defend yourself
Because they still want to know
For whatever reason

"Do you like your pain?", They ask.

"Yeah, I guess I do."

"So all of this... is what you want. Like you don't even want to get better."

"No."

"Why do you keep feeling sorry for yourself? You know it's not getting you anywhere."

"Yeah. I do know that. But I don't know how to get out of it."

"It's so easy."

"You can't possibly know how difficult this has been for me. For 4 months --"

"Stop making excuses, whether or not you spent the last 4 months feeling like **** doesn't mean a **** thing. You did that all on your own. And yet you are refusing help."

"Because I still believe I can do this myself."

"And how well has that worked?"

"Please stop."

"Should we call a witness?"

"NO. Please no. I'm begging you."

The whole court stares at me
The witnesses are in sight, waiting to place the blame on somebody...anybody

I can hear thunder outside the courthouse.
It's about time we had a storm.

"Please don't call a witness.
I can tell you everything
And you'll know that it's true because nobody will object saying that I'm wrong. This isn't that kind of case.
But they do not need to answer for my crimes, nobody here does except for me. The person who committed those crimes. Justice... right?"

I have told this story so many times

I might as well start crying again

I feel like the witnesses won't even defend me. I don't give them a reason to
I don't even say their names
Even if I keep someone anonymous
The truth will come out
And everyone will know

But it won't solve anything
And I will continue to feel like I'll never be happy
Because this trial... has changed my life
I guess it still is
Because it doesn't feel like I've even left the stand.

So you must have something you really care about to call yourself a fighter. There is a certain amount of pride that comes along with that.

I’ll be honest with you, this world will try to bring you down, along with everything you care about. Maybe not all the time, but there will be days when it feels like the world stopped caring. But for some reason you didn’t give up… Why? I guess only you know that.

Everybody has something they’re willing to fight for, and maybe you had to fight physically or internally. But you have something you’re willing to defend. Whether it be your family or possessions, beliefs, or even yourself. And I get that, believe me I do. I may not know you, but I get wanting to stand up for something.

Because everybody’s got something worth fighting for. Why else do we decide to defend ourselves for what we’ve got? So keep fighting. In some cases, it keeps us alive. Take care of yourself. It seems like you’re doing a good job at doing that already. Thanks for finding my letter

~Letter Writer

I've always said that I wouldn't mind being in a coma.
Because the world wouldn't have to worry about me so much.

Now truthfully, most of the world has no idea who I am, so the world doesn't have much of a reason to worry, but still...

The small percentage of people who do know me, would be so worried all the time.

I would always be in one place.
The hospital.

I would always stay in the same position, and have the same reaction to everything.

Good news, bad news, no news at all.

And yet...

A coma for me is just a cover up.

I wouldn't want this to serve as an excuse for someone to visit me out of guilt.
And I would be able to respond if they told me they were sorry.

It kills me to know, that beyond being a limp body, I'm also a lost soul.

But even as I am here now, awake.

I feel closer to dead than anyone can ever know.

Only because I finally lost it.
And by "it" I only mean... me?

Like I was put on this planet just to hurt people, and I sure did...

I sure... did.

This feeling..

Of having people around, but still feeling like the most truthful thing to say is "I have no one left".

I can say it, and it still feels true.

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

So maybe people would finally feel guilty for leaving me if they just saw me close to "drifting to sleep".

Breathing harder, and feeling my T-shirt suffocating me.
And then feeling the vice grip of my sins wrap around my neck.

And I can't take it any more.

Sins...

Sounds too biblical and cliché right?

I'm tired of fighting to live well.

I'm tired.

Let me sleep.

Or induce a coma.

And put this whole thing to rest.

Welcome everybody to the most exciting event of your lives.
Welcome one and all, and thank you so much for attending my funeral!

And I know you’re probably confused as to why this is an exciting event, but believe me, this is an event you do not want to miss!!

Make sure that when attending my funeral, that you do not wear formal clothing, and do not wear black.

I want you, to wear the most colorful thing you can find in your closets. I want my funeral to have so much colour!

There will be so much rainbow, that my funeral could be the set for a Skittles commercial!

Die with the rainbow, Taste the rainbow!

I, of course will not be dressed formal.

I’ll be working a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, an open jacket and a snapback turned at 180 degrees, because IT LOOKS AWESOME!

You all should also look as amazing as I do. But do not, under any circumstances look better than I do.

Remember, this is still MY day, I am the most important thing in this room, Why?!!??

Because I’m super dead!

Side note: I’m afraid of dying…

But it’s not like that matters anymore, because I’M DEAD. Literally living my eternal fear. (Or dying in my eternal fear.)

Anyway!! Another rule! Do not… get drunk on my funeral day. You MUST be sober, in order to fully experience this event for what it is. And what is it?? A celebration!!!

Why would anybody celebrate MY death, you ask?

This question has a simple answer: I don’t want you to cry at my funeral…

I want you to laugh, I want you to laugh so much, that you end up crying anyway. Laugh because even though a journey has ended, it ended on a good note.

I want you to party! Dance until your tire of moving! And when you dance.

Tell yourself that you feel good.

Because even though I’m dead, I’m thankful that you came to my funeral.

Enjoy the celebration.

And if, you write my eulogy, write about the times I made you laugh, or the times I won medals, or hugged you so tight because I really didn’t want to let go until I had to.

Don’t write that you’re sorry, or that I deserved more time, or that I’m in a better place now.

Thank you, for everything. And my last gift to you is giving you a reason to be happy in a time of sorrow.

Be happy knowing that you got to be a part of my life. Because I’m happy knowing that I was part of yours.

Definition of Selfless:* Putting others before yourself to the point where "you" don't matter anymore.

Definition of Pain: One of the two things that I believe all people have in common. The other thing? Love.

Definition of Love:  --ERROR-- Lost in translation.

Definition of Nothing: Nothing...

Definition of Feeling You've got tons of it don't you?

...

Don't you?

Definition of Me: A personal title I call myself. Also known as *"you" in a sense.

High and mighty and greater than "you".

Because "me", a self proclaimed name that doesn't deserve its definition. Because "I" am hurt, and in "pain", and out of "love", and too "selfless" to take care of "me". So that makes "me"...

*"Nothing."