I kept all the photographs
We were beautiful and bored and weird, but we were comfortable
Trying to light cigarettes with a lighter that was out of fluid
Doing some drugs to make the world pretty again
Getting lost in our thoughts and getting lost in each other
Gazing at the world through the rearview mirror of his car
We had no idea

All we had, we lost
We were never meant to be part of the future
I looked at him and thought about the intensity with which I loved him
And yet, all I could hear myself say was, "We're not gonna make it"
Then he said it out loud
So I repeated it back
And we were so happy, so careless
We knew we wouldn't last so we laughed and laughed and carried on and kissed until our mouths were too dry and the day still wanted to last

We were beautiful and bored and weird
But we were never gonna make it
We never did make it

your sadness is not
beautiful, but your
scars are gorgeous

they are epics across
your skin that tell the
story of how you, just like
all great heroes,
survived

there's always something
at least one thing
that i do, or say, or think
that someone else finds
morbid, or off-beat or odd
why does it matter to them?
why must you announce it to the world
like you have the authority to do so?
because let me tell you,
you don't
but you still have the raging audacity to do it

so what if i like staring at the moon
and telling it
my life goals and dreams

          no one else cares enough to hear it. i can't just let it sit there and not be known. someone has to hear me out. so He mind as well.

so what if i happen to bite my lip so hard
that it bleeds a little and i always fidget with my necklace and ring.

          i'm nervous. i'm anxious. i have anxiety! i can't help it, and i don't even notice when i do it.

so what if i stick to myself a lot. and i'm often quiet and dress comfortable and "bummy" sometimes.

          i come here because i have to and for myself. not for you to ridicule me because what i'm wearing this certain day. because news flash, i honestly do not even remember you guys have a class with me until i see you again. i honestly don't care and i'm not trying to attract you, trust me.

and so what if i tend to cover my arms a lot! and always wear jackets and sweaters and such.

          why does it even MATTER to you?! it shouldn't. i have a skin condition and sometimes i don't feel comfortable. you don't even stop to think about that, but it's okay. i don't even want you to consider it.

my words should not concern you
unless my lips speak of your name
or if something about you happens to
tumble out of my mouth

my actions should not concern you
unless i am physically or mentally
hurting you
or another being

and my thoughts definitely should NOT concern you
because i definitely do not really think about you
when i leave

Church.
State.
Body.
Mind.
"Nobody gets left behind."
Toxic youth brain-washed by games
Adults around them carelessly play.
Success bartered for our souls
Briefcase in hand, your flesh still cold.
Air-brushed, white-teethed
In the mirror we hope to see.
The pressure builds, we're prescribed,
Church.
State.
Body.
Mind.
"Nobody gets left behind."

Hey you,
I've been thinking a lot recently
Wondering how this could have happened.
Five months and I'm still not over it.
But at least now I'm somewhat functional.

Did you know I used to feel the same way you did?
Wanting to end my life
By some self-inflicted act
The rush of a knife,
The avalanche of pills
Anything to make me feel okay
To run away.

Can I tell you the truth?
Sometimes I still do.
But I owe it to you
To get better.
And I know you would say
I owe it to myself as well.

So yes, I've written about you before.
About the sacredness of your memories
About how it breaks my heart to miss you.
But today, I just wanted to say thank you.
You've had a weighted hand in
Saving my life.
And you probably don't even know it.

So, in conclusion, sincerely and, as always, love
Me.

there are certain feelings that have no parallel
moments that can't be replicated
like the last class of the day on a friday
it's chemistry class, and your teacher is speaking in his thick raspy voice and the words flow through you
you recognize that he is talking but you don't take in the meaning
your eyes and mind are focused on the clock
forty minutes forty minutes forty minutes
and the promise of the weekend fills your body to the brim with a hope that cannot be matched

you are sent to the back of the room to do a lab
and your partner is the same scrawny boy with the chestnut eyes and the softest blond hair that you have ever felt
he's lighting the bunsen burner while you fiddle with the fraying elastic on your decade old goggles
he turns to face you and smiles and you note that his smile encompasses his whole face, his brown eyes beaming at you behind the yellow tint of his safety glasses
you smile back at him and the idea of who this boy is begins to sink into your thoughts
this boy is neither friend nor foe
he is potential
he is a boy you never speak to except to copy notes and you realize that depending on a series of choices this boy could be either everything or nothing to you
the thought is overwhelming so you shove it away
right now, you are lab partners
and the simplicity of that makes you grin

there is sunlight pouring into the chemistry room on the west side of the third floor and it dances across the black lab table where you and the boy are fiddling with a test tube of copper sulfate
you do not speak, just work
hands in perfect synchronicity as you adjust the utility clamps and let the burner ignite
it is almost like a dance, a ballet of hands as your fingertips do pirouettes around each other, recording and observing and adjusting and other science class endeavors
there is a certain intimacy that goes with looking into someone's eyes through the glowing orange of fire coming from a secondhand bunsen burner
both of you are buzzing with the energy of friday but neither of you rushes, wanting to gather each detail, to memorize each beat

it goes fast anyways, and soon you are scrubbing a still warm test tube in the sink next to a girl with hair the color of the night sky
you let out a gust of air to dry the glass and the girl's onyx locks flutter in reaction to the newfound breeze
with one more glance at her, you turn and take your seat, tapping your foot to the rhythm of  the clock, and sitting silently next to your lab partner
you watch as his wide eyes dart back and forth across a page of a book as though he is a cat trying to catch a mouse
chasing the poetry and attempting to trap each word in his mouth, exploring the letters with his tongue

he smiles when he sees you watching and you smile back
then lean into your desk, close your eyes, and capture the moment