Its five am with so many thoughts through my head that my tongue cannot articulate and my only hope is my fingers on a keyboard.

I'm yawning and I'm tearing up but not from pain oh not this time, just from sleep deprivation caused by my love and affection and affliction against slumber.

Not far from now I'll likely nap on the couch, sincerely because I have nothing better to do, but for now I will write deliriously in hopes to make sense out of my late night or early morning musings, whatever you prefer to call this time of day.

My hair is soft and my eyes are heavy, heavy with the weight of the world and myself and all the madness surrounding me.

Why do I wake so early, why do I let things get this far?

Because I'm crazy. I could always go back to sleep, but I'm crazy. Maybe not exactly a bad crazy but the type of crazy that keeps you on the end of your seat and keeps butterflies in your stomach and keeps air in your lungs. I'm the living, breathing crazy, the fun crazy, the crazy he loves, and I don't understand it but I accept it.

That's the crazy thing so far about this year, I've been kicking the bucket when it comes to overcoming the crazy. I just seem to accept it more. So many things have happened outside of my control, and it stirs up the crazy, but there's nothing I can do. I just have to breathe that in and out until I am filled with it. Sometimes there is simply nothing I can do. And that's ok.

The trees are dark outside and I'm tired and alone and my eyes need resting and I'm still crazy.

But all of that is acceptable, as long as I manage to rest my weary heart and, just for a little while, sleep at 5:30.

Everything in my body is weary, my bones don't feel like mine anymore, or real anymore, just simple slugs in my limbs begging me to move slowly and slime upon everything.

I'd rather hide in my sweater than face the world today, and I daren't try to hide my yawns and my sullen, sunken face, bare to the world that I am broken and sad today.

I want to be asleep, where I have a chance of waking up and this being gone. But I cannot do that, not yet, I must fight and live to die another day. How somber.

My hair is a frizzy mess and my makeup must be a disaster, I am sure. The lights dance just out of reach, out of touch, out of my way as i wander along the lonely dark path today has for me.

Tomorrow. I want tomorrow, where I can sleep and dream and beg for a life more than my own, to beg for some magic that will magic away these feelings of sorrow and unworthiness. I just want to be better.

At least my sweater keeps my cold heart warm.

I've found it hard in my life to feel like I belong somewhere. Sometimes its just a person that makes you feel safe and comfortable, sometimes its the place. But eventually you find that one place with those people with the right environment that is just it.

Its home.

I found home in his deep brown eyes when he just looks at me and stares and it irritates me so much but I could never want anything else.

I found home in the snowy forest, where I can barely breathe I'm so cold, but my music is blaring and my cheeks are rosy and all I want to do is dance.

I found home in a phone call that matters so much, just because she's thinking of me, and its more than I could ever dream for.

I found home with new friends who smile and laugh and call me their favorite and a world destroyer, depending on the day.

I found home in the day at one place, and home at night at another, and some may find that hectic, but I find it perfect.

I found home away from the home I thought would always be home, and that astounds me more than anything else.

I found home in the company of writers and environmentalists, all dreaming big and wishing hard, all just like me.

I found home.

So you're asleep.

I hope its a beautiful sleep, with all you could ever dream of, for because of you and my endless stubbornness I have exactly that. I have you, I have my friends, I'm doing what I want, and I have happiness.

Sometimes I truly wonder if I'll wake up and all this wonder will have just been a dream. The best dream I've ever had, a dream which I don't want to end, a dream I'd cherish, but a dream nonetheless. Could you be real? Am I really holding your hand close to my heart or is it just air I hold as I slumber, only to wake from this magnificent dream I am learning to love.

I love my life.

That is something I rarely have been able to boast in past years. Between diagnoses and ruined relationships and crashing and burning and all of it, its been hard to love the hand I've been given. But with time I am learning to love life, love me, something I never thought would occur.

I hope you sleep well, and my typing does not bother you. I hate to bother, even though I know little I do truly bothers you. You take my bad and my ugly and care for it and I've rarely had someone do that.

I miss my dormouse and my white rabbit, but you, the one I never expected, are making sure the hole in my heart does not consume me.

I'm going to sleep soon, hopefully to wake by your side again and feel cared for and wanted. You're all I've ever wanted, even though I never knew what I wanted, and  I cannot fathom the person I am right now without you.

Sleep and dream, and I hope no matter how wonderful the dream is, you'll still want to come back to me.

Goodnight, for now, without fear, I sleep.

You deserve
So much
Better
Than
Me

A lot has happened since I last looked at the girl in the reflection, and I mean really look. Look into her blue green movie screen eyes and scorn that sarcastic smirk and wonder why she lies so much.

Strangely enough, on some days I am beautifully broken glass, and I am able to accept that. But some days I am still fifteen, and I still wish more than anything I never have to feel that way again.

Yet, those days that I'm fifteen sometimes mean so much more than the days I'm average, the days I'm nobody special. The days I am broken lead to make the days I am elated to be even brighter, like sunlight. They make my cheerful days ones of pure sunshine.

I have finally solidified friends who accept the darkness and the light, and love me regardless. They have been welcomed into Wonderland and to not turn nor run. But Wonderland is another place in another time that should not be spoken of here.

So I digress.

Her story is still the most foreign yet familiar ting to me, for I still pretend it didn't happen yet know so fully that it is my life. New people have joined the ranks of those fallen from me, and many have also joined themselves to my sides. Some days are perfect, some days are hell, but i would have it no other way.

I am beautifully broken glass and the stars in my life, those I show affection for and who return that love, accept and possibly even love me for it.

And that's all I could ever wish for.

This was written three years ago for a school project*

In the glass lies a familiar stranger. I can see in her eyes I understand her, but on the outside she is someone I barely recognize. I’m not sure if I like her, with all her sharp angles and endless shades of color refracted. We stare at each other, she smirks at me, and I scowl at her, uncertain how to continue, afraid of what to do. We are strangers strung together by a common understanding, one we cannot ignore. Yet we don’t know how to approach one another. Polite courtesy, companionship, hatred? I don’t know with her. Within the reflection, I see every side of her, every flawed, shattered inch, the past that she pretends doesn’t exist, everything she's desperate to hide. Her reflected figure shows her as an invincible diamond, but inside she's just breakable glass.  

In a moment, the lights shift, the glass changing to force me to remember her. Her past unfolds before my eyes, and I am transfixed in memoriam.

She is only four years old, bright eyed, heartbroken, and forever changed, having to grow up too fast and having to pretend too often that she was ok. On her face lingers an angelic, adorable smile, yet my heart knows its not real. It doesn’t take long for a broken child to realize if she smiled it made everyone else feel better. Her arms cling to a velvet, violet teddy bear, thin from being hugged too tight, a photograph in her hand, crumpled from being hidden all too often. the image of a boy lies in it, only an infant, an image innocent but yet so obviously not. His lips are stained with red, his skin stained with white, and her cheeks stained with tears. The pain wells within my own heart, feeling her pain as she giggles, red-eyed, becoming joy epitomized to make her family smile again. She got so good at playing pretend.

Then the image changes, and she is now seven, hair cropped in a humiliating bowl shape, ready to go to school, ready to be someone, ready to live by that smile. Her feet turn in and the butterfly pins in her hair are happily quirky, distraction from what lies within her eyes; within my heart. A pile of photos reside in her pocket, only peeking out slightly to show the truth. The young boy, an elderly man, a sickly woman, the faces peer up at her, refusing to let her forget. And the bags under her eyes tell a tale all their own. With all the pain came the long nights, nights of nightmares that scared her awake, crying. No one seems to notice that though; the hall surrounding her is covered in photos of a young, chubby cheeked boy, so little and so young. In every shot they idolized him,  treated him like a miracle. I may know the difference between favoritism and the zealous gush over a baby, yet she doesn’t. She’s only a girl. At seven, the pain and nightmares weren’t what she minded most, what left a downcurve on the side of her grin. That came from wanting to be a miracle too.

Time seems to race by in seconds, and that tiny little girl is now ten. So much has changed. Her hair has grown and so has her smile; yet distinguishing its validity is impossible. Her legs are crossed, calmly,  contrast to her storming eyes. Around her are students, staring at a teacher as she reads a student’s fantastic work. The girl beams, but refuses to look down at her own rejected paper in her hands. An A+ is marked on the top. Yet everyone is transfixed as the other student’s writing is written aload. There are calluses covering her fingers and pencil marks staining the long, left sleeve of her shirt. I see inside this kills her. Every so often she gives an encouraging smile to the jovial girl next to her, with no paper in her hand.My eyes widen. This friend of hers is the one whose story is being read aloud. Her taller friend is better, and it kills her inside, being close yet still not being good enough.

The picture doesn’t stay, it soon shifts. A lot changed once she is thirteen. The familial grin covers her face, yet she doesn’t seem to be smiling at herself, merely at the other person in the glass. A blonde girl is next to her, her arm around her, the two speaking without words. Yet both girls are looking at each other, and not at themselves, as if ashamed. Not long after the other girl waves goodbye and the young girl is left all alone. For once her smile truly falters, staring at what’s left; her. An insecure hand crosses over her chubby stomach, acknowledging her shapeless sides. Her arms cross self-consciously over her and she shakes her head, as if to tell herself to stop all the hate. Eyes closed, she’s smiling again, but by now I know she’s lying. I almost want to clutch her close, to hold her tight, to tell her that she’s going to be ok. That she’s not disgusting as she thinks her reflection shows. Yet, stuck outside the glass, I can do nothing. That poor young girl, she only knows how to feel pretty when she can’t see her own face in the mirror.

Darkness hits as the glass reveals the girl at fifteen. She is sitting on the floor, skinnier than before, prettier than before, but with tears falling down her face. No smile hides the pain inside. She is alone, surrounded by bleak darkness and subtle cracks throughout. The only thing alive in this godforsaken reflection is her. The photos once more are peeking out of her pocket, the past ones still there while new ones have joined their ranks; the kind face of a diminutive woman, an elderly woman paired with the previous man, a young girl with strawberry blonde hair, and the insecure girl once holding the girl up with a friendly smile. The picture is torn clean in half, with rage and anger burned into its colors. She looks at it often, sobbing more with each guilty glance. My eyes scan her, terrified and pain stricken. Eyesight, fickle and slow, finally homes in on the crook of her right elbow, with small, almost invisible cuts covering it, cuts almost hidden by her sweatshirt. My head hurts, my hands begin to bang on the glass. She hold her hands to her head, rocking ever so slightly back and forth, as if a monster is consuming her mind. I pound harder, desperate to try to help her, she’s so lost. She feels guilty, so guilty. For nothing, everything, its all her fault. Why is she such poison? No one stays. Her eyes fall on her photos and her eyes grow dark. No, no one ever stays. In the end she is always alone. The tears fall faster as her knuckles grow white, trying to use force to drive the poison out. She poisons everyone who cares; she murders them. Shadows move around her in a taunting dance. In her eyes insanity screams. the shadows dance faster and faster, spinning out of control. She's not poison, she's not a monster, she's just a girl. but like this, she can’t hear me. she never will. Now, she feels utterly hopeless, helpless, alone. I fall to my knees, tears pouring from my eyes and anger seeping from my pores. Exasperated and in more pain than bearable, the girl rips the photos out of her pocket and scatters them through the blackness, screaming for it to go away, all of it, but it helps nothing. Why does she destroy everything? She collapses into incohesive tears, curled up on the floor, taunted by her shadows, maddeningly alone.

Finally the picture fades into the image it began as, the girl giving the sarcastic smirk that I was scowling at. I still know not what to say. She may be utterly flawed, but those flaws were what made her. Every smile, every nightmare, every second of envy, every bitter heartbreak, every semblence of insanity, those terrors created her. They are her past, her future, her present. Some days she’s four, some days she’s ten, some days she’s fifteen again even though I know she’d never admit it. In that smirk I watch her pride and strength rise above her vulnerability. That smirk, that perceived confidence, shows everyone the oddly shaped diamond. Yet it's those eyes of hers, blue-green movie screens, that flicker how stupidly human she really is. In her messy hair lies a pencil, in her hand a notebook. If concentrating hard, I could see on its inside cover all the thrown photos glued haphazardly to it. They were painful to remember, but even more painful to forget. She has grown so much, through each pivotal moment, and my contradicting feelings of annoyance and admiration don’t know how to compromise. This familiar stranger could be less hyperactive, less obnoxious, less secretive sometimes. Yet as my fingers splay across the glass, I don’t know what she would be without her bravery, her pain, her beautiful imagination. her fingers twitch with the murmurs of insanity, but I know she’s handled worse. This is just another challenge to overcome. Our eyes meet defiantly and we both laugh in synchronization. She will always be challenging me in the glass, reminding me of who she is so I never am able to forget it. I glance down and my spare hand runs across my notebook, and with each painful photograph I smile. They are her world; my world. Without them, without this pain, we’d be nothing. My fingers freeze on a final photo; the cracked, crushed picture of fifteen year old me. Giving her one last, thoughtful glance, I turn from the mirror and move on with our life, reminding myself to wonder what she would do, how I would react, and make sure to live every day remembering who we are; we are beautifully broken glass.

I feel it in my bones, the oncoming storm and the incoming pain and the onslaught that will be had.

Why do I do this? Why do I lwt this happen?

I'm trying so hard to be better, to be happy, but my stumbling feet can never run from the beast lodged in my heart.

Only a few things keep me sane anymore, only those I love keep me afloat. Otherwise I would have lost it years ago. I hate admitting that. I hate admitting how breakable I am. I want to be strong, but I was born with weak genetics.

I'm broken.

Fragile goods, an imperfect present in pretty wrapping, attracting people into the mess that is me. Why do I keep on tricking people? Why do I do this?

Why am I even sad? i don't know why The tears are falling doen my face but they are.

I compared myself to broken glass a long time ago, and I feel so much like it right now. Stabbing those I care about who get too close and making thrm bleed, but they tolerate it, maybe even enjoy it in the end. Why do they do that? I'm not worth that pain. No kne is worth that pain.

I want to be better but I simply hate myself more if I crash when I want so desperately to be someone else. Should I just accept this pain, accept this madness?

I don't know anymore.

I might never know.

I used to be a little weaker.

You used to tell me all the little things you told no one else.

I used to need you more than anyone.

You used to, you still, tell most people to go to hell.

I used to snort with laughter only when I was around you.

You always snorted forever, but they were their realest around me, for it was one of the few times you let your guard down, and oh how I let you down, but it had to go down, and as captain I did not forsake my ship.

I always ruined everything, and I still believed that when I ruined you, well maybe not persay ruined, but carved a deep enough hole in both of us so that we'd never forget.

You always used to say I was special, and sweetheart and a saint for being your friend, but I caused those cuts and those tears, and you almost tricked my life to its end. Maybe the blame is more on ourselves. And not on each other, but the comradery that once saved us now led more to destruction.

I always thought we were forever, opposites and buddies til the end, but we both changed so drastically and grew in such a way that there was no way to go but to an end.

You will never be forgotten, and I will always care, but the daggers in my heart burn each time I cannot beware.

I never will know if we could have fixed it, if we had just started it openly, spoken the words we feared to say and changed as a pairing. We loved as if in love, a fact I'll never let go, but with time I'll stop missing you and the pain you made me grow.

You will never be my friend again, and maybe that's ok, as long as our teenage dreams die together, and their hearts never sway.

Before you, no one I had fallen for had ever really seen me naked.

No, not the literal way with the clothes off and the skin bare and the turn ons. More people than I'd like have seen me that way.

With you its like you see me, see deeper than my soft skin and deeper than my bones, you see right through me and break down the walls I've been carrying up for so long.

You've managed to see that I'm tied together with a smile, but with you I come undone. You see me, no guts, not glory, just plain, broken, unattractive me and somehow you find it beautiful. I know you do, but the fact that you do still astounds me.

After waking up so many mornings next to you, sometimes i wish it was the only way I could wake up anymore. Sometimes nights haunt me, and they torment me and torture me with the memories of my past and the shadows of my own darkness, but in the morning, its just you and me and I'm happy. I love how purely happy I am to glance over to your sleeping face and realize that maybe for once I did something right, maybe I chose right.

I'm falling in love with you, I hope you know. Each second the feeling compounds until sooner or later I won't be able to stop myself from saying I am in love. But for now, I'm content with falling. Most times it terrified me, it broke me down to tears, because I was fully aware the person I was falling for would not be there to catch me.

But with you? Oh you, I know you. You'd do anything to be at the bottom of that cliff, right where you belong, ready to catch me when I'm done.

You, the one who I never expected. You see me better than most people have in years. You are strong even when you don't fully believe it, and remain confident even when you feel insecure.

There is one promise I must make to you, unexpected one, and its this; I may falter and I may break down every once in a while, and you may feel like you always have to be strong for me, but I will always be there for you. I will always try to smile for you. I will do anything to make sure you stay the strong, confident person you are because I know that's who you want to be. I will try to keep you strong even when you feel at a loss. I will take down my walls and instead put them elsewhere to hold you up, and not quite protect you from the world, but make that strength of yours easier to bear. I will fight my disorder. I will for you.

Why?

Because you've seen me naked, and instead of wishing for the happy me or shunning the sad me or insisting the sadness isn't real, you held me and promised things would get better and promised I could be stronger than I think I am. And for that I will never falter.

Now that you've seen me imperfect, and now that I see you naked too, there is no going back.

And there is no way I would want to.

There it is, in the corner of my eye. Or peeking around a nearby corner.

Either the shadows are alive or my madness has caught me, finally.

Over my shoulder I feel the monster, its breath on my skin, the heavy weight of its hands around my neck, suffocating me in my own paranoia.

Some days I wonder if its the fear or my mind breaking ever so slowly, melting each day within the poison known as my synapses. Am I imagining things because I am fearful, or fearful because I am imagining things?

I don't tell many a person about this. The mood disorder, they can handle. But seeing things? Oh, that tends to be a tipping point for most people. Even myself. I like to pretend I see nothing so that I don't have to admit maybe I'm worse off than I think.

I see you there, lurking in my peripheral vision, trying to **** me. But when I look I see my face, smiling that maniacal grin and showing off those sharp teeth, not my teeth, and all the blood, so much blood, my blood.

Suddenly my surroundings are uncomfortable, so prickling with my own horrific imaginings that they almost feel all too real.

Funny how my mind pictures all these terrifying creatures, all these monsters from beyond the grave, while the real monster was hiding all along in my mirror.

The monster, the shadow, is me.

I didn't know I'd end up here again, especially so quickly after crashing.

But yet again, my heart is an unexpected, fickle thing.

My hair is *****, just like my hands, for I have as much pain and blood on my fingertips as has been inflected upon my heart. Funny how a small little girl from Wonderland can cause so much pain. Innocence was once on my lips, but then the world killed my brother, and then the Jabberwocky came to play.

But where are my manners? Let me invite you to tea, buy you your last meal before I ravage your body with my teeth and claws and words and terrify you when my green eyes before blood-red with the splattering of you. I hate to make people forgettable, so trust me, it'll be a night to remember.

The demons inside come out to play at night, when my defenses are weak, talking of death so easily, when I know I don't have a heart for killing. I only have a heart for destruction and dismemberment of hearts and minds, not lives.

Grace was once so little and pure and kind, but the second blood red graced her sibling's lips, it was over. The monster had come to reside in her.

Red, green, the colors of my heart. Funnily enough, also the colors of Christmas. Didn't know generosity would share the same colors as my envious, greedy, ****** heart.

I am not a fan of myself in the darkness. Perhaps because I see in the nothing a reflection of my own shadows.

Go to bed, dear Grace, before the monster inside eats you. **** you, Jabberwocky, and all your tricks. No one comes back from Wonderland without a tad bit of baggage.

Don't beware the darkness, beware thyself.

Goodnight.

My green eyes stare into the crowd of my memories, pinpointing all the moments in which I realized I wasn't good enough. I look at others' pasts and want their, want their histories to be my own, so the pain can be expelled from my memories and only happiness remain, but I am not bandit of time, I cannot take what isn't mine. I can only accept what is left behind.

Her red hair, my red heart, the red wrath I feel in my soul at the clarity I feel knowing that all these moments, these flaring flames in my life-fire, have led me to believe the one thing no young woman should never believe; I will never be good enough.

Broken glass in a broken pane, I lay shattered by each fist pounded into my face. I spent years reflecting others, putting their image before mine, only to get smashed and bashed and banished to the planes of Asphodel, left to die in my own misery. Left to my own devices and own lax, to give up and to give out never to receive again, and let myself fall into the darkness.

Yet I fought, in the worst way I could. Smiles lie and words hide, as the demon below lay his puppet hands on my heart, and even when my soul screamed for freedom with tears most needed, I let my pride champion over my sanity. Bottle up the pirate ship, Grace, it'll look so pretty on your shelf, and look out of place in your heart. Remember, you're no thief.

I hoarded the good times and the love in my heart like Smaug, the great and terrible, solidifying my body as a Lonely Mountain with a maddening crystal at its core. Maybe its only fitting I am short in stature, for I have dragon madness upon my heart, set like a promise to myself that the bottle on the shelf? it will never open, and I will never let the stone walls of my smile fall. This mountain was my domain, and no one was going to destroy it.

Until they did. I was a glutton and I ate and ate the hearts of others until it came back upon me, like a righteous knight set on showing me the error of my monstrous ways. They cut me down, and broke through my glass and forced open that bottle until I could hide no more. The dragon with the stoic walls and pretty smile was revealed, and it drove people away.

Desperate for love, affection was sought in the worst way possible. Body sold for attention and affection, the defeated dragon, the broken glass, the faulted whatever I was was left open and unable to find solace. The window into the mountain was burst open and there was no going back. Fear, pity, worry emanated from those left in my life. But I was reckless, and I no longer cared for this vessel that held m demon soul. I simply wanted the pain to go away.

Then someone dared enter my keep, and hear my whispers, the weak ones, the only ones my heart dare still speak, and they whispered back, "You are always good enough'.

And that was when everything changed.

Its happening, all over again.

Nothing is wrong, nothing has happened, there just feels like there is a gaping hole in my heart and nothing can repair it, like there is a part of me missing and I have no clue what it is and where to go searching.

I used to think the missing part was friends, or family, or anything I loved. But as time goes on, it seems to hit me that the exact problem is not that its anything I am able to find; no. There is simply just a part of me missing and there is nothing I can do about it.

It breaks my heart. I sit here at my desk crying, uncertain what to do, because it appears there is nothing i can do. Its just a section of my heart is missing, always will be, and nothing can ever fix that.

The words do not come, I have not much to say, except my heart is missing and I know it won't come back today. Or any day for that matter.

I don't want to.

I look in your eyes and I smile and I know for a certain fact I don't want to.

Every time I have I have lost it, I have ruined it. I have never once not ruined something.

And I know with all my heart I do not want to ruin you.

I've been a heartbreaker all my life, no clue how, no clue why, because I'm not that funny, I'm not that pretty, I'm not that anything, I'm just kind. I'm kind and I **** people in until I then destroy all their hopes with my moods and my temperaments and my ever-changing mind.

I don't want my mind to change about you.

One night, I felt it. I felt my ever scornful heart turning from you and it broke me. I cried and cried fearful that I would lose you over one little shift, one little imperfection. I don't want it. I don't want any of it.

I just want you.

I want to change for you, to stop shifting, to stop turning, to stop it all. I want to stick with this until my heart breaks for once, because we both deserve that.

I don't want to already be starting to turn away.

I don't want to go despite everything you say.

I want to be by your side for as long as I can manage it, because you are worth it. Because you fight for me, even when I see in your eyes it kills you. Because you hold me and smile at me and talk with me and care about me, even if its in your own quirky way.

I want to do this, for you, for the one I never expected.

I will break my own heart for you.

Mood stabilizers, they call them, but in some ways, they're more like painkillers for your heart. They numb the feelings so that you don't have the extreme moods you are accustomed to.

When you have a mood disorder, everything you feel is so much more intense, and so much more certainly snowballs out of control. That's most of the problem; the complete lack of control you have over your chaotic emotions.

But then you go to a doctor, and they give you happy little pills called stabilizers to do just as they're told to. Stabilize you. Normalize you.

Funny thing is, even with the little heart painkillers, you'll never be normal. Even if you keep up a fantastically ordinary facade, you will never be ordinary. You will always have those little pills in your pocket telling you that you are not good enough the way you are, that you must change.

Its a double-edged sword, these pills. Because some days you wonder why you can't just be you, why do you need these drugs in your veins, but then you remember the cuts on your arms and the painful nights where you drowned in your own tears and you remember why even you don't think the person you are is acceptable. Get better, Grace, be better, Grace. The words pound in your ears until you forget who you used to be and you are always striving to be something more, something better. You strive until it kills you.

You are stronger, you can beat it, they say.

What if I don't want to beat it, though, just want to have control of it? I never want to feel less than everything, I never want to feel so dull and numb that it kills me more than the pain ever did, I never want to beat myself, I simply want to be me but controllable.

Because right now I'm uncontrollable and that's terrifying.

Painkillers for your heart, numbing you until you can't feel anymore. But sometimes I wonder if I really want to feel numb.

Do I want to be me, or who everyone wants me to be?

One is safer than the other, but which one is really living?

Because all I want is to feel alive, but I don't know whether surviving will entail that.

Painkillers or killer pain.

That is my decision, one I'm not ready to make. Maybe tomorrow, when mania is not so close to my throat.

Maybe tomorrow, because I am far too afraid of today.

My kryptonite?

That's a good question. I'm no superhero, no, my limbs too fragile for any crime fighting, any dark lighting of the night, I can't be a Batgirl.

But everyone still has a kryptonite.

I jokingly tell people ice cream, or inappropriate musicals, or turtles, or writing. Writing is a good one. I will do a lot for the sake of the written word.

But that's not what truly gets to me, what breaks me down every time.

Change and love.

Changing love.

It begins as perfection, as bliss on a stick, like a Firecracker Popsicle, delicious until you get to the part you don't like, or, when you get to the end. All you have left is this disgusting flavor in your mouth or the taste of bark, and neither is pleasant.

Everything ends.

That's what kills me. That is my kryptonite. Endings.

In so many facets, this thing kills me. They are my favorite part of every story, but my least favorite part of my life. They are what I spend the most time constructing in a paper, but they are the thing I avoid the most in reality.

I have been taught, in my life, that everyone will leave. There's abandonment sewn into my heart that I'm not sure can ever be erased because, unfortunately for me, its always been true. Almost everyone has left me, and I can't help but assume the rest will leave too, until I am alone.

That's what I love about writing. When you write, there's characters, a new world, a new life. You're never alone, and you're never yourself. When you despise who you are so much, its a dream to try on a different coat and live another life, even if its for only a few minutes.

Another flaw of mine; getting off track. We began on kryptonite, and then I turned it into a tale about the wonders of writing. Typical Grace, distracted about words. Words, words, words, but are they real?

They're real to me, so I guess that's all that matters.

I guess it all circles back to my original kryptonite. Love.

I love too much and get hurt too easily. Its the struggle of my disorder and the folly of my far too large heart, far too large for my little body. Sometimes I wonder if my entire body is one larger, misshapen heart *****. I fully realize the heart is not where emotion comes from, but I'm certainly not all brain. Heart is the only ***** that makes sense.  so strong, so vital, but so breakable.

Maybe that's why they call it falling in love, because even Superman can't fly away from it.

Its kryptonite.

For you, the one who I never expected.

For you, the one who holds me and makes me laugh and is so very close to my own heart sometimes I think they share beats.

For you, the one who believes in me more than I believe in myself, telling me I'm something even on my darkest days. That I'm special, that I'm worth it, even when I want to believe that I am everything but.

For you, the one who I am so afraid of hurting, but could not stand at this point to abandon out of fear. I find myself standing by your side and wanting to stay there and make you as happy as I can manage, because you deserve it.

For you, the one I fell asleep in front of, a feat not many can claim, for sleep has always terrified me more than it should and the fact I trusted you with unconscious me means the world, when I barely trust myself during slumber.

For you, the one who watched Lilo and Stitch the first night we spent together, and we kissed and laughed and simply were just us and I couldn't ask for anything more wonderful, even though at the time I hardly appreciated it.

For you, the one who was there for me when I thought no one wanted me, and promised you would be there for me even when I couldn't be there for myself.

For you, the one with almost tears in his eyes when you realized the gravity of my pain, of my problems, of my fears. The almost tears that I will never forget, and will make me want to fight for a better me every day.

For you, the one who I never expected, but now would not change for the world.

For you.

Don't.

Don't see her and think its me.

She is the heart of darkness, the shadow of fear and doubt taking residence in my body. I hate her. I hate everything about her, yet she is apart of me, a part I cannot seem to shake, like a fever that's a tad too strong or a burr that's a tad too stuck.

Don't look at me and feel fear, look at me and see me, however clouded that vision may be at this point. The monster who wants to destroy itself and those I love is not who I am.

I will not be defined by my depression.

Don't forget my smiles and my tears and my history and our story if I ever lose. If I cannot control the atrocity within, the  vortex of despair, don't forget who I want to be.

Don't remember me for the pain, for the ticks and the tocks as I wear down the clock, drawing tragedy closer to me. Don't see me as anyone but Grace, the girl who loved too much and self-preserved too little. I never was quite good at it, anyway, I was always much better at caring until it hurt.

Don't juxtapose my illness with me, it is one facet of my heart, not all of me, and even if I break your heart, know I never wanted to. I never want anything that hurt those I care for, but sometimes I simply cannot stop myself.

Don't think of me as the monster I think I am, believe in me more than I believe in myself and maybe, just maybe, one day I can believe in me too.

There's something sweet, and almost kind, somewhere deep beneath the sarcasm on his lips and the laughter in his hips.

There is no moment here, nothing that tells me how I feel or how I should feel, just happiness. He makes me happy. That's more than I can ever ask out of a person who obviously is just as uncertain about what they really want as I.

He says he wants ***, he says he wants a friend, but when he grasps my hand and holds me close at night, I feel something else.

There's something there, but I'm not sure if I want it there yet.

I'm getting over the caterpillar, and we're all still mad here, so Grace is a little befuddled by her own heart and mind and soul, but he seems to see me and accept me and not treat me like a breakable little girl. He treats me like a young woman, full of life and laughter, even when I don't feel like that woman I want to be and he insists I am.

He called my annoying laughter wonderful and...

and there's something there. I just don't know how I feel about it.

Only time will tell.

Trash.

You called my items trash. So what if you find them useless? So what if even they turn out to be useless to me? You still have no right to tell me what of mine is worth it or not.

Are you saying I'm trash?

Am I too wild and crazy for you to deal with?

You see me as nothing but a child, and that burns me, cuts deep, whatever metaphor of pain you want to use in this awful discussion. You look at me and see irresponsibility, but what actually it is, is difference. I am different than you. I know you don't normally have to deal with people who don't think like you do, correction, you don't normally like dealing with people, but you chose to deal with me.

If you can't simply accept me for who I am, as other friends have done before you, then I guess its time for you to go.

I began this blaming myself, kicking myself, for ******* up yet again. Always the ****-up, that Grace. But you know what? I'm getting my **** together the best way I can, and if you don't like how I function, then that *****.

I can't deal with people who can't accept me. Not right now, actually, thinking about it, not ever, really.

I have to be me right now. There is no other way, and if you cannot accept that, then I guess I cannot accept you.

Leave the undesirable and go live elsewhere.

Every morning, the touch of her skin. Each feel of her fingertips awakens the senses, and I remember, for one second, that I am loved.

Its easy to forget when she's not around, and I harken back to that dark corner that holds me, holds me harder than she ever does. She knows little of it, only beckons my freedom for her nights and her pleasure and then disappears in the morning.

She seduces me with lasagna, did you know that? Promises the contents of her fridge and then leads me elsewhere, a place I know she's leading me, but I eat it anyway. She stares at me while I eat, always begging with her eyes to begin the dangerous tango that I can never ignore, and I pretend not to notice, but I do.

Then she asks me how it is and I say delicious, even when the meat is dry or the noodles are hard, its always delicious. Her lips look delicious, her skin look enticing, her curves and entrancing. Truly makes up for the questionable lasagna.


I know I love her. She knows I love her. But she doesn't care, and just plays with me at night and in the morning, makes some excuse of how she must go, ruffles my hair and says thanks for the good time, sport, like I am some child. But I'm not a child, I am a man who loves her.

Love doesn't seem to be enough for my Lasagna girl, and every Tuesday she proves it. The loves not enough, the *** isn't enough, I'm not enough. Just another pawn in her game.

Every Tuesday I come back though, and I always will, until the calls stop and her beauty stops and the world stops.

Maybe it'll never stop. Maybe I've found my soulmate over a plate of half-baked lasagna, but the funny thing is, she will never bother to find me.

I'm so, so very tired.

The past two years of the fluctuating, of changing, of tears, of sorrow, of mania, of certifiable madness have drained me. Gods only know how awful I will feel in the years to come, if I feel drained right now. How can I live a lifetime like this?

My fingers are heavy on the keyboard, slamming down every word, like trying to made an imprint of myself on this laptop, so I may live forever somewhere, particularly since it is so likely for me to die.

I hate to admit that. I hate it. I'm not suicidal right now, but in these moments I realize I may be the cause of my own destruction. Correction, it is highly likely I will be. And I am so very tired of fearing everything, including myself.

Tired of all the eyes watching me, and all all the hours wasted crying, and...

I'm trying to find something to pride myself in, and the only thing I can be proud of is the fact I have not pined profusely over a boy in weeks. I have pined, that is true, its hard for one like myself not to fantasize and latch onto someone. But I have not felt the heavy weight in my chest of being so in love that it hurts.

All my poems have been about me. Kind of self-centered, huh? But I guess its an improvement, trying to find myself over trying to find myself in others. Over losing my mind over some person.

I'm still tired, though. I'm surprised I managed to write this much, for my hands feel too heavy to move much.

Maybe I'll curl up on the couch and pray the emptiness goes away and maybe life will stop allowing me to feel terrible things.

Just maybe.

I haven't been here in awhile. This section of Wonderland is almost foreign to me, after all this time. I have teetered upon its edge for ages, but now I have finally fallen in, down the rabbit hole, and I do not know when I will be able to get out.

The dark parts of Wonderland,  where the Jabberwocky roams free, have terrify me and always will. The simple thought of that monster lurking in my head brings a slew of tears to my face, a torrential downpour of my own misery. I do not trust the Jabberwocky, for it brings ideas, hallow, dark ideas to the front of my brain and causes me to wander in the frozen desert or extract my blood from my own skin, and I do not know myself anymore.

Each word is shaky, I cannot feel it on the tip of my tongue, I am numb. No one here in New Wonderland understands the Jabberwocky; hell, only the White Rabbit and the Dormouse really understood it in Old Wonderland, and my heart still broke relentlessly, like tides on a beach.

Those not from Old have rejected the Jabberwocky side of me, and that terrifies me. What if everyone here fears the Jabberwocky? I understand that fear; no one expects sweet, innocent Grace to also be the monster screaming under their bed, but I need people. I need people who know and understand and accept that tough I can be broken and horrific and abhorrent and repulsive that Grace is still there underneath it all and she needs love. She needs it more than she'll ever admit.

Words. I have lost them. I haven't the faintest clue what's left to say, for the Jabberwocky is ruthless and hateful of my words, and I'm lucky to have gotten this far. In my dreams I am whole, in my imagination the Jabberwocky was gone, but I know now it has not left me.

It never will.

Here.

Here is where the mumblings stop and the singing begins, even if its off-pitch and bad toned, its beautiful and real and home. I can feel it in my bones, the resounding yes that this is where I belong. These people may not hold my soul, they may not be the closest to me, and I may not fall in love with them. But I love them still, and they are my family without blood, they are my green family, smiling beside me, trying to make a difference.

We all believe that the world could be a better place, and we all dare to dream that maybe, just maybe, we could make that difference. Its a magic I've never felt before, being silent in a room and just feeling intoxicated with comfort, like no eyes are watching and no words must fill the silence and no monsters are peeking over my shoulders.

The weight of the world is gone and I feel at peace, dipping my fingers in applesauce, being as me as humanly possible and for once not being judged and not having to explain and simply living.

Belonging in a silent room. I never knew it would come to this day, but it has. Its a day I've dreamed of, a day that has always touched the tip of my tongue but never quite been tasted, at least until now. And now it is here, bare before me, and I am reveling in its beauty. If I could draw, I would paint you a picture, if I could compose, I would write an Aria, but alas all I have is these silly little words to caress the eyes and sooth the soul and hopefully make a little difference someday.

Because that's all anyone really wants, right? To matter. To have it all matter, life, happiness, career, future, past, present, death. No one wants to go out like a light and have no one miss their warmth, everyone wants at least a shiver of something once they are gone, and to have everyone know they made something or someone better.

We're dreamers, my people and I, and I think that's what binds us; our endless capacity for hopes and dreams and combining the two to pray for a place better than the one we have today, not one worse tomorrow.

Tomorrow things may change, tomorrow I may not feel the same way as I do today, but today?

I belong is a silent room, and it is glorious.

This is rude. I should stop using misnomers for my own devices, but I cannot help myself. So insomnia it shall be called, when I cannot find the words to sleep or the fervor to close my eyes.

That sounded all wrong on my lips, but my head could care less at this point.

The cool touch of my glasses on my nose wake me further. Way to go Grace, you're even more awake now. Like you ever needed it.

There's a jitterbug in my leg, sending me so sky-high.

Should I go to bed or continue pondering existence and words and dreams until my tongue goes numb from rolling all these R's: Rest, redeem, re-purpose, redo, remember. Always remember. Its hard to forget.

Days past and the insomnia persists. I have slept, perhaps, in that time, but yet I have not dreamed, and that is where my insomnia lies. Which lies do I mean, that is the real question, duality always tricks the eye.

Let's get these hearts beating faster, faster, to the beat of the music, while they touch each other's fingertips and kiss each other's lips and meet hips in a vain attempt to have it mean something more.

The words have left me, and I do not know where to end. So i propose another unbirthday be the day of reckoning, and maybe another poem, another day, my make more sense to me. Adieu my dears, and hope to pray to live just another day, for life is the most beautiful tragedy we can ever love.

Have you ever just felt so lonely, even in a crowded room?

Have your insides ever felt so empty,like nothing fills them but air and blood and you are nothing but meat on a spinning ball in a dying universe?

Have you ever looked at the stars and realized gas can be so magnificent, yet you, conscious, synaptic you, cannot even make yourself special to one person whom you love?

Have you ever felt the benevolence of whatever power above you weighing so heavily on your shoulders, realizing they gave you life and one wrong move and you may be wasting it?

Have you ever realized time is so short, and in the blink of an eye, the toll of a clock, it could all be over and it could all begin and everything could be different in that one second?

Have you seen the look in your mother's eyes when you realize that she isn't wonder woman, and that she is as human as you, as terrified as you, and that illusion is gone and you both are broken and innocence is so lost you spend your whole life trying to find it again?

Have you stared into the face of death and came back kicking and screaming, terrified that the next one in that coffin will be you, and that your loved ones will be the broken ones now, or possibly worse, no one would have cared at all?

Have you ever died a little inside, seeing someone you pined for and had an intense affinity for live and laugh and love in the arms of another and you want to move on but you can't because you cannot let go of the simple maybe that they could make you feel that way one day too?

Have you ever felt the heavy weight of love crush your heart, and either **** you a thousand times or lift you up to the heavens, untouchable yet so breakable, and everything could be forever or fall apart at any moment, and when your naked in their arms and more vulnerable than ever the end could be near, even when they whisper they love you in the way their hands touch your cheek and their lips caress your skin?

Have you ever felt nothing, not even when you should, and could not find the tears or the words or anything really, and become a frozen shell of a human being that feels so alone, even in a crowded room?

I am not feeling all of these right now, but I have at least once before, and they all come rushing back to me like sad songs while I sit alone in a full room, musing about life and realizing though I may be ill, I'm still human too.

Lucky.

Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, ****, she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance.

So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it.

Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am.

No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body.

Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace.

Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless.

The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead.

Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me.

Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon.

Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep.

So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.

There's a feeling I've felt hindering on the tip of my tongue, twirling with sawdust at the end of my bed. Its tingled my toes and tickled my nose and killed all hopes that this is just happiness.

Sleep is for figments and products of sanity, neither of which I can claim heritage. Well perhaps figments in the waking hours of the darkness, but that is a tale for another time.

I can feel his fingertips stroking my sides, reminding me what it is to feel human and vulnerable and perfect. Didn't know he boosted me ego and turned me into the self absorbed maniac you see before you today. Tyrant, remembrr? Oh wait, that's another tale altogether again.

I ramble in the night, in the morning, all the time. My thoughts wander with echoing clarity to encompass the truth about me; not everything is quite right. The teacups are lopsided at the unbirthday table tonight.

Yet again, speaking in riddles and stories unbeknownst to you. Stupid me, stupid Grace, stupider you. Why are you so open to my madness anyway? Maybe you're the crazy one.

This sick godlike embodiment I feel is one I forget isn't real, isn't me, isn't life. But wait. Its a part of me, so perhaps it is real as well? Call a jury, wake a judge, there must be a verdict on my elation. Am I a minor deity or are the synapses playing some cruel joke on my heartstrings?

Heartstrings, why did I bring them into this? I have shut them off for now, for they are dumb and deaf to honesty and logic and do whatever the hell they feel. Or is it whatever the heaven? I forget sometimes where the real misery is, or how the expression goes. I've never quite gotten everything right, being as upside down as I.

Insomnia brings out the manic in me, and I know its not real, but for a moment, just a moment, I belong. I am real, I am loved, I am powerful. Weak little Grace is no more, with her fears and contradictions. Just strength is left, and it is glorious.

Just remember not to let the heffelumps get you in the night, for they are the true evil behind your honey ***. Or am I a heffelump? I can't remember anymore.

This is going nowhere, everywhere, somewhere.

Wake me up inside before I destroy myself, or simply perpetuate my perfection with a caress of your hand. Whatever suits your fancy.

Call me Aphrodite and we'll call it a night after hours of mindblowing ***. But you expected that all along, of course you did, because you know my bones better than we both realize.

When you put your hands on me I feel ****. But yet again, right now I an perpetually **** and twitchy and awake and fake. Dare you to kiss me anyway.

Dare you to see me, psychotics and all.

Bet you'll run like the rest, yet like all good hiders its refreshing to be found every once in awhile.

Find me, and see. See the monster behind my beautiful eyes. That's the day when you'll see what true danger looks like; me.

Insomnia makes me odd, but yet again I'm always odd.

Little miss muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and craves, for a man betwixt her to tell her she's killer and make her a siren next day.

Forget, no, yes, its all I do. Its not how that goes, for sirens are certainly not temporary. I am certainly a black widow every day, not just each odd thursday.

Go to bed, Grace. I beg of you.

Close my eyes and say goodnight to the beloved moon, for the sun is nearly up and it certainly hates me, I am sure of it.

Just never forget all this is wrapped up in one little old me. No one seems to remember that until its far too late, so might as well run now, because otherwise little miss muffet here on her tuffet will be the death of you.

Its not love.

Now don't think I'm crazy. I swear I'm not, at least not mostly. But its true, its not love, it can't be yet, its been one night and I'd be a true psychotic if I thought it was.

Once I thought one night was love, but I was also high off the fumes of my own cruelty and didn't know left from right and Up from Toy Story.

But it matters.

Not in the way you think, God, I swear not like that. I am not mentally able to catch feelings right now as I stumble through the vacant halls of my own sanity, or better put, the filled asylum of my own insanity.

Still, though.

It was a night I could be me, a night I want to feel again, where I'm bare and broken and real and **** and that doesn't happen very often for me. My mask of smiles and lies tend to hide everything, but not that night, and not with you.

Here in this new sect of Wonderland I can be me , be Grace, with little to no question. Well, there's been some rejection and tears and pain and all the average Wonderland shenanigans, but its been magical. I feel like Wonderland is a place I can live in again.

In old Wonderland, I was beginning to suffocate, to feel the cold hand of stability take over me. But I am not ready for that, I'm ready for freedom and dancing in the rain and having *** until the moon goes to bed.

I wasn't ready to be in love with the Caterpillar. Crazy, considering I always thought it was he who was unprepared, but all along it was me.

Guess I can't live my life wondering what's just around the river bend, I have to investigate. I have to know. Things must get curiouser and curiouser, its how it goes.

Let my youth wash over me, let my childlike Wonderland wash over my eyes and let me be me for awhile. Its not normal for me to be this malleable. Everything used to be lies, but now everything is freedom, and for now I love it.

Thank you for that night. Its a beginning, a new one, for Wonderland and I. Why?

Because for the first time in forever, Grace of Wonderland is free.

Five. Cinco.

Half of the ten and a fifth of the twenty five. Mathematics are a funny subject, don't you think? Some man just made up letters to correlate with numbers to transcend to concepts that in all reality could mean nothing and the square root of a orangutan could actually be yellow.

I contemplate on that a lot, being the Grace that I am, wondering if what's real is real, if words are just words, or all they the pygmy hippopotamuses flying in my dreams. Anything is possible. Dreams could be reality, and reality could be a dream. Or maybe there is no such thing as realness, and everything is just madness.

I learned a lot from my friend the Mad Hatter, how to love, how to be disappointed, how to fall into a pit of despair and how to wear a hat like a ****** deviant and love it.

But the most important thing I learned is that sanity is very subjective, because what may seem totally sane to me, completely within the norm, may seem like complex incongruity to someone else. Maybe we're all mad. Maybe no one's mad. Maybe its just you, maybe its not you.

Special. That's another word that always got me, but I prefer to think in the realms that everyone is different. The world is in different shades and hues, none are ever quite the same, so why should people be that way?

But maybe yet again I'm only speaking in riddles and soliloquies and monologues and standing over all my conquests I am screaming my thoughts while they utter not a word, fearful of manic me.

I'd be afraid of manic me. She is quite the finger-twitching tyrant.

Words are words but are they real? Are they what you mean or are they just lies, lies, words that you scream until she dies, dies, and the world is at peace.

Oh, that's not right.

I once wrote a short poem similar to that I could recite by heart, but as my heart has changed the words become jumbled. Death creeps its way into lies, and heavy juxtaposition ***** with my meanings. Eating my words, until I am not a girl anymore, I am a leaf, or a bat, stuck in Wonderland until the end of my days.

Funny how Alice the savior became Alice the bat.

Wait, I'm not Alice, I'm Grace.

Oh, I do not know who I am anymore. And that is the tragic beauty of Wonderland. You just never know what, or who, tomorrow may bring.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.

But I also walked with you, and you, and you.

After losing my caterpillar, after sending him away, my dreams are a jumbled mess of maybes, from one boy to another, my mind swimming haphazardly in all the possibilities that I have no clue who I am falling for or who is most on my mind.

I just want to be close to people. I want to love people, and I want to be kissed, and I want to dance in the rain.

I don't even know if i want it to be real, or just one person, i just want to dream and want someones to hold my hand and make me feel like I belong.

You and Me and all other people and I can't keep my eyes off of you.

Make me feel that, someone, anyone.

Bueller?

Give it time, things will fall into place, like leaves onto water, stumbling through the air until they reach the place where they belong, calm and kinetic all at once.

Until things fall, until I land, I will fall and dance with all the people I love, holding so many hands and seeing where my dreams take me. Until I find You, until I find the one who makes me stop looking, I will never stop dancing. I will become the most vibrant, exciting, lovable me.

For you only.

"Wait a year, they said, wait a year and things will get better. They think one single lapse of a human’s concept of collected time can change anything. A year she waited, she listened; she had to. But the year came, and the year then went, and nothing had changed. The girl was left with nothing. There was a hole, a chasm, never to be filled and never to be touched. There was nothing left and soon she could not find words, syllables, even sound."

A year ago, this is what I expected. Funny how a character I created much darker than I, actually reflected the shadows of my soul. I never realized she was me, the darker me, the hidden me, the me I was after I lost Him.

The depression is real. Its is apart of me. The swirling vortex I'm so afraid of I have to accept. But it doesn't mean I cannot smile. The turbulent tremors of my aching heart will forever be apart of me, but they do not control me. I control me.

Control. That is something I thought I lacked, but I realize it is my strength. Without my strength, the dark wonderlands of my heart would have taken me already, to a place that would be darker than imagined.

I didn't want the world to see me, because I didn't think they'd understand. And when it came to him, I was right. He didn't understand why I couldn't just **** it up and smile, why my outlook wasn't so positive, why I was looking at the world so darkly.

Its a dark world, darling, if he knew me, he'd know its actually optimism most days. But no, all he saw was the darkness and how I could not overcome it and it broke me from him, like a rock from a shore.

I felt like a rock with him, not a season, that is until I met more people who could understand, who could see my face behind these broken eyes. It murdered my never-ending love for him, because I could finally see I could do better, I could be happier.

Bipolar 2.

That's me, but it doesn't control me.

Not anymore.

Ring, ring, ring, ring.

Water's running down my face, no, tears, their salt is melting into my very bones as I stare at the phone and listen to it, ring, ring, ring...

My caterpillar has finally turned into the beautiful butterfly I believed I dreamed of, only to find myself rejecting him now at every turn. His Grace has grown up, and realized his riddles and rudeness are not the love I deserve, not the one I want, not anymore.

Wonderland has changed, too. It has expounded upon itself, growing larger with newer faces, faces I'm growing to love and cherish more than old.

In the whispering hours of Wonderland, a New Frabjous Face takes my hand and tell me to run with him, and I do. We run and dance and even when the rain is pouring he is still holding my hands and my face and telling me to run and breathe and live so beautifully.

My caterpillar never held my hand in the rain, he always disappeared into the clouds with his booming voice, judging and screaming about his own struggles while I was drowning in mine. Wonderland tends to flood.

Forecast for now though is sunlight with a slight overcast of whimsy.

After the New Frabjous Face, I feel more comfortable in the rain. Maybe it is apart of me, especially since I always beg to go dancing in the rain. Maybe I knew all along the rain was the key to Wonderland.

Caterpillar would be glad to hear I've been forgetting my magical little pills, no safety is swirling through my veins. He always judged me for using them, though he insisted it was my choice. My choice that he disapproved of.

New Frabjous Face and other new friends are new to me, but they makes me feel alive again, like maybe Wonderland can be a happy place again, like maybe the Jabberwocky can learn its place once more.

Ring, ring, ring...

And as the night goes on, I turn away the phone and let it ring, for it doesn't own my heart anymore.

I do.

I hate to sleep.

The monsters and demons and sins and wraiths run rampant in my mind, and my control is lost. Control is key. Every impulse, every little tiny thought, leads me closer to madness. Slumber is madness creeping in upon me when I cannot steal myself from it.

Late to bed, and early to rise, leaves the insanity hidden until the day she dies.

The walking, the talking, the revealing of my truest thoughts occur when in slumber, and I hate it. That's why I don't sleep, that's why I'm last, always last, because I know that's when the crazy comes to play.

Lust, Gluttony, Vanity, Envy, Wrath, Greed, Sloth. All seven swirl in my veins, with a chesire smile concealing the truth of them. They swirl in all veins, they play their devil games in the night for everyone, but for me, its different. It always will be.

Seven little friends swimming in my head, begging me to become someone I am not. I'm not in love, but the *** is good. The mirror is a comrade in arms. The green of my eyes is for more than just genetics. The fat on my legs has a secret agenda. I feel the sickness of anger in my heart but it never shows. My selfish wiles are secret, but they are there, always screaming. And when boredom creeps, I let the angels weep.

I hate slumber, for all seven play their seductive little games inside the holes in my head, and I can never be free of it. I fear who I am when I sleep, for its not the face I know.

But with you, I slept.

That astounds me.

He says he's a **** up. That his heart is the one that sways, that he fears shattering my heart.

He doesn't know, he doesn't understand.

I'm  not trying to say he's perfect, but he does not realize how awful my attention is. The focus flips and twists and turns and he doesn't realize that on a dime I could change my mind. Then I'd be the ****-up.

Commitment is not my strong suit. He deserves so much better than me, but he doesn't know it yet. Not until I turn around and say I forgot and that nothing means a thing anymore. I want to be different, I do, but I don't know if I can. Because one week away from him and the thoughts are already rushing in.

I'm already trying to find something wrong, something to **** us.

**** Up. I want him to **** up so I can free myself. I am a **** up for refusing to stay with a man I love. **** up everything for selfish reasons, trying to find ways out just because I get distracted too easily.

I have never cheated, and I never will, but I will ruin something great for a maybe. **** maybes. **** the fact I cannot stay committed to one person. Maybe that's why I was so afraid he wasn't committed, because I'm not.

I want to be good to him. But I don't know if I can.

I'm the real **** up.

Every inch of me sore from your touch and every heavy breathe between kisses, its all yours.

But I don't know if you give me the same courtesy.

When your face is in my face, when your face is in my hands, every fear melts away and all I want is to forever find myself imprisoned in your embrace, the first time this wild girl has ever wanted and willed to be caged.

Don't waste your heart on a wild thing, didn't your mother ever tell you?

I always fear my wildness my wilderness will cause the rift between us. But maybe I have been led astray by my own mistrust in my commitment dances, to be unable to see you are willing to take what you want from me and not reciprocate the less desirable moves.

Trip three steps backward and realize I am not just some girl, I am the wild girl, with a large, creative heart, who will rip you to shreds as quickly as I will hold you to me. Realize I am not to be trifled with. Realize I am too independent to accept less than the best version of you.

So one question, my love, something you don't know my head calls you when I forget to take things slow, are we exclusive? am I yours and are you mine?

This question could ruin us or make me fall more in love with you. Only time will tell what you do with this wild girl, if you make her fall in love enough to stay, or if you send me away.

You may break my wings, but wings can be healed.

Us, on the other hand, may be another story.

What's funny is under all  my anger and independence and ultimatums, all I truly want is to simply be yours.

Let you be mine. I promise I will love you like no other, because there is no other. Isn't there beauty in that?

Just let me fall in love with you, and maybe, for once, we can be something magical.

I'm yours.

I'm a walking disaster; a ticking time bomb.

Yet they still want to be around me. Why?

Don't waste your heart on a wild thing.

I walk alone.

I should walk alone.

All I do is hurt and scream and cry and damage. No one should put themselves through such torture for love.

Love isn't worth this.

There's a million questions swirling in my head, screaming at me to do something, to be something, but I don't know what that is.

Miss Independent?

Somebody's somebody?

My heart is giving out. I don't know what to write anymore. So much screaming, so much pain, so much fear. I'm afraid of everyone and they should be afraid of me.

I'm suffocating in my own misery.

And I don't know how to stop it.

I don't know if I can.

Everything has to change, eventually. But I didn't expect to ever stand on the edge of the world with you of all people and have to realize things are changing far too rapidly for any of us to handle.

You're holding my hand, and making promises you probably can't keep. Its breaking my heart as you scream "Grace, you're the only one for me" when I know you've said it time and again before and they never were the one for you, were they?

Its ok, I thought your best friend was the one. That was until he wasn't. So maybe in this moment, you aren't lying, for this second, maybe I am your one. But who knows if that'll stay, if that will remain, for rarely anything remains the same.

Maybe I've made a mistake forging my heart in the shape of your name, and maybe one day it'll morph itself into another, but for now making memories with you is all the new I want.

And then there's you. We fight, we cry, we love. But I don't know if we're right anymore, and part of me can dream of a world without you. That kills me, because you were my everything. I spent every day with you and I hate myself for thinking of how it might be easier to be apart.

The hollow hallways of my heart once were filled with you, but now I don't know if you belong in every avenue anymore. Maybe your just a conditional love now, something that hurts even to admit. You were once a world I could orbit around, but now as my own planet I can see myself out of your solar system.

And finally, you. The one I cannot fathom losing.

I don't even want to talk about the thought of losing you.

God how I hate everything new.

My little blue dress hangs in my closet now, and my black ribbon is around my wrist and not my hair. I've cut my long blonde hair shorter, and my childhood fantasies are a mere haunting that reach to me at night, reminding me of who I am.

I once dreamt of you as a wonderland, a place of fear and magic and horror that I would suffer a thousand lives to feel a moment of.

Then I grew older, and recognized that this wasn't a wonderland; or perhaps, it was, but not quite the wonderland I was thinking of. This wonderland had a name, a name that came with frightening connotations.

Bipolar.

Those fantastical moments in which I was flying, in which nothing but the flowers could sing with me as I danced in a purple field of wonder. Where the bluebells kissed my hands and the crochet was with hedgehogs and the pond behind my house was much more than it seemed.

Bipolar.

Each corner I turned in which a shadow hid behind, shadows I could only see and that chased me through the darkness unto the stairs and into my bed, holding me tight and strangling me until I woke up and realized everything was ok.

Bipolar.

Each friend I made as a child at night that wasn't tangible, though we shook hands and danced and read books together as if we were real. As if anything was real.

Bipolar.

It was a game I was playing that I didn't know was hardwired into my brain, that this wasn't just Grace and her wonderland, it was something darker, deeper. But alas, that's how it is as you age, isn't it?


Wonderland gets darker with each visit, and with each day it grows closer to me. Its terrifying how it may begin to affect others, others i love, but there's not much I can do, is there?

My one wish is that there will not be another blonde little girl, with my green eyes and my blue dress, finding herself stumbling into a wonderland that she cannot handle.

If it means I can never have the one thing I want more than anything, then I am willing to sacrifice everything to protect that little girl.

I will never lead another little girl into wonderland.

Never.

Its a heavy feeling, on your heart, when you realize your manic ravings have some harsh truth to them.

I am dangerous.

The pills help for now, holding my insanity deep within, but what when I grow tolerant? What when they stop working? What when i forget, like today?

I could hurt people. Break them, tear them, maim them, **** them. Maybe **** me. Its devastating and terrifying to realize the monster under your bed is none other than the reflection in the mirror.

You were once a little girl, Grace, full of dreams and hopes and promises of forever and rainbows and smiles and happiness. But then experience and biology kicked in and you became... this.

You would be so scared of this, little Grace, so scared of the hallucinations and the voices and mood swings and the hatred and the sadness and the anger. You are using so many ands and you would hate yourself for it, you do hate yourself for it, but you have bigger fears at the moment.

You're going to hut every person you love. You'll try not to, little Grace, but you're going to. Every day you forget, you get closer to becoming the monster you know you are in your heart. The one who doesn't know right from wrong and is hyper and screams. The one who is killing herself slowly from the inside out without even trying.

You hate her, Grace, the girl you grow up to be. Parts you love, the sane parts that love so deeply it hurts and cares so much for others, but the parts that could **** everyone? You hate that.

God help me I'm coming undone.

My wonderland is terrifying. I'm terrified of it, of me, and you will be too, Grace. Never forget who you were.

Its the only possible way you may be able to survive this, to survive wonderland.

Its our only hope, you and me, and we have to take it or everything we love?

It'll die.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The voices are ringing in my ears, a thundering conundrum I have yet to figure out. He's screaming, no he's whispering, oh I can't tell anymore, from a thunder to a shiver its all the same to me I'm deaf I'm blind I see with echolocation I am a bat in its cave begging to see the light though I know it burns.

Each sentence blurs to the next a word a whisper oh there I go with whispers again did I forget a comma, some punctuation? Sorry my mind is a mile a minute when it feels such frustration in its bones that it cannot feel its toes anymore.

Wait, my brain doesn't have toes.

Nonsense. I am practically a wonderland character with all my nonsensical drivels about love and mania and speed and tears and lust and death. Give me a hat and I'm practically batty, my good sir. I will make a march with my hair and wish you a very merry un-death-day, or however that goes.

Falling down my rabbit hole, no my cave, I'm a bat, remember? I have found a way to fall sideways right into your heavy arms and you stare at me aghast, for I am not who you once thought I to be. There is a face for each hue, each color of my pigments, I'm a leaf, each season brings out a different color, well unless your coniferous but that is besides the point and very much more about needles, but I digress.

Wait, I'm a bat. What is this nonsense about leaves?

Sit down at my table and I will explain it all to you dear, how my brain is wired like a ticking time bomb, ready to set off at any moment, particularly if my pretty little pills aren't butterflying in my bloodstream, those little friends of mine simply forgetting a swim day.

Funny how one day without them can be average or it can be, well, this. Quite mad, isn't it? Tick tock, tick tock. The mouse ran up the clock, the clock struck twelve and the bat swept down and the mouse is left to rot. Tick tock, tick tock.  

Give me a cat or two and then there's a name for me, but I bet your bottom dollar every single one is a chesire, grinning, tormenting, taunting, killing. They reflect the little demons in my heart.

Have you ever been so afraid of your own reflection, or the butter knife at the end of your table, and how it might just slip into your fingers at ever the wrong moment and you might regret your next action for the rest of your life? I've only once or twice, but it was a once too many, and now I'm terrified of that little butter knife resting on the end of my table, taunting my demons, knowing how much I fear them.

Should I be a true ****** and enter a hospital? No, I will never learn honesty, all these thoughts kept up in my pretty little head will never leave my pretty little head, they enjoy their tenancy too much. Just pop the pills, Grace, darling, and everything will be ok.

A few more hours, and then I can be reunited with my dear little friends, and like the good little bat I am, recoil back into my cave, and let the butterfly angler I wiggle out be the beautiful front everyone sees. No mad hatter, no march hare, no alice, not even a bat. A pretty butterfly that everyone loves.

If only they knew what this butterfly had behind her; a cave full of wonderland.

And everyone should be afraid of that.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Heart: This is hard for me to say, and I hope you don't panic. Don't panic. Please don't panic. We always panic.

Head: Why would I panic? You're speaking with redundancy. Just express yourself already.

Heart: Well, I don't know how to say this, and I know this will be tough on both of us, but you've got to remain calm.

Head: What is it? For the love of all things holy-

Heart: We're in love.

Head: Love? I thought we were done with all affairs of the heart for the time being. I thought you were shutting yourself down for a bit, and letting us just be free of these binds for awhile. You know this just always causes us unneeded pain.

Heart: It's different this time. It has to be different.

Head: Has to be? What sorts of ridiculousness do you speak of, my friend? Love doesn't have to be anything, but a terrifying void in which we have fallen in once, no twice, and barely made it out unscathed. Correction, we were not unscathed, we were scarred. We are scared. What do expect to come of this?

Heart: Its different. He's different.

Head: You said that about the last one.

Heart: He actually cares. He wants all of us, not just a part. The first wanted our body, the second wanted our smile. This one? He wants all of it.

Head: You're delusional. It will be no different, the outcome is simple mathematics. Us plus a boy equals utter chaos.

Heart: Its so different. He's the smile upon our face when we fall asleep to his final texts late at night, he is the hands running through our hair, he is the body curled up next to ours keeping us warm at night, he is the lips that beg us to live again. He's so different. He might just love us too.

Head: He's dangerous. Don't be an incompetent fool. It won't end well.

Heart: I don't care. We are in love with him.

Head: Well snap out of it.

Heart: Love doesn't work like that and you know it.

Head: Why would you stick around him after all the rumors you have heard, after all the fears in you, after all you have been through? Its illogical.

Heart: That's love for you.

Head: Don't be dumb.

Heart: Love that turns you stupid is the best kind. It makes your toes unable to touch the ground and you're flying. Can't you feel it?

Head: But I'm scared.

Heart: I know. But its worth being a little terrified.

Head: He could hurt us.

Heart: You knew that the second you got into this mess. You didn't care then, why care now?

Head: Because its serious now.

Heart: Why do you say that?

Head: Because we are in love with him.

Heart: Exactly. There was no moment like the last times when we absolutely knew, it came slowly but surely, each time he called us cute and sent us a good morning text and held our fingers close and kissed us like we were special. And then one day I woke up and realized, my god, I'm in love with this boy.

Head: It is so different. Why is it so different?

Heart: Because he's different. So different. That's why we're in love with him.

Head: We are in love with him.

Heart: And there's nothing we can do about it. So might as well jump in headfirst, right?

Head: Stupid. But we are going to do it anyway, are we not?

Heart: Now you're catching on.

Head: Love is stupid.

Heart: We're stupid.

Head: And we are in love with him.

Heart: And that's how it will be.

Head: For now, as long as these moments lasts.

Heart: That's all that matters.

Head: I hope they never end.

Heart: Me neither.

**** me.
Here I go again, meeting a blue eyed boy and tripping myself into a trap, catching feelings and getting infected more than I should. His tremendous fingertips tuck against mine, making mine tremble in a way I forgot they could. My fingers are dwarves against his, trying to hold onto something tangible, something real, as he breathes heavy air my way and I giggle, unable to handle the seriousness.
**** me.
Because this is serious. We laugh and poke and **** and joke but when I look into his eyes, I know. I know for once this is something far more serious than a fling, than dating, than any of it. He is my friend and we are standing here bare to each other and we are not turning away, not hiding unto ourselves, we are basking in the glory of each other's nakedness and loving it.  
**** me.
Each time he touches my side I feel a flutter and a yearning that I haven't felt so strong in a long time. He is touching me, and kissing me, and each moment I wait for the next touch, the next kiss, I go crazier and crazier. I crave his hands on mine, on my body, on all of me, and I can't handle it.
**** me.
Pull me down onto you and make me feel something I've never felt before. Make me forget all those other boys to the point only you exist and I exist and that's all that matters. Make me feel beautiful naked. Make me real. Make yourself unforgettable.
**** me.
I'm falling in love with him.
Hard.
****.
Me.

Funny how a song I hate could be thudding in my ears with a resounding pound that only I can hear.
Just a kiss on your lips in the moonlight.
I don't know what it means, if it means anything. But for a moment again I feel alive, for the first time since that spring in which my heart grew three sizes and was crushed simultaneously.
Just a touch of the fire burning so bright
I'm terrified of you. I haven't been so scared of someone in awhile, because once again I realize I could fall for someone. I could really easily just dance, trip, and fall into you.
I don't wanna mess this thing up
And then you held my hand and walked off into the moonlight, and I know its the beginning and an end and an everything to anything.
I don't want to push too far
You've made me magic again, with intoxicating tendrils of texture running across my tongue, texture of words to create something beautiful once again.
Just a shot in the dark that you just might, be the one I've been waiting for my whole life
I will never know in the present where this will go, but for tonight, this is enough. You are enough,  I am enough.
*Just a kiss goodnight

My revelations occur to me in the morning now, while the darkness haunts the night, in which I wish I had someone to hold me, to wash away the fright.

But, I digress.

I told you I'm not sorry. I meant it and I never mean to take it back. But as it swirls on the tips of my tongue, I know its not fully true, that I'm not sorry doesn't apply to all the dark enchantments of my heart, to all the parts that have accosted you.

So I'll start here.

I'm sorry that I hurt you. That this action I have done has broken you so wholeheartedly you feel nothing will ever get better and nobody cares. Because people care. I still care. I just couldn't handle being your friend when everything we were turned into a competition instead of the loved as if in love emotions we had in the summer. I only would have hurt you worse, I only would have learned to hate you, if we stayed close, and I couldn't bear the thought of that.

I'm sorry that you feel you have lost to me, but it only proves my point we turned into competitors in the game of life instead of friends. Friends don't vie for the same affections, they love equally and share. We didn't share, not anymore, not in any facet.

I'm sorry you feel I took him from you, if you do feel that way. It was not my intention for anything to happen between us but... it did. I never thought anything would happen. But he smiled at me one night and it seemed he finally noticed me and I... If he didn't make me so happy, if you hadn't made me feel like I had lost a boy to you before, I would have stepped away. But he does make me happy, and you had done that to me before, without even stopping to ponder upon how I might feel and how it might break me.

I'm sorry about her. She loves you more than life, you know? But you're not helping yourself, and its killing her. She wants to be there for you but she doesn't know how to when all you do is scream and cry and not try to get better. Times like these I want to wrap you up in my arms and shield you from the world, but I can't just be around when you're sad and ignore the happy times. That might be even more ****** than only being around in the happy times. I wish I could do something, anything, to help you, but I can't, not after what I did. Its not fair to you. I can't give you glimmers of hope of a friendship when I know there never will be one again.

I'm sorry I can't be your friend anymore. Especially now, that you're hurting and angry and simply need something tangible, when it seems all you want is things to be back again. But they can't be. Not after what I said, what you said, it can't. I just wish i could honor the last threads of our friendship and help you feel better.

I'm sorry for almost everything. I hate hurting people, especially people I still care about. But you've got to see in the end, I had no choice. It was let you go or hate you. I hated either decision, but I couldn't stand to hate you. I'll always love you.

I'm sorry that I couldn't get to you, anywhere I would have followed you, say something, I'm giving up on you... And I'm feeling so small, it was over my head, I know nothing at all, and I will stumble and fall, I'm still learning to love, just starting to crawl... and I will swallow my pride, you're the one that I love, and I'm saying goodbye, say something

I'm so sorry for all I have done to you. But at the same time, I don't know what to do to help you.

I'll try. That's all I can do.

I'll try to help, just for you.

But I'm still don't regret my decision. I'm sorry, so sorry, but not about that.

Lips as red as rose, skin as white as snow, body as still as stone. Yet this was not the fairy tales that I had been raised to believe in. This had no happily ever after.

    The heavy weight of the melancholy anguish fell awkwardly on my shoulders. I was barely old enough to even understand what sorrow was, let alone what to do when every person I had ever admired was now helplessly crumbled in the solid white room. Unthankful walls stared bleakly down at us, as they were numb to these feelings by now. It was a hospital, after all. They had seen their fair share of the dead.

    Something strong, pressuring, and overwhelming continued to force itself into my chest, burrowing itself deeper and deeper. Nothing had ever felt like that, as if it was eating me until I was nothing myself. When I glanced around to my family, I could see that it had them too. Consuming them in this helpless, dark pressure, the kind you only pretend to escape. Drying them of the good memories and replacing them with pain and despair. Squeezing them until tears fell from their eyes so much I had almost forgotten what they looked like without them.

    A voice beckoned me to the side of the bed. The smile that had filled my childhood was replaced with broken eyes and a grin that I knew was a lie. I wanted nothing more but to crawl into her arms and cry until everything stopped hurting so much, but I was too afraid. For in my mother’s eyes I saw she wanted more than anything to do the same.

     Dad’s arm came around me and held me tight, he needed it as well. It was terrifying, to be able to compare my parents to how I looked after a nightmare. They were kids again, frightened, and desperate, and alone. All they wanted was a hug and smile and someone to tell them it would be okay, that the terror was nothing but a dream. Sadly, we would never wake up this time.

     The nurse came around with a camera,  and I knew then that this was the last time we would see him. I glanced down at the perfect little face I realized I would miss for the rest of my life. With the pressure eating my heart, I said inside goodbye to the little boy I had dreamed to know. His body, small and teaming with untapped potential and dead life, was an image I would never be able to forget. Yet he never even got the chance to see his big sister’s face. Maybe it was better that way, never seeing what he lost as we saw him. Things were going to be different now, without him. Things would never be the same. A nurse started to count.

     And in a broken photograph, I smiled.

Bite me.
Could I be ******, turned on, or something else entirely?
No seriously, c'mon, Bite Me.
I dare you.
Those three little words are quite powerful, aren't they?
You want to touch me, to **** me, to have your teeth on my flesh and just take my orders and defy them all at once.
There's a fire's touch in your blood, and its burning you up right now.
I'm a woman, yes, but you won't hurt me.
Try to hurt me.
Maybe I'll like it.
Maybe I'll be like society, kicking at your *****, screaming at the top of my lungs for you to Man Up and teach me a right proper lesson.
Well, shouldn't you?
BITE ME.
Not a vampire bite, too pop culture for its own good, or a little teasing bite, no, I want you to hurt me.
Aren't you a man?
Doesn't that mean I deserve what I get?
Doesn't it mean I want it?
I always want it, I'm a woman after all.
So c'mon, big boy, Bite Me. Make me remember where I "belong".
Maybe I'll be nice enough to make you a sandwich afterwards while I cry my eyes out.
You crane your neck, you open your mouth, and I let out a bittersweet sigh.
You bite me.
And like a woman, I took it. I took it all.

What Are We?
I look into your deep brown eyes and I wonder with every fiber of my being, with every touch of Eros, what in the world is between us?
You'd probably chuckle and say air, or, in those moments you let your guard down, nothing, but for a moment be serious. I know you hate it, I hate it, its hated like Pluto. Yet for a moment, just a moment, we need to accept there is something, not nothing, between us.
What Is This?
Your words melt on my tongue like snow, our lips bringing the sun in the middle of the storm, yet still I look at you and wonder. I'm not Alice, so I can't wonder long, and its killing me sitting here listening to my errant thoughts just screaming.
What Are You?
You're like fire and rain and hatred and love and belligerence and impossibilities and shattered glass locked up in this fleshy body with a beautiful smile. Sometimes your glass juts out, or your fire burns me at the wrong time, and sometimes I don't see enough of your flesh and being for my liking, but you are you and with each stumble you catch me and I'm amazed by you.
What Am I?
With each whispered word you insist I'm beautiful even though I know it must be a lie or a trick upon your eyes. I think I am someone you could care for, and it terrifies me, thinking you might care, because I am the queen of heartbreaks and I either fall so hard or chop off their heads. And I don't want to lose, or ****, you.
What Are We?*
We are everything, we are nothing, we are the world in two people reflecting what every fears and dreams and spends they're whole lives searching for. And maybe, just maybe, we might be falling in love.

One moment.

Her eyes were closed and the sparks danced behind them and down through her body, a beautiful, uncontrollable choreography. The smell of leather and summer intoxicated her, left her knees wobbling. One moment, one memory, lips parted and together, spinning her round and round until she fell down.

Blue eyes begged and fingers scraped noncommittally against every pore, but she was locked. The wood would not budge, and her silent tears collapsed as he danced from afar. A bittersweet tango as another woman reflected in his eyes, fingers dancing with his as hers once did.

Cheap motels and motor oil were all they had needed that summer. He had smiled and left kissing promises in the naked morning, waking her daily with their future, fantasy, and love. One moment, every stalling second was one moment, one moment before he could kiss her, one moment before he could touch her, one moment before he could love her.

She would wait moment, she would wait forever.

Together their hearts had melded into a rhythm unlike any she had known, music without sound that had them dancing from the moment they met until the moment she had to leave.

One moment. They said that moment would ruin his life. Every leaping dream and twirling hope would be crushed by her little mistake. His dance would end. Each hand hung onto a different love, and she had to choose.

Long moments, on one long night, she wished sorrowful goodbyes to her growing love. In the shadows she crawled to clinics cold and heartless. Her fingers dropped money in their pockets to tear her heart open, rip it to shreds, take it way and make her cold, clinical, incomplete. She could no longer dance, her fingers could no longer move with his as they once did. Yet their hearts stayed tied, and with each misstep her love took three. Clueless, he let her ****** his music, his rhythm, his dance with love.

They told her she was killing him. They insisted she was no good for him. They blamed her when he could no longer dance.

She listened.

One moment, arms clasped onto one another, water fell in a remorseful decrescendo, marking the end of a love. The cavity of her heart was filled with rainwater, flooded with the pain of their loss. He begged her not to go, but he was blind to the blood on her hands. She had to be strong to save him.

One final moment, lips crashed into the final dance, the beautiful memory that haunted her into her dreams, into her days, unto her end.

He smiled, she smiled, and his dance finally began again in the arms of his bride. All that was left for her was a silent solo, the walk away from the love she would never replace. They had locked her out. They had broken her heart.

But they had been right, and without her he would dance again.