It seems in this day and age everybody expects so much of everything, and it all seems to be a disappointment. They are either too afraid of being disappointed, or expect the disappointment. Its like nothing is good enough. Its like entitlement to the best lies within our veins.

But maybe the best isn't what we need, or honestly in the end what we really want.

Every young person is expected to go to college, to be educated, to get a degree and then get large amounts of money and get the acceptance of those who expected so much of them. Maybe if we stop expecting so much we wouldn't have such hard burns from falling down the steep ice hill that is the "American Dream". And who says you need to want that anyway?

Expectations are an unfathomable dream in itself. I dream of a world of peace and everyone getting to do what they wish and all people mind their own business and hurt no one else. But some people wish to be better than others, to win, even to hurt others. There is no such thing as perfect, and no expectation will be perfectly met.

What if we just dreamed but took life as it was and be thankful for every left turn to happiness that rights all the wrongs? The light in the world, the dreams, are not real without the darkness. We try to shun it, to put the bad part of the world in a constructed part, name it the shadowy place we must never go. But the shadows are everywhere, and they tend to cut deeper when you refuse to see them.

Expect nothing, but hope. Hope things will get better. Expectations can be ruined. Hope can be everlasting if you keep your heart just that; hopeful. Expectations are specific and are therefore begging to be broken. But hope? Hope is a broad mist in a dark world, that can endure all the disappointments because it can change with time.

Hope is the greatest thing one can do to combat those expectations they may not fulfill; it is the one thing keeping ships afloat and religions alive and life from death.

Hope is a superpower not even expectations can take from you.

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.

I can't understand why my heart is so broken, rejecting your love...*

Every time I hear that line, it kills me inside because I cannot deny the obvious truth of it. I want to love you so badly, and I try to with all my being, but I always fall short of being good enough for you. I am not your perfect girl, I might not be your forever. And I want so desperately to be.

I cannot hide around you. Its a blessing and a curse, to always be myself around the person I love, but I curse for sometimes I'm so desperate to hide those uncovered emotions that I push you away. You deserve better than that, but I'm not sure I can be better.

My pills are running through my veins, begging me to be stable, yet here I am, weeping over my laptop wanting to be someone else, anyone else. Guess I can't run from the monsters inside my heart, the demons that course through my blood.

I can't promise forever. I can't even make that promise to myself. I want more than anything to be your forever, to be your soulmate. God knows I don't believe in those, but I want to, for you, and you only.

Is it disorder screaming or my fears or what that want me to doubt you, to hide from you, to run away. I've been running for years and each time I try to leave I come back. I don't want to reach a day that I don't, but I don't trust my own heart.

You deserve better. Its less of me being insecure and more of no one deserves this, not even me. Yet I am, and I don't wish it upon anyone else. It kills me that people care, but it would also **** me to be alone, so I cannot win. What do you do when everything you do leads to the end?

I love you. I can't change that, and I don't want to. But I don't know what to do. I'm not getting better, no matter how much you want me to. I will forever be a lost, broken, little girl. You're not perfect, but you're not this and I couldn't bear weighing you down forever.

But I'm too afraid to leave. I'm too afraid that I'll never find something like this again. I'm reaching twilight and I'm afraid without you I may get lost in blackness. That  this is my last chance of falling in love before I give up on it entirely.

I'll try not to run, and I'll try not to leave, but know no matter what I do I love you. I might even love you always.

For you only.

Like always, Grace never can get it straight, as the girl from wonderland wonders if wondering is her fate. But here she is quoting love songs as if she truly understands them. For once, maybe she does. There’s a swelling in her chest and butterflies in her head and everything is all cabobbled in a cacophonous mess that she cannot comprehend.

The furthest distance she’s ever known was her head to her heart, they never seemed to work in tandem. One would act, another would scold, making her wary to be impulsive when it came to love. She had been hurt more times than she could count, and that unfathomable account made her fearful. From her head to her heart, it seemed like she was doomed to always run away.

Then you came along.

No doubt, the poor girl wanted to run the second she felt a hint of emotion towards you. There was many a time she could feel her heart starting to turn, starting to flee, away from everything she had ever been frightened by and all the love in her heart that had been rejected.

You scared her.

She looked into your eyes and knew your logical head and stubborn heart were things she could fall for, things so very unlike her that she could admire them, want them, love them. Between her flittering heart and emotional mind, she needed someone like you, and she knew it. But she also knew you could break her, and she could break you, and breaking had been done enough through years of falling through windowpanes.

For a good while, she resisted you. She tried not falling for you, she tried to not make it serious. Yet then you looked into her eyes hundreds of miles away and told her to not be afraid to fall for you. And what did she do that second?

Well, that scared little girl fell. She fell hard.

Ever since the age of four she was always a strong young woman externally, while her innards were stunted to that scared little girl who never could let go. It broke her, melted her, molded her into the woman you love today. Or girl. Depends on the day.

Beware, for you hold that scared little girl in your hands. She no longer holds that part of herself internally; it and her heart are now yours. You dared her to fall; she did. You begged with your eyes for her to stay; she did. You smiled and tricked her into those three terrifying words; I love you. But your daring and begging and tricking are things she does not abhor you for, rather, she loves you more because of it. Because only a lovable thief could steal such an iron locked heart.

There it is, master burglar. She loves you deeply and you have caught your prize, the safeguarded heart that many before thought they could lock pick. Never knew kicking down the door was an option, but you made it one.

So what are you going to do with it? I pray you hold it close to your ear, hear her whisper her love over and over again, hold it close to your mind, feel her feel the deepest way you will ever feel, and hold it so close to your own heart that you can acknowledge they share beats. Goodness knows she’s known for some time.

As you fall asleep before her, like you do every night, I hope your subconscious can feel her kiss your cheek and her confidently terrified voice say how much she loves you. She’d name the stars after your eyes but your eyes are too loving to be so far away. And even when the waters get rough, and the seas get salty, and the games get brutal, think of that occasional nighttime ritual you never knew about and hear her whisper silently,

*I love you

**** 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.

**** me.
Looking back on that predeceasing story, I regret I was ever so blind. I let myself go crazy for a boy who didn't care, who cheated and left me bare in the wilderness, alone. I look back and now wish I had waited, had wished I had cursed myself for falling for another, but in some ways I don't.
**** me.
I was right to be scared of falling for him, because he didn't fall for me. And even then, I fell for a relationship, for falling in love, for the first time since I was too young to be afraid for it. I did not really love him, I loved the idea of falling in love, finally. He was not the right boy, and I not the right girl, but now I think things are different.
**** me.
Because I think I might have found my right boy, the one who I never expected. I had decided after the last to stay single, stay free, for awhile to catch my bearings, but instead I met him and began to catch feelings. I only dream that I might just be the right girl for him too.
**** me.
But don't. But do. My sexuality blossomed with change and being thrown into the fires of adulthood, but at the same time, this phrase's initial intentions do not apply anymore. I'm not angry at myself for falling, not anymore. I love this crazy boy and I accept it and even adore it.
**** me.
No, that's not what I want. I thought it was, but its not the right words. Love me, hold me, are ones much better. He not only deserves me happy but deserves me honest, and honestly I don't hate myself anymore for falling in love. I love it. Falling in love, for once, might be the best thing to happen to me. Love is my kryptonite, and finally romantics are involved in that equation.
**** me.
For ever thinking that love was something to be afraid of.
For being so stubborn.
For not opening up to the idea of  loving and being loved for so long.
For not accepting you.
But now, I open my eyes and I see.
You love 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.

You know what, this is not a love story this time. In this case, it never was. I thought it was, but I was mistaken and lied to by my lonely heart. And For once, I am standing my ground and telling you what you deserve to hear.

*******.

******* for making me so dependent on you that I was scared to stand up to you, even though you were cruel to everyone I loved. You may have thought you were cute, you may have thought it was your odd way of love, but it was honestly just an excuse to be an utter ***** to everyone and none of us should have tolerated it.

******* for competing with me. I am not a competitive person, but you'd laugh and comment how you were better, smarter, more mature. It drove me wild. Not only because your arrogance made me want to drive you into the ground, but also because it made me feel like I had to prove myself to you, brag in front of you, compete with you to feel worthy.

******* for turning on me at my weakest. Over a boy for god's sakes. I was your best friend, the one you turned to and confided in, and you started to completely disregard me over a boy I had feelings for first. You had no respect for our friendship in any facet, and it made me regret letting you in at all.

******* for always being at the back of my mind, for being so infuriatingly insidious that I have to always check up on you and worry about you even though you don't deserve it. For doing things that don't make me feel anything but pity and concern for your life, instead of being proud and maybe thinking I could accept you.

******* for making me want to **** myself. For being the selfish catalyst who showed me the cuts on her legs and made me feel so guilty that I didn't deserve life. Everyone deserves life, even the cruelest of people, and to purposefully make me feel that worthless, just to try to win me back, was the most heartless, selfish, thoughtless thing you could have ever done.

******* for being similar to me in any frivolous way, because now I am utterly terrified to be anything like you. Obsessive, rude, cruel, thoughtless, and selfish. I fear for my boyfriend, my friends, everyone around me because I know being your friend has given me the capacity to be just as ruthless as you. And I hate you for it.

******* for making me forget anything pleasurable about our relationship. All I can feel is a burning frustration when I hear your name, or an overwhelming sadness, or endless anger. None of it is pleasant.

******* for everything you've done to me, and **** the dark part of my heart that exists now because of your knives stabbing me in the back.

******* for still making me think about you, and ******* for any part of me that is like you.

I'm done with you. This is the end. Its ******* over.

And just remember.

*******.

Grace has made it through Wonderland, and has seemed to find peace with it for the time being, so where does she go from here? This would be easy if like in books things just ended, closed up in a neat little bow at the end of the story and there is resolution.

But there is no resolution here. Just a desperate craving for meaning again.

I guess since my Wonderland is stable, the only thing left wrong is me.

Not to say that the baubles and do-dads in my head are still broken, no, Wonderland is at peace, remember? Must get you checked for that memory of yours, good sir.

Regardless, my ducks are trying to row and I must follow their orders as to not rock the boat. Nonetheless, though, who is Grace? I've been working so hard to keep the Jabberwockys at bay and stop the wars from coming and protect the heads from rolling, that it's like some part of me is missing. I feel like a hodge-podge, a hedgehog, speeding around and around in lost wonder trying to find something but never quite sure what.

Is writing truly the only distinctive, certain characteristic I have, with no contradictions and carpenters and changes? Is it the only solid footing I have on the edge of tomorrow? Am I not much else, with as much substance as a sellophone?

Everything seems to cancel, make me some sort of odd creation of jumbled things that don't seem like they would fit right at all, but enough glue was pumped into me that practically anything seems to stick.

I'm covered in glitter and polish, getting thicker each day, making me someone new with each passing coat. I'm not gaining weight, so is my inner soul just melting away?

Can a person just become polish? A person who creates themselves instead of something made, genuine, and real? Am I even Grace anymore, should I adopt a new name as if to show the difference that has taken a hold of me since my name was born years ago? Will I reach the point that when someone wants to know me and starts to chip the paint away, that by the end there is nothing behind the color at all? Will I become nothing but choices and farces to the point they are me?

I have no clue how to get back. Can I? The paths behind are gone, the bread I've been crumbling to save my path was gone years ago, as the Chesire Cat promised I'd find my way if I had nowhere to go. But guess now I have no way and have somewhere to go, and he's not to be found. Typical.

Do I want to get back? Am I too attached to my polish now?

My polish was layered to make others happy, so who am I without others, without the affections and pleasing of others? I don't know. That's terrifying. I can't do alone, and I have led myself here more and more with each passing day. I don't think I can be alone ever again, or the Jabberwocky will certainly **** me. I wish it was a maybe, but for once I can't even rely on those.

Guess I better keep on layering the polish and glitter, trying to find a semblance of who I once was. Maybe a mix of now and who I am? Possibly that could work.

Now only if I knew who I was at all.

That would make choosing polishing colors much easier.

Go to class, Grace.

Take your medication, Grace.

Learn to deal with your emotions, Grace.

Try to stay positive and it will all get better, Grace.

Why aren't you trying hard enough, Grace?

Why are you so quiet, Grace?

What's wrong, Grace?

I do everything. I call a psychiatrist, I take my medication, I try to hold myself together and be positive and strong and admirable. I do everything a little good girl should do. I don't listen to impulses, I stay quiet until I can't help but cry, I hold myself by threads until I can't hold on anymore.

Obviously I'm not trying hard enough. Obviously I'm being melodramatic. Obviously this is my fault.

*Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

I love my name.

Well, my pseudo name.

The name I chose for myself, I am in love with it.

Not that I don't like my real name, that name is lovely. It lives in a palace with princes and stars ad magic, and I appreciate my mother for choosing it. It is magic, and I feel that fits me.

But my chosen name, my writing name, is a part of me too.

Grace Jordan.

It holds a pun and a dream and my heart all in one.

I always see myself as messy, clumsy, but not in the traditional senses. My mind is a mess and my actions are clumsy, sometimes even thoughtless. I am impulsive and too much of me for me to handle. I see myself as something far from grace.

Yet it is a dream. I would love to be poised and handled and stable and graceful. I want to live up to the name I have given myself, so in all honesty it is more of a hopeful promise than a pun, though I always write it off as one.

But I doubt I will ever attain that. Not being cynical, merely knowing myself. I love mess, I love spontaneity, I love the chaos that comes with living. I guess in a way I mean to find grace, find peace in the chaos, and be a stable mess. I know it all sounds like contradictions and complexities, but that's all I know, and all I will ever be. So I must work with that and make it my own.

Now the heart. Jordan was someone I lost long ago, and he holds my heart and always will. But I can still love, and I can still dance, and I know he would smile at that, so its all that matters. His happiness, and in turn, my happiness.

So self-centered, to write an entire piece about my name, right? Well maybe I am a little self-centered. Maybe I have actually learned to love myself a bit, and revel in my own glory. I love my writing self most, I think. And my writing self, in my heart, I will be.

Grace Jordan, reporting for life.

That's who I will be, secretly.

Its like tasting the tip of a sugar cone with your ice cream, and like finding the *** of gold at the end of your rainbow. You are already pretty astounding by the first thing, but then its like, POW, and it hits you, that this is what happiness feel like.

Its like falling in love with a book, or a person, and realizing that they speaks to you in just the right way. That their heart shares beats with yours and now you cannot imagine a day without them.

Its like a mild summer day, or a steaming one, depending on if you're near water or shade or not. But I'm rambling.

Its crying when you're happy, is squeaking when you even think about something, simply dying at its mention.

Its like being born, and everything is new and shiny and amazing and tremendous and terrifying and perfect all at once. You scarcely dare to categorize everything, because everything simply is a wonder to you. You live in a wonderland.

Its the best of times, and the cheeriest of times, when out of darkness comes light and out of sickness comes life. Its beautiful. Its maddening. Its everything you ever dreamed it to be and more.

Today, I feel happiness, in its pure unbridled form, and I haven't felt so alive. This is what makes the pain worth it. This is what transcends the tears. This is what I live for.

Happiness.

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.

Its interesting to be in a home so different than mine. A home where almost always two people at least are in the living room, bonding. My family I love, but we are always in our respective corners; father in the basement, brother in his room, mother in the living space, and I around randomly, uncertain where and who to belong with.

This weekend I visit Hockey House, the affectionate name I'm giving my boyfriend's home. I mean it full of affection, because they are brought together by movies and food and especially hockey.

In my home we are only brought together by food and then we run to the hills for our alone time. Very odd entirely, because of the extroversion holding my heart.

I guess as I grow, I find a disconnect with the family who is so different from me. My mother, though the easiest to be with, can be a staunch, stubborn hypocrite when it comes to all things social. My father is a determined conservative who opposes all I believe in. Brother is being molded into the man my father wants as his son, which is slowly distancing me from him.

When I'm home, I'm a repressed me, who keeps her tongue latched inside her mouth, and keeps her head down as to not get attacked. Even the natural peanut butter I asked for became a battlefield of who was right and who was wrong, not just a happy cheer for me being healthier.

Its odd in a house I've only been twice I can be less afraid than in my own home. I guess things change when you become the person you want to be instead of the adult your parents want to be proud of.

Maybe its easier here because I care less if they judge me, while my parents judgment terrifies me. Parents tend to be scary gods who rule your life, and to let them topple in your eyes is something all more traumatizing to watch.

I still love my parents, as children do, but there's a disconnect between who we are that cannot be passed.

Love can exist everywhere, but it  cannot transcend all obstacles, and that, truly, is what terrifies me most.

I never want to lose my parents, but I cannot lose myself either.

Only time will tell, and I guess I'll just enjoy college and my times at Hockey House.

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.

I miss him.

Never did I thought the words would reach my lips, nor the feeling touch my fingertips, but now they repeat on record, I miss him, I miss him, more than I can know, for my heart meets my brain in nowhere at all.

I miss him.

His smile, his hair, the way he looked my way, the way he let me be me even if it hurt him.

But I can wait. Things will work out, I know it. He still looks at me like he wants me. I can swear it. I may be crazy but maybe he’s ok with crazy. Maybe he’s afraid of me, but I’m afraid of me too. We can cower together and hold each other’s arms and promise it will get better. It has to get better.

Maybe he does fear me. Maybe he sees demons in my eyes and bad memories on my fingers and doesn’t want to see me even though he does. Maybe he doesn’t want the horror in his heart once more.

   But that maybe. Maybes are what I live for, each lasting breath, every never-ending second, they all rely on maybes.

   The future relies on my trust in that maybe.

    He relies of my trust.  

  In the end of it all, he relies on me.

  I miss him.

I'm not sorry.
I'm not sorry that your heart beats to drums of bells or whatever it is that isn't mine.
That I've grown out of the little pocket in your jeans that you put me in, thinking I was too small to get out, and that I may not be the person you want so desperately anymore.
That I have offended you by finally letting myself be me.
That the wind beats on you windows at night and makes you wish we could go back to who we used to me, entwined so wholeheartedly, loved as if we were in love.
I can't be sorry.
I'm not sorry.
I never will be.

Funny when your own head is a double edged blade, huh?

I seem to find the imperfection of days to be the most beautiful. The goofy moments, the little mistakes, the figuring things out, the unexpected.

But those same moments sometimes lead me to the nights where I lay down with a little chip on my heart and concede, "Not all days will be beautiful."

I'm happier. I'm stabler. I must concede things are better.

So why can I not concede that I will never be perfect?

These days I end like this sometimes hurt much more than the ones I give up on. These are the days I did all I could and just accept defeat at the end of the day, knowing every day isn't perfect.

Why am I such a starving perfectionist that even stability cannot sate me?

I hate myself when I do this. When I keep on pushing and pushing my own mental ability until I crack. If I push harder the stability of my mental wall will not strengthen. It will only crumble all the faster.

I am never satisfied. I am selfish. I am wrong. There's this darker side to this pure, bubbly girl I show the world. The monster side. The side that I can never be pleased with, and the side that makes sure I can never be pleased with anything else.

I know this is one imperfect day with one imperfect night. But its hard not to be scared that this is a descent into darkness once more. I'm so scared of the dark by now. Please don't make me go back for too long.

This day has been long and disappointing and imperfect. But I just wish I could hate it a little less.

I'm somewhere and nowhere.

Hear me out. This isn't meant to be profound or riddling, just me. Granted I throw up walls like a kid who ate too much cake on his birthday, but today its just me. I promise.

I know that can hard to believe, even for me. Some days I'm euphoric, some days I'm broken, or bitter or boisterous or batty. But today, I'm in between. Not in the extreme sense I'm used to, where I'm either depressed like crazy and happy like crazy and mad like crazy. None of me is crazy right now. And oddly enough that terrifies me.

I'm not happy, but I'm not sad. I'm not even feeling nothing. I'm ******* normal. I'm fine with where I am but at the same time I'm progressing forward, happily. Is this what it feel like to not be an alien?

My dad told me joking stories about how I was an alien dropped on the front yard when I was really young, but oddly enough he wasn't far off. I spent most of my childhood feeling incomplete, incomprehensible, like a human face hiding some sort of monster behind. I had a distinct instinct that the way I had to live through childhood was to hide, to keep secrets, to create parapets of stone around me to keep the people out, and to more importantly keep me in.

I grew up and hiding grew harder as the monster grew bigger, and I couldn't renovate fast enough for it. It eventually broke out of its stone home, and I was exposed. The alien girl was visible for all to see. It created chaos and it took a long time before I could feel human. I grew friends and a sewn together personality and threw my feelings into my writing, my work.

But today, something new happened. It was unlike any mood I had ever felt. I wasn't me anymore. Or, at least the me I had grown to know. I was exhausted but awake, and productive but not nearly as enthusiastic, and okay with who I was but willing to work towards something 'better'. I always considered better as something very subjective, but somehow today normal things seemed more... normal. Having a schedule, changing myself for the better even if I'm happy, setting random short term goals to make my life feel more... I don't know. Meaningful I guess? My life felt meaningful before but in this new body that feels so "normal" or "average", its like I'm working to be normal.

Its terrifyingly soothing. Its like the normal-ness lulls you into into thinking a normal life is ok. And not saying being normal is wrong. But I've lived a life being abnormal, being an outlier, an outsider, an oddity. This lullaby feels so wrong.

I always told I've learned to appreciate my condition because I don't think I could handle being normal, having less intense emotions, not understanding emotion so well. Its sounds stupid, it sounds like its glorifying mental conditions, but its not. I know the suicidal thoughts aren't good, and I know mania is danger. But I cannot help like feeling like I'm losing me.

I cannot even get myself to sob right now, or to even truly feel a suicidal thought. They won't stick. Not even for a minute. None of it. I;m ******* terrified but I can't feel I can't make myself feel who am I?

I can't be normal. I can't.

This is more maddening then the moods. Maybe I was hitting too close to home when I hypothesized a person from Wonderland would feel utterly insane in real life. Or worse, feel even crazier when sanity began creeping up on them.

I don't want to lose Wonderland. I don't know what to do. I don't know who I am. Who is residing in this body right now, whoever is containing my thoughts, it cannot be me.

I cannot let all of my insanity go.

Normal doesn't feel better, and **** all the people who think its the only way to go. Normal isn't an aspiration, its a cage, and I will not be imprisoned.

Al I can do is find a way back to Wonderland losing all control. I guess that's what I truly wanted. Not sanity, but control. Controlled chaos had always been a favorite of mine, after all. There is always a method to the madness, and I must find mine, because I certainly cannot live without it.

Who knew Grace would have to remember how to be crazy?

I refuse to be normal. I refuse to be in-between. I will always belong to Wonderland, to madness, and **** whoever says that's not a proper life.

Its the life for me, so frankly, I don't give a ****.

Things aren't even bad. I really shouldn't even be freaking out. The papers are sorted and the kids are alright, but I know its incoming and I don't know what to do.

You see, I hate my birthday.

It gives my family another opportunity to disappoint and show that they don't understand me for one more consecutive year. I'd rather they send a simple note that they love me instead of things I'd never need nor want.

And the friends. Even my best of friends, or at least those who I thought were, can utterly wreck my birthday. Last year, my roommate moved out and barely anyone spent time with me. Every birthday party when I was young i spent at least some part of it crying. And when I stopped celebrating them, my friends would get me passive aggressive presents like getting me journals when they felt I needed to deal with myself more and talk to them less.

I hate birthdays.

I prefer the most meaningful five dollar trinket or hand-made thing over the three-hundred dollar jewelry that i will never wear in my life. I don't care if people don't go overboard for my birthday. Honestly I prefer they don't.

I just prefer they care and it really hurts when its pretty obvious by their present they more picked it to convenience them, to make them feel better.

No, Grandpa, sending me hundreds of dollars of makeup will not make me forget all the years you ignored me for my brother and the other cousins. It still doesn't. It doesn't make up for you tearing me down each time I have an idea that does not align with your ideals. When you are so pained by the thought of me having my own thoughts that don't coincide with yours you insist I am young and dumb and know nothing. Funny you act like you know everything when you don't even bother to know me.

And my high school best friends. You complained about walking on eggshells around me, and stressing about my feelings, while I felt you barely were treating me like a human being. So the perfect remedy was to hand me several cheap journals so that I can write things out. Of course I'm left-handed and writing things out on paper hurts after about five minutes, but awesome, thanks, I totally feel the love.

Why in the world should I care about my day when every time I try to, everyone else knocks it down?

Of course I stopped trying to make it special when it always went wrong. Of course I get uncomfortable about it now. Of course I feel more dread than excitement on the one day things are supposed to be nice for me. Of course I'm so scared about it incoming, because I don't want to spend another birthday with no memories, or ones bad enough to make me dread the next one even more.

At this point I don't even know if I care about my birthday. I wish it would disappear. I want to love it and feel special and feel loved but every one I can remember didn't manage to make anything better. I feel worse with everyone that comes.

Maybe this is why I love Christmas, because my parents and grandma get me such nice things and my family gets so cozy and cheery around Christmas, that even the painful reminders don't get to me as much, and even if they do I get to see my family's smiling faces when they open presents from me, and it makes me feel a little better about the whole thing.

I should love my birthday, but I don't. And I'm sad that after 20 years I'm so worn down that even the thought of it incoming makes me want to forget it.

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 been a long while since I rambled in the night, while my head won't get tired and everything feels like lightening.

But two years later and its just like I remember. Makes my skin itch a bit less, but here I am, alone late at night, whirling about in my in-congruent thoughts. There's an electric peace about it, the mix of its familiarity and its origin.

Not surprising after my first big low of the summer that I have my first big high. Just kinda odd how easy it all feels. Its no pounding, screaming, kicking, biting. Its just like a neighbor stopping by.

I guess now to the ramblings. The expounding expression of my random, endless thoughts to get them out of my head and try to get me to bed.

I thought about love a lot on my way to work. Granted, I work only a five minute walk from home. But I remembered how the definitive point in time where I decided what kind of love meant most to me happened in the worst summer of my life, the most hopeless depression I ever felt.

Mom liked that I was quiet about it.

Dad was oblivious.

Friends forgot I existed.

Then there was him, the one I never expected. He was angry. So angry.

He was so upset he was losing the person he loved to my depression and he felt helpless to do anything about it. He needed me to fight. He needed me to get better. He couldn't stand watching who I was fade away.

He yelled at me.

I don't know where I'd be if he hadn't.

I'd been content to float, to hide behind my childhood walls and use the same tactics that hid my mental turmoil all of my life. If no one saw it, it was ok. Its what my parents always taught me.

Yet he looked at me, heard my mentions of pain and non-existence, and couldn't stand it. He didn't want me to change, or never be crazy. He just wanted me to have a will to fight it. To get better.

He didn't want to lose me just because it was so much easier.

I think its why I began to hate my parents, for awhile. Compared to wanting to set me on fire to save me? How could their naive complacence compare? I hid a lot from them, I grant. But that summer I told my mom I wanted to be hospitalized.

She said no.

If no one saw it, it was ok, right?

I couldn't stand all the years I spent trapped between those walls, feeling like I was hiding some mythic beast inside me, like I had to do everything right because everything in me was wrong. Outside, I was their cheery, sweet, smart, empathetic perfectionist. Inside, I was a passionate, dark humored, fireball of curiosity and imagination and limitless possibilities. The two never quite meshed, but I never got the chance to find a way to do that. Only the chance to force them apart.

Makes relationships hard when you've become two people. And once the other one shows up, everything changes. You're a lie, now.

Things are starting to mesh better, little by little. But its been a long journey.

Seems quiet acceptance isn't the love I like most. Fire is.

And its even wilder now that, after years of moving away from that isolation and pain, I'm finding a new belonging in the things that I used to cope. I thought they were all just silly things I did because I had nothing else. Now I prefer to do them instead.

As if on cue, I'm distracted by some writing and my head is slowly calming. I guess its my cue to bid this adieu. Always fascinating, how a thought-dump helps settle an insomniatic head.

Funny how a poor choice in words has become a part of my reality. I have a new medicine to treat this for now too, don't worry.

There's a madness in having to learn who you are without the monster. I felt ever alone and painful when it was breaking down my door. But now without it, some days its hard to tell what my toes look like. I can't even explain the reason I fixate on toes, and how they look at feel. Perhaps because they are the only thing that keep me on the ground.

I got so good at understanding monsters and demons. Its hard to look in the mirror and understand the human that was behind the yellow eyes and ****** nails.

I feel an emptiness at night. I dunno if its because my head isn't screaming or if its because no one's here with me. Everything's just so **** blurry. I don't know as much as I wish I did.

I think I know who I am. I know the words keep me grounded and they are what's closest to my heart. But past that? it gets hard. Past the words its like I'm not I'm a person. I'm just anthropomorphic fingers across a keyboard, stringing a story together. Possibly even mine.

My eyes are so blurry.

I want to figure out this human I reside in better. I don't know her nearly as well as I should. I know the demons that possess her, but when we sit alone at a table the words that keep her sane and the monsters that keep her not are the only things that tie us together. Its hard to carry a conversation when both of those are too far out of reach.

Should I manage my time better for my writing? I already feel like I plan everything more than I should.

Should I try new things? It already feels like I have far more on my plate than I can handle.\

Should I keep forward, hoping this will pass? God knows letting things pass almost killed everything once before.

I said it too well. I don't feel grounded. Just drifting. I need to feel stable and on the ground, instead of in this floating plane of uncertainty. It feels so unknown and unsafe and makes a sick feeling overtake my stomach. It attacks best while I'm alone, while its nice, while my mind has less to distract itself from what's happening.

I want to feel right again.

I guess I just feel very left right now, and not in a great way.

Soon enough I'll be home. Well, full home. I've got 75% of it. Now just need the last bit left to feel like there's an anchor to the mortal plane.

Hunting for the human within can be a little disorienting. I just need my human, with his loving hands, to give me a tie back to the world. I've been without him far too long already.

I'm somewhere around here. Just need a little more help to find her.

Soon.

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.

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.

You know, the better I get overall the worse my relationship with sleep gets.

I keep on trying. I know its healthier. I know its good for me. But no matter how hard I try, its so easy to forget. So easy to just keep going.

I'm not good at stopping. I don't like to stop.

I'm like a telegram with run-on sentences. Sometimes, innovative and brilliant. other times, incomprehensible.

I'm on the precipice of so much excitement and joy that, per usual, sleep takes a back seat. I'm bad at not letting it take a back seat. Its just so good at taking the back seat.

To be honest, I'm better with sleep with him around. And its less because he's some magic cure-all, and more he makes me calmer and I can't stay on my phone haphazardly or turn on the lights and write with another person in the bed.

More to be honest, this has less of a point and more a myriad of ramblings in hope to get myself sleepy and able to fall asleep. Because despite my rebellious mindset, I do wish to sleep eventually.

I even tried waking up early yesterday. Didn't work.

I dunno what to do. I'm pretty bad at this. If my insides aren't screaming I tend to question it less. But, perhaps, as an adult, I should question it a little more.

Maybe sleep's just heading in my bedhead.

Haven't been here in awhile, have we?

So I know its stupid to be careless, and as a writer I should always care. Well I'm saying **** that for a night. I almost put please in that sentence, then I realized I care little what you or whoever thinks. Tonight I'm alone, and I myself will deal with that.

I hate being tired. If sleeplessness came along with no tired side effects for me, I would do it constantly. But no, absolutely ******* not, I cannot get what would be convenient for me. I'm yawning left and right but i can't seem to get tired enough to lay down and pass out. Awesome.

Even hallucinations are finding it easier to get on my mind than sleep. I mean thank god they only lasted about an hour but for Christ ******* sake's, really?  This is a highly important week of my life, getting the final strands of my summer ****-storm ******* before I let myself win d down the summer, and I get this ****? Insomnia, incessant depression/tiredness, only to go away enough to give me a few hours of peace before refusing to let me go to ******* sleep.

I don't need this.

*******, body. I'm getting up between the hours of 7-8 if you like it or not. I'm spitting in your ******* face and telling you to sit the **** down. You wanna fight me? You're getting one hell of a fun sleepless day. I am getting **** down tomorrow, including the **** you didn't let me do today. *******. May I repeat that in the clearest, loudest of tones. ****. YOU. BODY.

I refuse to let everything fall apart just as I think I've got it sorted. This is not, will not, happen to me.

Just when I think I got things going right for me, you like to **** it all up. Not only you, but the universe too. I think I've found a place I belong? I get moody and needy as **** and scare people off and push them away, and get attached to the worst *******. I **** up my grades so much I can only hope to salvage them into not failing grades. I finally seem stable and happy, got everything going right, and school ******* ends. And I think its smart to get off my meds. I am such a *******. Worse, I get blood clots in my lungs so there go all my meds and for a good month I go into deep spiraling depression that almost ends the best relationship I've ever been in ,and the only one I hope to ever have again. I start getting my ******* **** together, and at the pinnacle week where I need to finish sorting it all out, you decide to flake.

Well *******, you're not allowed to.

I'll probably hate myself for this soon, but I need to push through. I will not let you **** me in and ruin what I've been working towards. So buck up, deal with tomorrow as it comes, and stop being such a ******* *******. Thanks.

I've seen you in my past and in my memories, but now I see you reaping tears from my best friend's face. I've been like you, I've been in love with people like you, and funnily enough you're my friend so I hate to throw stones and things that have kept me afloat.

But get your **** together.

She is funny and understanding and lovable, and you cannot just throw her aside with no explanation and no sympathy like a rag doll. I want so badly to slap you, me, anyone who has done this to someone. People deserve to know why someone looks at them and doesn't think they're enough. People deserve to be respected and cared for. Hearts are heavy burdens to bear alone, and I'll be ****** if you let her stand alone in the rain with her shattered in her hands because she thought you could be someone to her.

Get your **** together.

I'm your friend, but I don't deal in being dishonest and confusing and never making up your mind about the important things. I don't want either of you hurt, but don't pull *******, don't string her along, don't keep changing your mind. Make decisions, act, and stop being so afraid for five seconds to do something for yourself that could make you happier.

Get your **** together.

You both deserve better than silly fears of change. I'm afraid of everything and I cry and get anxious but I get over it. I don't let them ruin me and the relationships I have created. I am not just critiquing you, I understand so well fear and doubts and pain, and I used to let it eat me until I wasn't me anymore. I'd make decisions based off safety and being alone rather than connecting with people and being a better me. But that left me suicidal and dead inside. Maybe you won't be so extreme, but don't be so **** afraid. It'll **** you far faster than caring.

Get your **** together.

Not just for her or me or anyone. Mostly for yourself. Because I see you, in the skeleton of my pain, in the shadows on my walls, and no one deserves that. I'm asking you to get it together because I care and I understand. I'm asking because I see you.

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.

I know this doesn't get me any promises of forgiveness, and I know how much things have been a mess lately and I refused to deal with it. But there are things I should have said instead of counter-arguing and berating you.

I've forgotten to tell you how I've been so excited to learn coding because I like to think it gets me a little closer to you, maybe even lets me understand you a bit more.

I've forgotten to tell you how though I have trouble sleeping having you beside me really comforts me, and though its beyond creepy I'll look at you to feel better.

I've forgotten to tell you how I love going to the movies with you, and hearing you get excited and involved in the story, and its like you forget all your school troubles for awhile, something I seem to have forgotten to do.

I've forgotten to tell you how I'm stupidly afraid to ask you to do things, like kiss you til we're dizzy, giggle til our cheeks hurt, or have really good *** (thought about that a lot today, but I was too much of a ******* to say something).

I've forgotten to tell you that you light up my day, and though I'm a moody ******* even just being around you helps. I know I don't act like it, but it does, so I need to get some ***** and just ask you on a date like a middle schooler and get that out of the way.

I've forgotten to tell you how I started a new novel, and that my mood diary has been going up lately in moods. That I was really hoping that at least my time with you next week won't be so bad.

I've forgotten to tell you that I want us to play mass effect, even if it means I'll swoon over Garrus half the time. I promise all my kisses are reserved by you.

I've forgotten to tell you how worried I've been for you, about your friends being more distant. I've been trying to just let you do whatever, at my own expense. Alone time is great (especially for these poems and homework and figuring out that new novel) but I should have been more open about it. Communication is key, especially for us, and I should have been more open about things.

I've forgotten to tell you how afraid I've been of being lost without you after next fall, but I just need to get my ***** in place and enjoy my time with you. Its silly to ruin time you have for some separation in the future.

I've forgotten to tell you that you look so **** sometimes, but I don't want to bother you because I know school worries you. And I know that goes with the bad communication stuff again, and I need to get my **** together, because I know you wouldn't mind a **** time or two.

I've forgotten to tell you that I really love horror movies, especially bad ones, and I really love Photoshop, and I really love tech at the moment, and I really love Diablo 3, and I really love spending time with you and yes I agree alone time is good and I shouldn't get angsty at bad times and make you think I never want you alone. I need to get my afraid bar to cool its rollers.(PS that's my new favorite phrase) You are my favorite person and I should and want to tell you everything. I need to get this together.

I've forgotten to tell you I've been trying to lose weight again, less because I hate myself and more because I want to look hotter for you, and have been eating less sweets and less food in general.

I've forgotten to tell you I want to learn to make paper cranes and watch gargoyles and be more in-tune with you. I'll watch Super Troopers, I'll even watch Master in Disguise, if you truly want to. I can't just say no to everything you want to do together. Why? Because if I always say no to together things, you'll start always doing them alone.

I've forgotten to tell you that your scruff is adorable and its kinda hot you're a little taller and your hair is beautiful. That I love goofiness and tickles and nose kisses and **** grabs and making you smile. I know I've messed things up but I want to all I can in my power to get it together, because you are special. You once told me you were like a shooting star and hard to catch and I rolled my eyes, but you are. I love you and have never met someone like you before.

I've forgotten to share my stories and my life and all the things that made you love me and even me love me, and I'm going to fix that. I will not sit by and let you forget me.

One last thing.

I've forgotten to tell you I love you oodles, and that will never change.

I was born under the earth in the eye of a blizzard, stormy from the first.
I took my first step off the edge of a rabbit hole and my next underwater.
I spoke first in melodies, finding the average tongue a little too heavy.
I breathed through flower petals, filtering the toxins of being human.
I made friends with the firelight that kept me and the shadows awake.
I watched soft skin of beating hearts hide under layers of organs, lonely.
I saved my fingerprints each time they fell off, to collect the marks of me.
I climbed pebbles to help them hope they could one day be mountains.
I screamed at the sky to see if it ever let itself be free to scream back.
I toppled ice cream sodas for their reign need make way for push-pops.
I slept in tide pools, giving my luminescent skin as a starfish nightlight.
I danced in the darkness of caves, making friends with bats over men.
I soared through bedrock, so the lava monsters had an ally with eyes.
I feared every twitch of life before me, but observed in stoic fascination.
I turned into a humming black bird to meet the leaves giraffes eat.
I wished on shooting satellites, because stars had enough burdens.
I dreamed of otherwheres, of thistle branches with tiger lily eyes.
I vacationed with fireflies when the moonlight asked me to care for them.
I wandered the world as a written ghost, hiding behind trees until I say:
I am.

It came back.

It was gone for so long and I had straightened up everything and things were actually even better, and the second my back was turned too long, there it was. The Jabberwocky.

I knew the second I saw it how it had gotten in. I had been in the front, tending to my new garden that I had acquired, with beautiful roses all about. I had never been so happy. And while I turned away, and left my back door open to tend to the outside, it came in and ate all my reserves and made itself at home again.

Unlike before, though, when I went inside it didn’t coax me into letting it stay, letting it swallow me whole. It began to shriek at me and attack me and I was so scared and I kept on telling it to go away, that I didn’t want it anymore but it stayed and fought and chased me through the house, wrecking all the scars I had repaired and pretty new things I had put up since its last visit. It wasn’t until I let it scratch my legs that it listened to my desperate, hollow pleas. It went away, slinking back into the darkness it came from.

I stayed up in my room for a while, tending to my small wounds and thanking God, Gods, anyone for letting me live. I looked around and cuddled into my bed and thought it wasn’t so bad. I smiled and even laughed a little bit. No, the Jabberwocky could not get me now. Things were different. It knew I didn’t want it, that’s why it fought. That’s why it lost.

But eventually, as I finally descended back into the rest of my home, I saw the damage it had caused. The stairway was scarred and scratched, the living room was a terror, and the kitchen worse. It had left me bare, empty, raw once more. I had been careless, reckless, stupid. What had made me think it wouldn’t come back again?

I started to clean, to paint, to polish, trying to rid my house of any of its signature marks. Maybe not fully, leave reminders for myself of its danger, but tidy enough no one could tell just by looking at it. Everything was a dandy cleanup, until I saw my legs again. The Jabberwocky may not have destroyed me, but I had given it something. I had let it have a part of me.

The rage started to build. I had left the door open, I hadn’t made letting the Jabberwocky in a non-option. I had let myself flirt with its darkness a little bit every once in a while, letting it think it was welcome. I had let it scratch me instead of telling it to get out more forcefully, instead of pushing it and fighting it harder. I had given it a token, a present, to make it leave me alone. That only teaches any good monster to come back for more. I had made the mistake, I had made the choice, I had ****** up. I, I, I am selfish, stupid, wrong. It wasn’t long before I was screaming.

My rage was so strong as I angrily cleaned my house that the Bandersnatch caught the scent and almost stopped by. Bandersnatches convince you to take the fire out on those you love, at any drop of a hat. They play practical jokes that benefit them and them alone, laughing their souls off while you alienate yourself. They were good friends of Jabberwockys.

But when I saw it near my back fence, I silenced.

No. No more. I didn’t want any more monsters, not after how long I hid them in my basement and held them in my heart. They weren’t allowed here. This wasn’t their home. It was mine.

So I locked the back door, and closed the front gate, and bolted the first door, and never stayed up too late. When they barged in for my head I was at no fault, and had every right to call for help, but when I let them waltz right in like an old friend I had some blame in my heart. But those monsters of Wonderland, I had never loved. I had merely no memory of a life without them. Now that there is a fence and a door and they’re not allowed anymore, I must do all I can to keep them away. They don’t deserve my heart, nor my head. Though I am a person of Wonderland, I don’t deserve to be dead.

There's some sort of magic between the eyes of a resting jaguar. Their languid yawn, opening the gaping maw that lies between their strong teeth, more energetic than their tired paws.

Still and regal, wearing muscles like fine silks, their fur like that final kingly cape and their ears their crown.

A zoo jaguar once met my eyes and in a deadlocked stare, saw the camera in my hands, and turned his head to pose. A prince always knows when to please his peasantry. As a pleased peasant, I snapped pictures and nearly cried at his serene posture behind a wall of glass. There was some sort of uncharted beauty in the way he spoke without words oversaturating his meanings. It was a way I wished to speak. He was a comrade behind glass, silent yet observant and knowing. Though my head might be a good fit for a maw, I nearly wanted to keep him close company.

The dark spots that adorn his body are the only betrayers of the fierce undertones of his monarchy. Well, except for the teeth, of course.

Though I try to unlock my gaze and detach from the gossamer threads that were beginning to tie, the jaguar eyes and jaguar prince incessantly seep into my brain, for when I close my eyes all I can see is theirs staring back at me. All I want is just one hand, a single touch, a gift to feel their crowns and robes, to experience the powerful royalty beneath their quiet eyes, even if being taken by their maw may end up being the price.

My affection becomes jarred by the human hand jostling my wrist, and I blink for the first time since seeing the posing feline prince. My head turns, trance averted, and I'm looked at with perplexion as my body has sidled up to the glass, and the Jaguar, now alert, is swinging its tail and staring in wonderment at me.

My eyes magnetize back to their rightful place, his green eyes on my green eyes, and I wonder what lives we would live like if I could see into his mind and know what's he's like. Perhaps we would be friends, or family, or hunters, or partners, in that other life.

Or, perhaps he'd want to eat me nonetheless.

One more camera shot of my jaguar prince, and a silent nod as he situates himself back to his pose. Restful, regal, serene. Turning away, I feel myself leave a part of me that always stays with him and taking that part of him that stays with me.

Every wild eye does, and our secret we will keep.

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 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.

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.

Its the modern day cliche for a teenage kid to say some form of music saved them. Its a messy statement, putting a lot of pressure onto something other than yourself, giving yourself the unhealthy idea that you must find salvation somewhere that's not you. Truth is, those outside sources only make you realize the strong desires in yourself to get better, and they spark the fire that chases you out of hell. Cheesy as it is, its still you though. You made the effort to get better, you saved yourself. That outside source just helped.

Which is why its so utterly ironic that when I was a young high school student, I was convinced music had saved me. Repeat on repeat I listened to certain lyrics, trying to enlighten myself to make a change. That repetition is half the reason I don't believe its the music itself that saved me. If it was the music, the first time I heard it should have changed everything. The meaning of the song never changed, I was the one who changed. I made it better. It took time, and a lot of pain and stress, but I came out of it.

So as I fall back into the depressed patterns, I find it oddly comforting to go back to repeat and play those same words over and over again until something gives. I can feel it building inside of me, the slow change, and I may not be fully there but its coming. I may not be happy right now, but i will be. I am no longer moping around and avoiding responsibilities, I am doing something. I may not feel that great and I may not be so utterly enamored with what I'm doing, but its something. Maybe it will help the process along.

Maybe I am not who I want to be right now, but the journey is just as important as the end result. Now all I have left to do is to keep going, because life starts now.

You see that phrase above? I always hated it. I hated it with every fiber of my being. But I could never deny that was the exact kind of living I always did.

Always convinced, even conditioned, to think people would leave. To think no one would be able to feel anything but temporary love for me. That I'd always be alone, that I'd always feel unworthy, that I'd always feel afraid.

Its weird to not be afraid.

I lived so many years of my life in fear. I had everyone leave me on and off for 18 years. I couldn't possibly fathom anyone would ever stay. Why would they? I was just broken, crazy Grace. Why would anyone really want me.

Here I am today though, not afraid.

I don't feel sane. I thought I'd need that to get here. But controlled crazy isn't so bad. I actually think I prefer it. My fingers can dance across a keyboard but also still and be human. I feel ok to be crazy when I also don't feel like its eating me away. Being eaten's always the worst part. Its much nicer to sit and have a cup of tea with it.

So yes, life isn't perfect. That's another fallacy I convinced myself of; if I stopped the crazy my life would be perfect. My head was a little funny like that. Of course things aren't perfect; family stuff is a bit messy and I have flashback moments of bad childhood feelings and I haven't been able to write much. But I'm doing well in class. I finished a novel. I have people who love me and I love them. I have the best boyfriend who I always love to see. Of course things aren't perfect. But they feel like life now instead of a painful sinkhole.

I need to read more. I need to write more. I need to publish my novel and I need to graduate. But I'm on my way and I m so happy to be somewhere. I'm not where I thought I'd be when I controlled the crazy. But there is no such thing as controlling the crazy.

Best you can do is sit right down and have a nice chat and know together that's really the best.

Today, I sat in Spanish class. We watched a cheesy soap opera made by academics to help teach us the language. It was cringe-worthy, and I was often only half-listening, having watched the majority of the soap the semester before. But then the teacher paused the story, and I looked up.

Someone raised their hand, and the first thing they said was, "What does Lo Extrana mean?"

"I miss her."

There was some sort of heavy weight in that moment, one that sat on my chest and had me staring down at the questionably drawn squirrel on my paper. I miss her

Sometime lately I have gravely understood I have to slowly pull myself away from my parents. The pain they gave me, and the expectations they have of a person I never really was, is not worth the little joy they bring. They loved me as their daughter and legacy, not as Grace.

But the heavy weight was not for them, its an acceptable ache by now. The words in my head and the weight were only from the realization that without them, there was no her.

No more slobbery kisses or sneaking into my room to see if I'm ok. No more cuddles and begging for food and long walks while singing way too loud. No more defending her against my harsh father, or giving her treats when no one was looking. It only makes it worse the fact I know she misses me.

My mother tells me she sleeps in my room now, with her head on a blanket I left behind. Every time I leave she lays sad in the closet or a bed, giving me the eyes that beg me not to leave. When I come home she runs around and jumps on me and gets so excited I ignore everything for her. But I think she knows I'm miserable there, too. She seemed to want me to walk her every time I was starting to sink lower.

I feel harsh wanting my baby puppy more than my family, but when all the world turned on me she was the one who would try to lick my tears away. And it cuts me deep to think I left her behind in a home that yells at her a little much and give her the things she needs, but not the connection she wants.

Mom and I always joked that she was the mother, but I was the best friend of that beloved dog.

And now I've left her alone, and it breaks my heart. Yet there"s nothing I can really do.

Lo Extrana.

I know our lives will never be easy. I knew that before I met you, when you were just an idea in my head of that man I might marry. When I met you I didn't even know it. I spoke to you like I had known you for years, was comfortable like that, but didn't see until a month later that hey, maybe we have something here.

We met because of cheap college ***, which of course you would think would be a letter of doom from the beginning. But somehow it worked. It hasn't been perfect, but it works.

Don't tell middle school me, but she was totally right about you. Hard to open up, daring, risky, cocky, goofy, had trouble with friends, and somehow still my best friend. Of course she didn't exactly picture it like this, but somehow she knew you. She knew you'd come, even before she knew we were broken.

Of course, she got a couple things wrong. You're not as tall, and you don't have blue eyes, and we haven't been best friends since childhood, but most importantly you never left me. I guess instead of having the pain of losing you and finding you again, I had to live my teenage years without you. I don't exactly know what I'd prefer, but I know I prefer anything with you.

I know the way I am doesn't make things easy. I know we have had our rocky times. But god have I been such an *******. More than just this past month. I got myself in this manic stupor where I was convinced after winter break that all the decisions were mine to make. When you called me a child, I didn't worry about you breaking up with me. I thought it impossible. It was like all I saw was my emotion, and totally ignored yours.

But last week, when you revealed to me that a breakup had crossed your mind, it shattered me. I was already feeling like such a ***** for all I had done to you that past month, but that moment I knew it had been much longer than that. I forgot that I wasn't the only important one. I forgot that all the decisions weren't mine. They were ours.

Dealing with my bipolar lately has made me selfish and blind. Granted, I needed to be selfish to live through what happened to me first semester,  but after that I was just being greedy. My grades improved, I had all the friends I could want, I had a future, and I had you.

I loved you loving me unconditionally, but its time to be fair. Its time for you to feel, to express, to live. This isn't all about me. Its about you, and us. It wasn't fair for me to do that to you for so long, and now I'm here to make it right, but ******* do I love you. Not in the loud way, but the quiet way that creeps up on you and holds your hands and kisses your forehead and suddenly you realize you're in love.

When I told you I loved you for the first time, I loved the person who made me stop being scared and put me first. I loved the person who was my friend, and made me feel special, and made me feel wanted.

I loved what you did for me, and now, as I finally see you, I just love you. I love all of you.

And as long as I can, I will love me loving you, just like you deserve.

The malignant light blinds me into a drunken haze, intoxicating my toes until my body begins to dance, thoughtlessly

  Eyes closed, arms open, godly, peaceful, strong

Why doesn't everyone raise their arms to the grateful sky and soak in the golden bath of golden sun, to feel for once in their lives golden

Why do I seem alone in my gentle ****** curve while they seem bland and gray, straight lined lips across their face, a line of soldiers, unforgiving and unbreakable.

Why do I only feel joy?

  Thoughts shoot through me like tommy gun bullets through the streets of old Chicago, covered in hot blood, hot money, and hot nights. Drugs in my veins, matches in my pockets, all eyes on me and my mafia heart raising a pistol to my brain and conquering its control.

  Baby I like it, the way I move through the floor, seeing the monsters that weren’t there before, descending into maniacal darkness unknown, smiling while I’m screaming, never alone

  Sunshine, you are mine, my arms coddle you close, the sunshine endlessly streaming through my fingertips, a buzzing crescendo of ecstasy. You are all mine. This perfect heart contained in the cavity of this body overbeats, skipping steps, tumbling forward, 800 miles per hour, too fast to be caught by the blue-sheilded men who wish to stop it. Stop this heart and stop the world, for it is its red hot core.

  Pompous, conceited, it paints itself across my soul, yet I cannot contain what my emotions do, a little  twisted, a little crazy, a little unwell.

  And then I crash again.

Mind racing, heart stops pacing, cannot tell my toes from my fingers.

Its just a dance, a high price dance, where my body disconnects from my racing head.

Palms aching, legs shaking, my body cannot handle my mind.

Cannot, cannot the words pound in my head with an ever resounding Thwop that murders my cells all night.

Help, I cry, I want to scream but words can’t touch my mouth.

Acid mouth that poisons lips and drops them dead right here.

Poison, poison in my veins begging for some nourishment from the silence.

Beautiful is nothing that I say when I look in the mirror to see another’s face, missing my own from memories of heartless futures of nevermore.

Poe knew words that I do not know, wrote them more eloquently than this thirsty heart can ever wish to obtain

I wish I may I wish I might end this heartlessness tonight to burn my soul into  deadly resurrection.

Stop my toes from twitching stop this heart from beating stop my soul from  combusting in the hot sunlight juxtaposed with its secret darkness.

Help.

All I want is help.

Stop.

All I want is for it to stop, for the pain of a thousand years to jump off my shoulders and find a new host to **** dry.

Let me be new, renew my body and heal it from this wicked curse, and save me from killing myself from the inside out.

I want to be a writer, an author, a name to be remembered when it comes to the art of literature. I want my work to make people think, to matter, to maybe make this world better, even just a little.

I want to be a mother. I don't expect to be perfect, no one is, and god knows I cannot be perfect, with my ramblings and sleeplessness and all. But I know how to love and to care and to put others before me. Granted, I may forget a few punctuation marks when I'm hyper but I can at least be a wonder to my children.

I want to be in love. I mean, I am. I mean, married. I mean, forever. I love the one I'm with so much and I wish to spend every day with him, but that's not an option yet. We have to grow though being ******* college students and deal with our ******* selves and hopefully come out in the end, utterly victorious. I would love to be victorious with him.

I want to never leave wonderland. I want it to grow kinder, more manageable, but I could not understand or fair well in a world without it. Even now my fingers flicker around the keyboard, just taunting me into the thoughts racing and hand thoughts thoughts hands ****. The madness is creeping and my fingers are flying but I can manage it, and I wouldn't be me without it so I must accept it. It is part of who I am, right?

I want so many things, yet I'm too young to have them. i have to suffer through more years of editing, of waiting, of being careful before I can attain my dreams. Dreams I want now, dreams I want to scream up into the heavens so I can have them right this second and hold my babies close and read them a story of wonderland while my love smiles at us from the doorway.

I feel this is truly who I am, and I can't be. Not yet, and I hate it.

Guess for now the best I can get is the manic midnight dreaming.

Well, its been two years since the night I sat up late dreaming of other worlds that seemed so far away.

Yet here they are, nearly before me.

Its crazy, looking between that moment and now. I was honest and hopeful, yet all those things I wished for seemed worlds away.

Well, worlds away just turned into 3 months.

I've finished my first real novel. I'm a third through my new one. The inevitability of me being a real author is sharp and bright and awe-inspiring. I've written things that make people think and feel and hopefully have the ability to make a difference.

I'm running across the country with that man I love. Its happening. I am in love. I feel forever in love. I no longer sit and question the maybes; I feel he is for me, as long as he is who he is and breathes on this earth and walks beside me. And I soon get to wake up to him every morning for as long as we're together. Its something else, I tell you.

Wonderland has gotten kinder. I have become stronger, and things are figuring themselves out. I'm figuring myself out. Its new and terrible and great and exciting. The world of Wonderland is before me, and I am no longer afraid.

I wanted these so many things, and I'm fingertips away from them. They're mine. Its jaw-dropping. Its nearly a surprise.

Except it isn't. It logically feels that way, but in my heart it only feels right. Now, I have my writing. I have my novels. I have my love. I have my wonderland. I have my future.

All the things I ever wanted are mine, and its more than I ever thought I would get. My dreaming isn't just dreaming anymore. Everything I dreamed of is real, and you know what?

Its better than I dreamed. Far better.

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.

Bones break
Bones melt under my touch
Monster inside me
Monster devouring me
Who am I?
The silver blade lays a heavy hand on my throat
but its all for good measure
It slides and it slicks in pools of cold blood
Guess I'm dead better

My family and me are complicated, to say the least.
I spent childhood idolizing them.
Teenagedom questioning them.
College disconnecting from them.
And now I'm an adult and all I feel is that I miss them.

It took me awhile to realize that, but its far more complicated than just missing their presence. I miss the connections we had. I miss who we were together before the great big Jabberwocky of Wonderland waltzed into our lives. I miss the people they were when they were happier. I miss the person I was when I was happy with them.

I miss much more than this moment. I miss everything I've lost because of what's happened over the last few years.

I've spent a lot of time hoping to never be like them. Yet now I just want a way back to them. A healthy way.

It'll be hard. It might even hurt a little. But to be able to think I might have the parts of them that used to make me so happy?

I have to at least try.

If I close my eyes I smell the butter of fresh popcorn and hear the whirring of a laptop powerful and bright. Can taste the dichotomy of the crisp melting of the popped kernel in my mouth, feel the happiness of being in a desk chair in front of a screen and surrounded by books.

Then I open my eyes and see I have to edit everything I've written to be even vaguely coherent.

Happiness is hard when you're never satisfied. When the childhood curiosity stapled to your youthful lips never unpinned as you aged. Neither did the idealistic expectations. Couple that with a pessimistic anxiety disorder and a mood disorder to swing things between the two disparities and it gets a little more complicated.

I've been my most relieved and anxious in this place of empty, of nowhere, that I've settled myself into for the next three weeks. A piece of me enjoys the rest and possibilities. The other hates it for those exact reasons.

I need to breathe, I tell myself. Being so separate is my fault, I insist.

But another voice in my head pipes up quietly, offering a new idea. I'm demonizing myself for not being ideas, for not being normal, for not being one.

But perhaps be bipolar, in more ways than just disorder, is exactly what concocts the human I like being.

Perhaps the great empathetic thoughtfulness yet great introspection work so well in tandem.

Maybe the assertive extroversion yet pleasured isolation balance in their own, special way.

In a way, I might just need to look back on the old Sunday afternoon specials and speak to myself the lessons of their half-hour programs. In particular, admit maybe its ok if I'm weird. perhaps its ok I just be the own odd balance that is me.

The Nowhere, the empty, can be itchy with the possibilities sometimes. Yet these moments, that help me breathe through my own neurotics and idiosyncrasies, may just be the best kind of nothing.

Maybe the bothersome nowhere can also be something grand and great for me as well.

There perhaps is another side of nowhere, and perhaps it is my favorite.