I was ok but I was anxious
I tried to rest to stop twitching, stop groaning, stop my head from ******* pounding
It wasn't worth it
Once my brain stop ticking like a broken clock it settled back down here again
Depressed again
I wondered why this keeps on happening
Not the obvious reason, my bipolar condition isn't the interesting part anymore
But why down now?
Why have things changed?
Then I look outside and am reminded the glaring sun feels so exhausting alone
I only felt better and laid down my crazy head when rain was pouring
I wanted to go outside and drown in it
I was cold
I was lonely
But rain has always made things feel better when everything swings
SAD
Most people hate the winter but for me its the opposite
The burning sky
The heat
The loose skin
I'd rather be wrapped up in my sweater and have the sky not remind me how unbright I can be inside
Its hard to pretend to be brighter than you are next to the sun
In the darkness its easier to be bright
But
Its also easier to feel like the entire universe isn't watching you fail
Easier to feel like even the sky is sad sometimes
I've always felt worse in summers, haven't I?
Funny I never noticed it until now
Funny it fit well with school and college
Now it just makes me feel broken
But a lot of things make me feel broken, don't they?
Guess this is just another

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

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

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

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

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

At least my sweater keeps my cold heart warm.

All these years I thought this was a sort of coping mechanism, a sort of way to stop myself from peeling my skin off to try to scream at it to listen. A way to keep me contained.

My words knew better than I.

When I couldn't keep my thoughts straight, my lyrical ramblings were putting away chronicles that would eventually be a bread trail to understand the world inside my head. To understand the little girl locked behind bars and being told she is a Jabberwocky. My little, trapped, fearful, left behind, bipolar girl.

Things seem so much clearer now. I haven't felt so unclouded and intelligent in years, but suddenly the paths in front of me seem so much easier than they used to be. The poisonous fog over my life has lifted and I can see the monster I was stabbing at was truly just me.

I just couldn't see that then.

I have my writing to thank for everything. I have to thank it for everything. It is the one entity in my life that has been constant and loving and keeping me human. Alive, even.

It is the music of my soul, and it amazes me every day how deeply I love it, and it loves me. I wrote an entire piece two years ago about my love for writing and how it has always stayed by me, uncertain of its love for me. Writing loves so many people, and I am just a grain of sand in writing's life. But lately I've been feeling that even a grain of sand can matter so much. I mean, Dickens and King and Miller and Lee were only grains of sand and look how much they did?

It feels stupid and forced of me to get all motivational speech here after the chronicled years of confused sufferings and endless, unsure ramblings. I'm not going to sit here and talk about how I see the light and I know the way suddenly, and my life is fixed.

My life will never be fixed. But in an imperfect world, where  nothing every truly is fixed, it seems the wading through the waters is pleasant when you do what works best for you.

What I will say, though, is that my life is finally, after years of uncertainty, one hundred percent my life, just as it should be.

I'm bipolar, it'll always make my life interesting and different than everyone else's. But if I can try to keep my life overall happy and have writing in it and feel strong and loved and brilliant, and I think for once I'll be fine.

Funny that I think this is the first time I promised that in a poem and truly believed it. Not just the moment, not just next week.

I think from now on, I can be fine.

Freedom feels like sore thighs and *** dreams, where the epicenter of forever lies in forgetting everything but now.
It makes you wonder sometimes if its just a sharper spike of ASMR or the tickling truths of your soul pricking you on the back of the neck, electrically, as you do all the things in the dark you only heard whispers of as a child.
But there's a real something about how a pair of tongues collide and a summer's day turns into a summer's night, where a young girl goes out to play but returns a grown woman back from partying with one hell of a bite.
How can't you feel like you're flying when just a little to the left and you're seeing starlight in broad day and all the lies you were told to protect your innocence, or womanhood, or whatever to protect the ego of elders and mortality hung over your education like a plague?
For me, I can't help but do the cliche bitten lip and think about all the words that jumble in my head to burn me up before bed.
Yet that fire, as I got older, became more wild and curious and burned without asking just starving for the answer to what was the surprise between my legs that was some sort of angelic kingdom to hide from the boys like they were pillagers and not people.
Funnily, I dragged some ****** boy into the fires and felt some expressive liberty I had never experienced, no one giving a **** about the **** in my head or the **** who I was, just ******* me.
My ****** renaissance led to a swift beheading of the boy, who to my knowledge has yet to grow into a man, yet that feeling of validating importance yet complete erasure of all of my fears and pains has made freedom one hell of a hot, three letter word.  
If I hold on tighter my fingertips feel grafted onto his skin, and without words or letters my whole universe has found some landing just from pleasure and a pinch.
If I kiss his lips and he smiles beneath, there's a roaring power of how letting him touch me brings my body the earth while also tossing it up like a kite, ready to fly the winds, for once careless.  
If my hair gets pulled a little harder I can nearly feel the Declaration of my ****** Independence on my lips and old society lady Great Britain scowling from its high castle, putting its hand together in judgmental prayer thinking it'll never last; I'll come back (I won't).
Freedom feels like forgetting to try to do anything right and ******* everything up, in the best and worst ways, only to come out strong and laughing and better than before.
Freedom is like *** because no one has the right to do anything to my body; not the educators who think I'm forever too young, not the boys who think my **** are rocking but don't know my name, not the parents who lock me up with a key only to find I was born to fit through the bars, not the girls who spell S-L-U-T like its their accusatory safe word against being alone in an unjust world, not anyone.
No one except the syllables between my lips and the brain behind the way I swing my hips, and they say: Hell Yes.

I don't think I could acheive all my dreams if it weren't for you, The one I never expected. I would have feebly fought for them, pined for them, but I don't think I could have gotten myself to a place where I could get them on my fingertips.

I'm going to be an author. I finished a novel, I pushed past my wandering imagination and uncertainty because you made it easier to feel my bones. To do the things that are like breathing for me.

I have a lot of worry in my heart, I always have. I worry about not being good enough or going crazy or about your safety or about the future. I don't know if I've gone madder, but on the precipice of loneliness I am not terrified. I am only wishing us both the best.

I won't see you for four months. Alone that fact makes me miss you already. But I'm not scared about it. You want to build a life with me, and you of all people don't take statements like that lightly. You may be far away but you aren't leaving.

This is a time for both of us to get ready to be the people we want to be. You get to start getting your dreams together. I'm sure as hell going to do the same thing. I cannot wait to show you with my eager little smile how far I'll come in those months. I hope I floor you. I hope you'll love me more than ever. I'm sure I'll feel that way about you.

I don't think I'll ever be that girl who feels releived or settled about being married to the well-off, wicked smart guy. If anything your intelligence makes me feel I need to keep on pushing. I want to be just as rafiant and brilliant by your side, not seem like the lucky trophy wife with the ****.

This summer will grow us. I hate to have us grow so much apart, but its how it is and we, ever adaptable and strong, will manage. I'm sure skype will be our ally.

But only with you, and I hope you feel similar with me, that we can be this grand together and have the sort of life that we could only dream of. We can have a life that neither of us never realized could be so insane and wonderful all at once without the other. I don't think I've ever been a better version of myself than I have with you. I'm stronger and I'm responsible and I'm willing to do stupid, crazy things to work towards all my hopes and dreams come true. I'm still so crazy but it doesn't matter to you. God, I ******* love you.

I cannot wait for the grand together life we will have. Only a few whiles until we get there. One summer, then some time together. Then my final semester as you get things ready in our new world and then...

Well then hopefully that grand together never needs to be forced apart again.

There's never quite an end to the core of an apple, is there? You bite and you bite but you always finding yourself taking smaller and smaller bites the closer you get to the center. You know its 'cause you don't have the power or stomach to eat it all away, but you pretend its 'cause it takes time.

There's one step, two step, trip, and fall. One day you get a high and the next you hit a wall.

Getting to the seed of things isn't quite getting me nowhere, or somewhere, but someplace, the someplace I dream of, its up and its everything I want but I can't really see anymore. Darkness always makes finding the walk home a little harder.

And there's that; home. That thing I found and jumped in full-bodied and now I lay curled on the floor as it took itself three steps away. Its door is open and the welcome mat is brushed off just for me, but those three long steps are hard when your world is gone.

Its not even just the house itself. Hell yes I love it and its my someplace in a heartbeat, but Its like all the comfort and routine and dreams I had went with it and alone a girl with frazzled blonde hair and clutzy freckles is just a shaky three legged chair with a termite problem.

When you don't believe in "just deal with it" not knowing what to do can feel like ****** needle ready to give you a fix on the one day you might say yes. My eyes want to see the other doors open but all I see are padded walls and only the smallest of windows on the ceiling. It seems to be growing bigger.

I want my three legged chair to get its **** together; its all I've ever wanted. But when left isn't an option and your feet and bound and your eyes are blind what do you do?

Though I'm a ***** who ***** up funfetti cake but never will ask for a tip, my pride isn't even the matter. The matter is even if I ask I don't know if anyone can help me know what to do.

I just want every moment of these three steps to feel like an adventure; not like a punishment. But I just don't know how.

Really, I just want to get to that someplace. My someplace.

But I can't stand wallowing until I get there. I can't stand hating every moment. Its not who I am. Its not the kind of person I want to be.

I just want an open door, but every one I find here seems to be pretty closed.

I want to refuse bleakness, hopelessness, giving up. I want to be strong and dream and get everything I can out of every second. But I don't know right now if I can do anything better than settling and just dealing with that.

Torn between the summer and the fall,
Between body and soul
The river flows with ease and sway
While I flow the other way
But my flow is uneasy and falling apart,
Self inflicted enmity pouring from my heart
Is this river the one of life
Or death
For me

Broken chairs and broken windows
Losing all stability and all avenues of escape
Trapped in this empty room with river in my eyes
Confused
Whispered nothings in rooms that can never be spoken of
Screamed everythings that I dare not speak of
To you
Dancing around a maze
Jovial topiaries laugh at my plight
Fish in the river smile at my pain
Dragging me down until I’m drowning in the stream

I come up for air, and breathe a soft breath again
Saved from the flood and the heat and the pain
Not quite torn, but changed
And I stumble off into the spring

The weight of the wait is a wear that I hate to wear.

Gives great alliteration, though.

I'm so ready for all the things only a tiptoe away, but I can't have them. Nine days, I repeat religiously in my head, like a prayer from my own personal bipolar bible to keep my head on straight.

I can have everything in nine days.

Its a madness and a sort of vibration of my slumbering monster, old and weak but still ever-present, to be so close but yet so far. All my dreams are literally at my fingertips yet I cannot touch them. Not my friends, not my family, not my love, not my blue. All the things that are things of greatness are stuck at the end of this pole dangling far away and I am no good at balancing. All I get to do is stare and wait.

He's less than that ever-looming 2,000 miles away.

The blue is 30 edits and a read-through away from being possibly a completed manuscript.

The loves of my life are so close and ******* Christ I want them so bad but...

The work needs to be done. The class needs to be done. The appointments need to be done. The dishes need to be done. The unpacking needs to be done.

Their is a sense of comfort in the whole thing, that everything is so **** close, that the longest weight of my life is almost over.

I need this. I need my fingers banging against a keyboard, and I need the man I love most banging against me. Yes, I said it. Banging. So what if its gratuitous, its been over four months. I deserve the things that make me happiest. I have learned how to be alone,  I have proven my ability to be a strong individual able to take care of her ******* self.

Now, stubborn world, give me back what is mine.

The blue can come back into focus next week, and he will come not long after. Their will be a quelling of the weary weight that I have been waiting to shed.

The summer has been hard. Good on me, I toughened up quite a bit, but hard nonetheless. I know its been a little ******* everyone. But the two things I love are adamant and strong, as am I, and we'll find each other again. Just was an annoying but necessary hiatus.

My mind can breathe in its home again, on the page and keyboard, and my body can be held in the arms of the most fantastic man I've ever met. The weight of my impatience and excitably and anxiousness is heavy, but it made my body and mind so strong my adamant nature is ready to take on the world, with partner in crime and writing in hand.

I got this, no matter the weight.

I'm so, so very tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just maybe.

I can feel it wearing on my skin, a deterioration of my bones, sandpaper on my heart, carving holes and smoothness in paces were they don't belong, polishing me into something it isn't. Inside my head I'm screaming but its hard when everyone knows better, everyone is telling me what to do, no one is willing to let me just do things my way, those ways are wrong, always wrong, and I need to stop them or else. Or else what? I'm not even sure I just know its bad and bad is bad and that's something I'm not supposed to be doing.

My body is caving in on itself, but I don't have the time for it, I'm late, so very late, for all the important dates and I can't let the axes fall and the queens to get angry for I can't waste any time with my head chopped off. I have to keep it together. I must keep it together. I have no choice but to keep it together.

I can't lose anything. I've built my mountain of progress and though my heart is being sandpapered into a mess and a circle of conformity and pain, I can't stop I can't breathe if I breathe a breath of my own air they reject it and my new lungs they gave me reject all air that is original. I can't breathe. I can't keep things together. Everything is a broken cacophony of madness and I cannot silence them and they fill my lungs and bleed me of oxygen until my body is panicking and I'm not breathing.

I want to feel better. I want the monsters gone and the fear and the shattered fragments to find their place somewhere safer than the tips of my fingers and the center of my heart. I'm so scared. I'm so tired.

I'm tired of trying and failing and having no time to breathe and when I try to give myself time to breathe I'm not better and things hurt more and everything spiraling down, down, down, and I can't stop it its like my brakes are broken and I'm careening into traffic and I'm trying to save myself but my airbags are broken and my windshield is shattered and my bones are brittle and my seat-belt is choking me and I know that if I don't get the brakes to stop soon I'll be dead but I know if I stop driving I'll hate myself more so I pray to unnamed gods and figments of my imagination to let me live past one more intersection so that I don't have to stop never stop and just keep on going forward.

I don't know if I'll make it, but I can't stand the idea of braking now. I could lose everything I've ever dreamed of, and I can't stand the thought of that.

I'm so tired and everything hurts, but I can't brake now, I can't sleep now. It might **** me but losing everything would **** me too. Stuck between a whirlpool and a seven headed *****, guess I'm picking the ***** and hoping I have enough marbles by the end to make it through.

Please stop being tired.

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

When I was young,  school was my place. As an awkward oddity I found solace in words and reading.

Wasn't long 'til I was being called brilliant. Those days were some of the few times in my childhood life I felt strong and confident and worth something.

I was sent to an advanced school. I ate books like candy. I had a passion for knowledge and wisdom.

So what happened?

As my head got cloudier, I fell more and more behind. Well, behind for me. I was still an AP kid, so nerdy and there. But I was also quiet and, for AP, pretty average.

I stopped excelling in sciences and math as much as I used to. Everything got so much blurrier around then. As my head got more and more uncontrollable, the less brilliant I became. And the more I hated myself for it.

I could barely take time to feel everything but the raging inferno of emotions that was slowly taking over my life. I had learned to lie too well about it, so well that it was nearly my entire being by the time I finally got to stopping it.

For years I had to accept going from brilliant to average, and I accepted it as just my place. That I excelled in youth but dropped off and being good at writing would be my last, final brilliancy.

Then, nearly a decade after things began to go nuclear,  my head began to cool.

I sometimes fear how clear everything feels, how the touch of my fingertips on my keyboard still feel beautiful but in a less insatiable way. How the sky is blue and everything makes sense and how my mind craves to know more and more.

I am excelling. I am standing in front of classes that I am clearly not as qualified for and doing well. And, by god, the whole beauty of it is that doing well does not correlate to this buzzing going on in the back of my head as if its about to explode. I just feel it. This energy coursing through me that loves to know and remember and learn and do everything in my power to make everything I do wonderful. Its like magic but I know its not, its me. I didn't know "me" could be brilliant anymore. I was nearly certain "me" couldn't. I was a writer, and I was content.

But now there's this thing inside me I haven't felt in years, that has two wide eyes and wants to feel the world. Its curious and strong. I didn't think I was that strong either. I thought I just knew emotions and pretty words.

I sit here, though, and I am brilliant. It feels so arrogant and cocky to say, but I'm me again. I'm the little girl who got lost in the fire, but I thought she burned and died.

Yet as my head finally cools and the ashes fall, she reemerges and she's like some unbelievable phoenix inside my soul.

I thought I had to accept I could never be anything like the brilliant little girl that got swallowed by a monster inside of her. That I had to accept losses like I accepted losing everything I loved in my life for 18 years.

But I don't have to lose everything. I don't have to assume all that is lost is gone.

I am reading, and I am learning, and I am growing. There is this new growth in the old, weathered forests of my consciousness. It didn't have to resign to its ways, it can be anything. I can be anything.

Because finally, after years of forgetting, I am brilliant.

Trash.

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

Are you saying I'm trash?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leave the undesirable and go live elsewhere.

I lay my head down on your empty lap,
And fall right through the air
My wings don’t sprout just like they should
All I see is red
Your name a faint memory in the spring wind
As autumn comes I’ve nearly forgotten,
but remembered well enough to have it stuck on my tongue
just on the tip, just enough to itch and scratch and bite and kick
just enough to be unforgettable

The light shines in the darkness,
The winter comes in spring,
My love dies in daylight,
My love dies not at all

An empty grave is calling invisible
Cat calling and begging to drag the forgotten into bed
But another hand pulls towards the heavens
A hand that isn’t even trying, isn’t even seeing, only just barely there
Just enough to be unforgettable

Tomorrow, tomorrow is a new day
But not for illusions,
Hades is crooning a siren song
But ears are filled with wax for my fair Penelope I must return
Even if she’s dead and gone and alive and well and doesn’t want me

Deeper than the ocean,
Farther than the sea,
On your boat you’ve moved on,
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Crying out my love’s name, the one that I’ve forgotten,
Begging for their sweet return,
Its just enough to be unforgettable.

In a forest
My heart is a thrumming drum
in a symphony of silence.
There is peace in the trees
within the
natural beauty
of a forest in its prime.
Just the forest and I
together and loved
restful and free.

Safety amongst the foliage
has another name
too.
It crackles at my feet
watching the comradery
of the voiceless giants.
My own platoon
is none.
The forest keeps me from
being utterly
hopelessly
alone.

Everyone has enemies
No exception am I.
Mine lies behind my eyes
a friend-fearing demon
accepting only
naturally towering mutes.
Trees can't reject me
humans can.
I walk to feign fearlessness
No one needs know
I stay alone
of not strength
but
terror.

The water slipped over my hands, through my hands, and I felt a chill run through my spine. Most chills left me with one or two shivers and  a cold disposition, but this one left me with a feeling as if the core of my soul had be realigned. My eyes closed. There was a unique serenity in how it remained moving, fluid, yet hard to the touch. Is this what its like to be apart of a river? Where your entire being is melded into an ever-changing ecosystem? Every droplet slipped through my fingers, yet I never found calamity in it. Only a sense of calm that is often forgone by my synapses. In the darkness behind my eyelids, one with a water wall, a chaotic mind was found at peace.

I thought we were infinite. That the stars and suns could not rip us apart, even if their bare hands grasped our feet and pulled us from the earth unto another plane, I always thought I'd still find you in the darkness.

I thought we were forever, that I would outlive every boy and you would outlive every mood swing and our smiles would radiate so brightly that we'd set the world on fire.

I thought you were my soulmate. I didn't even believe in soulmates, but I was certain if they existed, you were it. My everlasting friend, the one with the random calls and the cute texts and the endless times of calling one another bae. Funny how fitting it was, but I did put you before anything else.

I thought you were my dream, the best friend that would last, the one I would never lose. Its been months since we've talked, but you seem so far away now. Further away than ever before.

I thought you were my future, the one for me, the one I'd sit on my porch with and laugh at old stories and shoo children off our lawn and force our grandchildren to be best friends until they loved it.

But now?

I don't even know if we're friends.

I used to be a little weaker.

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

I used to need you more than anyone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sky smiles at me and I wonder why is something so cheerful so blue?
Why do fish not grin?
Why does pain exist?
Why do people believe in a God?
Why is that God so distant to me?
Why am I always alone?
Why?
And I keep on smiling at the sky, and forget.

Less than a month ago, I lay on a cold slab in a dark room, convinced I was dying. Tonight I lay still in my soft bed and realize, maybe I still am.

Its like suffocating, you know? Being drowned in your own ******* emotions. Only fitting that the bad blood in my veins decides to clot right there, in my lungs, in the sickest poetic justice imaginable. I couldn't breathe. Am I even breathing now?

Don't get me wrong, the doctors filled me up with pills and good fortunes, telling me I would be fine if I was careful, cautious, a perfect little good girl. And I smiled and took deep breaths even though every breath killed me. So if my lungs are fine, then why am I not breathing?

Looking back, that morning I woke with sharp pains in my sides I told the doctors I had never felt something like that before. And in a way, I wasn't lying. It had never been so physical before. But the pain, the crying, the inability to breathe, well those were things I was far too familiar with. So doctor, if I'm going to live, why am I not breathing?

****, the writer of my story is one sadistic *******. I mean, that symbolism. Choking on your own lifeblood? **** near perfect. It would have been the perfect turnaround story. The mentally unstable girl finally truly stands at death's doorstep when she doesn't want to, and she realizes maybe life is worth it. That maybe even a **** up deserves dreams, deserves happiness. The tale should have ended there, right? I learned, I had that moment when I knew I didn't want to die. I felt changed. So if I am so changed, if that is my happy ending, then why am I not breathing?

Happily ever after doesn't exist. Life doesn't work that way. Tragedy is around every corner, particularly when your chemical makeup is in a constant struggle with your will to live. But everyone is so thankful, so happy I am safe and well and normal again. **** normal. **** safe. ******* **** well. If I am so well, then why am I not breathing?

Its great, you know, knowing that the "thankful for being alive" feeling will never last for me. My wiring won't allow it. All around me everyone is so proud. They say I'm strong and brave and better. Funny thing is they totally missed the metaphor. **** my facades, **** my brain, because my blood is thinning, and my world is spinning, and I'm not breathing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm yours.