so hey i know you miss hanging out so you could ***** about things to me and talk like the world was against you and say that i was great for being there for you and that you loved me but the second i left you would talk behind my back and call me things like a lost puppy and it broke my ******* heart it still breaks my heart and i guess im stupid for not believing what people said

i have
  the battlecry
youll never
  forget

so run away

"Has poetry saved lives?"
   Maybe.
"How would you know?"
   I don't.
"Then why even answer?"
   I have hope.
"Hope for what?"
   Hope that it hasn't.
"Oh."

She is beautiful, and she is my friend.

She used to be blonde, but now has a mix of brown and red.
She's smaller than me, but about a year older.
She's smarter than me, and also taller.  

She is beautiful, and she is my friend.

She's kindhearted, and too lovely.
She's better than me, better at trusting people than me.
She knows what to say, and knows when to call *******.

She is beautiful, and she is my friend and I'm falling in love with her.

Did you miss the fact,
that I'm hellbound?

That I got my sentence long ago,
   and been walking here on borrowed time.
They even say I'm the devil.

Didn't it stop you?
   Maybe you missed it.

I feel sorry for you if you did.

I don't say sorry, not often. Especially when I don't mean it.
   I don't know why, I just can't sometimes.

It feels wrong, like I'm giving away my power over myself.
Because "sorry" is a powerful word, really.
                   It feels like your pride gets hurt, and sometimes, that's all people have.
It's you admitting a mistake.

Sorry should be easy to say.
Sometimes I refuse to say it.

        And sometimes it's all I say, because it's all that I am.

I finished a book yesterday.
I'm gonna start a new one, soon. And waiting for more ones.

Books are great, really.
They kind of hide you.
    They hide from exactly what ever you want.
Maybe it's your family.
Or your past.
Or everything, which is a very wide department, but very true.

But the book I was talking about.
I got it. I really did.
And it was about this boy. This boy who saw everything, and nothing.
      I got the book.

I have two sisters, a father, and a mother.
I would die for any of them.

But dying.
Is it because i don't want to be here?
     Or is it because of my love for them?

For my father, i would die out of love.
For my mother, i would die out of love.
For my twin sister, i would die out of love.
For my older sister, i would die out of love, and go to all ends of the world for her.

I would die, out of love, for all of them.
       But also to get out of this life.

Long sleeves, even in the summer and spring.
You feel them when you run your hands over your arms.
They remind you.

            The scars.

Sometimes they disappear over time and you get to breathe -
be normal, for a while.
But that is the thing.

             Only for a while.

You got to feel free that time, do you remember?
(how could you forget?)
But as it always does,

         it came crushing and trashing back.
         That feeling, that feeling you keep trying to suffocate.

Back to the long sleeves.