The color yellow splatters on the white porcelain.
The bristles flatten and slide down his cheeks as yellow lines replace tears that can't fall anymore.
The white walls cry and the yellow paint grows like Daisies.
The pedals fall, the white fades, and the beautiful yellow clumps like sand in water.

"And though I close my eyes I see La Vie En Roses" creeps from the record in the corner of the bathroom.
But he opens his eyes.
Yellow fills the tub and La Vie En Rose can't be true.

His hairs are matted down with yellow paint that grips his skin like concrete.
He dips his hands in the tub and smears the yellow paint into his skin.

The record scratches.

He exhales and paints drips from his nose and mouth.
The sound of paint dripping onto the floor from the tub haunts his heart.
He breathes in deep and sinks below the paint.

And for now everything is okay.

If he can forever remember the color yellow, he'll never cry again.

Her favorite color,

Yellow.

I stand and wait at the corner of holding on
and feeling everything I believe in collapse.

I catch my breath.

I wonder if she can feel
this.

I wonder if she can see me choke on nice words and feelings that consume and clog my pores.

Feelings that force out smiles and thoughts of tomorrow that I just can't have.

Feelings.

Time has plans,
but I have plans too.

I have plans that I think could make her feel joy that she could hold onto forever.

Love that could make God smile.

I look at her and I can't help but think that every mistake in my life has shaped me to hold her hand.

Shaped my back in a way that I could lift every pain from her heart.

....

Please don't hurt her.


I stand and wait at the bus stop.
I'm not packed and I don't know where I'm going but maybe I should leave.

But what if she calls me?

And she says that she needs to talk.

But what if she wants to talk about how time hasn't been long enough and that her seconds are hours.

What if the thought of my baggage is crippling?

I have baggage.
Maybe I'm not ready.

She's not thinking about you.
You aren't.
You aren't.
I'm. Not.

What if every thought I've ever had pulling me to her, is because she's been pushing away.

WHAT IF SHE CAN SEE ME SMILING?

The bus comes to the stop.
With my head in my hands
the bus leaves.
And she is looking out the window.

Maybe I'll be at the bus stop someday and it will be my time to get on.

She could be on that bus.
But she might not.

I've written a poem about this before,
you're singing a song of course I've never heard and the lead singers voice is far better than mine so I don't try to figure out the words and sing along.

It's weird being back here.
With you
with us.

Is it awkward or am I just awkward?
I don't know but I am very aware of my breathing and how loud it is.

I'm sad so let's listen to something sad.
To feel more sad and force tears out that were probably coming anyway but apparently in this world force is the best way to take things, I mean get things.

This is what I'm thinking.
I know you're wondering as I just stare blankly, but of course you didn't ask cuz **** if I'm not the only one that cares about the state
of someone else's heart beside my own.

But I was thinking Its weird that you're known as the crazy one.
I've always thought that people were crazy because they have so many emotions running around in their head and they're fighting for which one will be felt.
But I think that I feel more than you...
I feel like you don't feel anything at all. Not even in the slightest do you feel. I mean ******* A I could hold your hand over a fire like roasting marshmallow and you'd probably be using the other hand to look at his snapchat, trying to see if you can relate to anything and text him about it so that he has to respond because it's something he likes and I'll die before he cares or even at the least knows something that You like. So I hold your hand there and I'm forcing you to feel something but I think that you work too ******* hiding feelings so when you actually feel them it scares the living **** out of you, I can tell you're frightened, you rip your hand from being close to mine. I hadn't even thought about holding your hand yet. And I think your feelings are louder than mine, and they're a jack in a box. And you don't spin the handle but other people do and every once in a while your feelings scream from your mind all the way down at your heart and you freak out, because it's scary when feelings are that loud.

I don't think you know that when I say I feel more I mean more. And the difference is that they're more often and they hurt more and there's more reason to feel this way. But my feelings aren't as loud as I think yours might be. Because they don't scare me like yours scare you. Mine are like a constant tapping on my shoulder. Please get the hell off me I know this is what pain looks like, I don't need your reminder. But for you I think you try to feel nothing because when you choose to feel you're normally offering your heart to a sledgehammer...

BUT at the same time it's like you like to get destroyed, like picking up pieces of you is a game. I hate that game. You always forget pieces, me pieces, the reason all your pieces were together in the first place because everyone else stripped and sold your parts, but I bought them. I bring them to you and they're fixed and they're ready and you love them. I promise you love being whole, I've seen it, I've felt it, but whole isn't normal is it. And you think you're weird enough already so shattered is comfortable and whole and complete and loved and happy is weird so you do whatever it takes to avoid feeling those things...

Sometimes I wish you played songs I know because I like to sing and I want you to hear me singing because you would know that I also know the words to your songs. But it's not like you like the sound of my voice anyway. It's shakey and weak and vulnerable. His is defiant and loud and harsh. But mine is real. My words are true, they're not games, or jokes, or lines for my next poem that I thought I'd try on you first.

You believe actions over words, my words only stem from my actions...
But You're avoiding me, like you know that my actions are what you're waiting for but.
you just wish that weren't my actions...
but that they were his.

It's weird how the world tricks you...
If I ask you to picture your dream person in your head, a list of things come to mind.
So it's weird and honestly *******,
I'm sorry but why am I wired to think that this is what would be perfect for me,
but she's there and I'm there but she's not here.
You understand?
Here's me and there she is.
Yes she's there in the same place the same world and looks at the same clock.
she's there.
But she's not here in this second the same second I'm in.
Not in the same mindset.

She is that girl I always wanted to have at least for a moment.
She's a girl who if I said she was mine people wouldn't believe me because she's a better writer than me and can sing and dance and act and lives in New York.

Here's a dream That I've dreamt, and it's a dream come true but it's coming true for her.
She's really doing things.
I read poetry at coffee shops,
she goes to AMDA.

Here's a scenario:

You have two artists, they were never really close but they grew up together at the same time and in the same places.
And there's this little spark, a flickering of almost.
At least for one of them.
Say he isn't intimidated by how much she does everything he wishes he would be doing and  say he looks at her and says wow she really is pretty and he's surprised, not because he expected her not to be, he's surprised that someone who loves the things he loves is there and always was but he never looked at her and said wow.
So he looks and says "wow" and she hears him and he tries to act like he didn't really just look at her and audibly say so loud the whole state of Ohio could hear. But. She laughs and says thank you.
So next time he sees her he doesn't say wow, but says hi, and next time he asks her what's her favorite smell and
when was the last time she really thought about how the wind blows in a certain direction and that something like the wind that seems random has more direction than we do.
And she loves those questions and asks him some of her own. like
would you rather have true love or be rich
and
do you get olives on your pizza?
And he think it's cute that her nickname is olive and that she used it in a question because she doesn't know you know that's her nickname. And it's like she's asking does he think he'd like her on a pizza. Well he'd like her anywhere.
but long story short they date. And she pushes him to pursue writing as more than a release and a hobby and encourages him to do what he loves even if his parents doubt he can. And so they move to New York together. They have adventures and they take dance class together and they're partners and it's the most fun they've really ever had. And they get to go home together and it's really nice because they're both deep and emotional. and they express how much they love eachother in the most beautiful ways. Like the letter he left by her nightstand that said "if i wake up and you're still here, I still love you same as yesterday and same as tomorrow and if you're still here, here are pancakes :)" ......

It's cute what you can make up in your head to distract from the complete **** that is your dating life.

Here's Reality:
She dates a guy whos better looking than I am so what can I really do anyway? She is a girl that if I was with her I would be infatuated with but would always think that she was settling and I would always be reaching for her to think that I was something special like she was. But those are just wishes and dreams I've had and Ive always got this feeling that this guy was honestly a **** boy. But like who am I? An arrogant ***** to think that I'm perfect for her, she's too big (vast, unfathomable, and unreachable) for me to be perfect and my words are small and quiet and there's not much courage behind them because there's a place that self confidence goes when you really think about your chances with someone who fits the description of a dream perfectly. It's like you think of yourself as a ghost and a figament of your own imagination to sit next to her at ihop. And she reads poetry about this guy that you think is a **** boy and her poems read "he is a **** boy" but I don't think she reads them really. She wrote them but can't read what they're saying. If only ghosts could read and could say hi this is what you wrote lol just saying. And hi my name isn't **** boy I hope that is okay because I know all the ones before me were named **** boy. But I am a ghost and she is infinite.
And she's gone, and at night, lights shine and spread hope and joy into the air and it floats into the window of her room.
But my night floats thoughts through the air and there's not light and there's no hope because she has skyscrapers and busy streets and art in everything she sees.
And I have my bed and my small school and my notes in my phone for art.
She is an olive and I'm not even food.
I'm something like a shoe or something else random.

Face down on the concrete.
I’m here again,
I'm not drunk this time (pats self on the back)
But is this any better?
 
Not drunk but
Numb again.
I'm out here
Lying with the cigarette butts
Useless.
 
You always said you felt useless.
You would talk about how you don't belong here and
All you could feel was my hand in yours. 
But that doesn't make any sense to me.
If I made you feel again, then where are you?
You sure as hell aren't here.
We were helping each other.
I guess you don't need help anymore.
But I do.
 
I am so different from the sky,
It shines purple and orange and
Laughs at me as I lie here.
And the morning air tastes like what joy might taste like to most people.
 
These cars aren’t yours.
I wish they were.
Maybe that would make me smile,
Seeing your car again.
These cars are black and white.
Yours is red and bright and wonderful.
 
You should come,
And park in this garage.
There is grass out there,
It’s green and shiny
Like your birthstone.
 
Will you help me up please?
It is scary not feeling the ground,
I don’t like it here.
I wonder if you worry about me.
 
 
It's not your fault
It's mine.
I think.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
That way I'm the one hurting me
So you can still be perfect in my eyes.
 
I remember your smile,
And my insides warm, and my heart rises from its hole
Like bread rising in an oven.
 
Your smile reminds me to feel but
The garage floor is still cold and
It creeps onto my skin.
I'm shaking.
 

When will I see your car again?

Shadows attach their chains to my back and my fingers bleed as I drag through the dirt.
I squeeze the rays of light with my teeth and my jaws break and snap and shatter through my skin as I pull the shadows toward the light.

They bite at my ankles and scratch through my skin and pull out my muscles.
They turn and hold onto to the dark.
They squeeze.
Tight.

But I pull.
I squeeze tighter.
And beads of sweat drop into my eyes.

But I can see the light
I've felt the light
it's real.

All I have to do is keep pulling them with me,
I just have to show them...
if they can just feel it...
Maybe they won't be shadows anymore

Have you ever drank gasoline and tried to light yourself on fire?

I may have an anxiety problem.

Hearts aren't knife holders but mine has made a pretty good one.

Tears are breaths in a day and smiles are lucky pennies.

Crying is like a hobby.

I've gotten so good.

I can cry without anyone hearing, or seeing, or caring.


I just get thoughts sometimes that stick in my eyes and my heart and just sit there and if I let them they get

heavier

and

heavier,

your heart can get really heavy.

I don't think I work right...

There is a table of heart shaped clocks in front of me
but they don't tick right.

And if I can just fix them.

If they can tick at the same time maybe mine will too.

But when I start fix one, another breaks and one falls and shatters and...

maybe I'm just not good fixing things.

Even if I tell myself I am.

darkness is sad.

it is painful.
this bed allows me to sink.
As the chill darkness stretches my skin,
I can feel the hands of the mattress wrap around my body.
I squeeze my pillow,
checking to see if I have any strength left.
I dig my nails into my cheeks.
And make fists and push into my cheek
Scrunching these feelings, crushing them and pushing them out of my pores and out of my eyes as salt water.
But it feels more like sand and it burns.
My toes are cold and lifeless and I fold them into eachother and hold...

my hair is the handle above the passenger seat
this is scary driving
these feelings.

I can't believe you are not messed up
(I am)
The things you've seen
The things you've heard
I'm surprised you're not constantly hurting, and that all of your memories aren't grey and sad and hurt and bring back feelings of hopelessness and make you cry like you did then. How are you not hurting?
(I am)
If I were you I'd be smashing my face in the pillow every night yelling, hoping and praying for amnesia or Alzheimer's wishing that these black and white films running in your mind were fiction and not biographys.
(I AM)

I am hurting
I'm crying
this hurts, these feelings ****
and they're strong and powerful and I push them down and I smile and laugh
and smile more and laugh more and I'm so blessed.
I KNOW I am,
I am so thankful for you.
I love you all so much.
But your pain fills my heart and I look in your eyes and remember what they look like filled with the sand that's in my eyes now and how it burns and you struggle with the pain so I take my first ******* and dig and dig and dig the sand from your eyelids and hold a napkin on your cheek to catch the grains that fall.
I am trying to help you clean up.

I take little bags and fill them with your sand and bring them home and I keep it from you.
I don't want your eyes to burn anymore.

I lie down and your sand and everyone else's falls out of my pillows and onto my bed and the grains itch my skin and stay in my hair.
I thought I could handle this but
I dig my nails into my cheeks.
And make fists and push into my cheek,
Your sand just sticks to mine and clogs my pores and nothing gets out anymore.
It sits inside, underneath my skin and sleeps and at night this sand rips out of my skin and reminds me,
what each grain means.
And who it came from and who's still hurting.

Darkness is scary.

I Blink 182 times,
Can I Handle This
This is the Sum of 41 reasons I won't smile this holiday
I'm feeling like I may Fall Out, Boy do I hate thinking about who's buying your presents this year.
It's weird how this holiday season is always a new All Time Low
**** this place. I would much rather Walk The Moon fixin for something that warms my heart again. So I hold it in my hands and breathe.
And I Imagine Dragons breathing fire onto my skin, maybe someone will call me hot.
Maybe Someone will Hear Me.
I sit on my Front Porch Step Aware of the Mayday Parade that marches down my spine and I forget how to walk.
How to talk
how to breathe as I Panic! At the disco music that you seem to really like.
You are memories of a ride in a Death Cab
For Cutie I Will Follow You Into The Dark.
If I'm not already there.
And I will Parachute into Owl City and lie in your bed that is a Passion Pit.
It entramps me and keeps me hostage and I hate what your sheets feel like.
You make me think that love is Of Monsters and Men and that women don't feel that word.
You have killed me a thousand times,
Queen
of ******* over the things I have planned.
We are My Chemical Romance a toxic ******* life threatining carcinogen trying to **** me.
But this is Kinda Punkish I Guess and again I have my playlist.
That sounds like you but it saves me and doesn't **** me.
Here's a Simple Plan this holiday. Leave me the **** alone this year.

She dates a guy whos better looking than I am so what can I really do anyway? She is a girl that if I was with her I would be infatuated with but would always think that she was settling and I would always be reaching for her to think that I was something special like she was. But those are just wishes and dreams I've had and Ive always got this feeling that this guy was honestly a **** boy. But like who am I? An arrogant ***** to think that I'm perfect for her, she's too big (vast, unfathomable, and unreachable) for me to be perfect and my words are small and quiet and there's not much courage behind them because there's a place that self confidence goes when you really think about your chances with someone who fits the description of a dream perfectly. It's like you think of yourself as a ghost and a figament of your own imagination to sit next to her at ihop. And she reads poetry about this guy that you think is a **** boy and her poems read "he is a **** boy" but I don't think she reads them really. She wrote them but can't read what they're saying. If only ghosts could read and could say hi this is what you wrote lol just saying. And hi my name isn't **** boy I hope that is okay because I know all the ones before me were named **** boy. But I am a ghost and she is infinite.
And she's gone, and at night, lights shine and spread hope and joy into the air and it floats into the window of her room.
But my night floats thoughts through the air and there's not light and there's no hope because she has skyscrapers and busy streets and art in everything she sees.
And I have my bed and my small school and my notes in my phone for art.
She is an olive and I'm not even food.
I'm something like a shoe or something else random.

And she’s gone, and at night, lights shine and spread hope and joy into the air and it floats into the window of her room.
At night my thoughts float through the air and there’s not light and there’s no hope because she has skyscrapers and busy streets and art in everything she sees.
And I have my bed and my small school and my notes in my phone for art. 
She is an olive and I’m not even food. 
I’m something like a shoe or something else random.

I Promise this is the last time
I Promise this trash bag isn't filed with empty beer cans and
I Promise this stain on my sheets is something healing like apple juice.

I Promise I woke up before noon today
I Promise I wasn't awake waiting wanting to hear from you
I Promise I am not writing about you again.

I Promise today I woke up stronger than when fell asleep
I Promise today the sun reminded me of a safe place and not of the sun we sat under when you said "this isn't the same anymore"
I Promise today I am getting better.

I Promise you I am trying
I Promise you your name doesn't taste like vinegar
I Promise you weren't the only reason I was breathing.

I Promise my parents didn't pay for bail for a drunk and disorderly
I Promise my eyes don't feel like Velcro stuck together when I shut them
I Promise these words are sincere.


I Promise there aren't pins and needles sewing me together
I Promise there is time left for me
I Promise there is love in my heart and I remember what that feels like.

I Promise.

But when you said "I Promise" I Promise you were lying.
If you meant what you said
Then these promises would be true,
But they're not.

I Promise this isn't a goodbye letter.

There is no such thing as awake
Anymore.
I wake up asleep, and dream the colors for the day.

What I dream is better than what I see.
Seeing is scary and dreaming isn't so much.

The pillow is comforting and the "fresh" air
Smells like cigarettes and floats curse words
Around as the clouds do.

The rustle of leaves beneath my feet are loud and alive and dew is gross and makes my socks wet.

I close my eyes to shut out the light you left in the sky
I don't like it.
It tastes like chloraseptic,
and my throat hurts from crying all day
but I don't want to be healed.

When I lay down and close my eyes I'm
Awake.
And when I dream I'm awake reliving your last car ride.
So sleep isn't nice to me anymore
and I shiver and sweat.

I press my hands into my eyes
like pushing an emergency stop button.
I hate my sleepy dreams and wish reality was a dream.

So my head hurts
my eyes are sore
and in every cough a piece of my voice falls into my lap.

This is my life now,
Not insomnia
but medicine
Since you're not breathing
and you're not here
anymore.

The spoon's side jumped
Between moon shaped glasses,
He jip jived dipped and dived
Forward more toward something resembling music.
 
A fresh song and dance.
New tunes through an ordinary water holder,
Nestled between plate and napkin.
The sound got his mate all jazzed up,
So he joined with his own swift swinging tune.
Who knew that dining things could own a beat?
 
They found a new way to show
They had a rhythm from their fingers to their toes.
It was them together.
Hearing things they thought they would never.
 
So they skedaddled downtown
Piddle paddling through the streets.
Clanking their feet into light poles until their soles were sore.
Smacking hands on drums where knees used to be.
 
They threw nonsensical sounds around that made sense together,
They flowed like a bird’s song to its dear old Mrs.
Common sounds with a unique meaning.
They were loud and crazy with a vision slightly hazy,
For they didn't see the sheriff approaching.
 
The sheriff caused a bigger scene then they ever were,
Yelling and wrestling with them.
He stopped their show saying, "There ain't none of those nonsense words on my street, especially not from your kind."
 
How kind they were,
They left without a question.
There was no need to fuss and rush
They were goin'.
 
They thought that with sounds like these
There was no use wasting them on empty streets
And park benches.
 
Back to the club they ran
Eager to hear their cheering fans they had left behind to show the streets their new found sound.
 
That stage is where it started
And stayed for a while.
On that stage their imaginations could run ramped on an empty canvas of ears.
 
But on their stage they had to stay.
Hidden.
For a little while,
You see the streets weren't ready to be shown these beats,
This wasn't Joe Schmos show put on every Thursday afternoon near the salad bar,
Quiet enough not to disturb the guests but just enough to give a nice background noise to their chewing,
Oh no, no, no.
 
This was jazz.

Rock bottom feels too much like my bed lately.
And the smell of beer on my breath is too familiar.
Who is this person I'm walking around as and when did I start wearing masks?
I'm given unfathomable mercy for my mistakes and I keep making them.
The same ones.
I take the same knife and rip openings in my chest to breath in the poison I've been mistaking for oxygen.
I'm dying.
I'm walking down streets with my eyes closed with the assumption that someone else will stop this car from hitting me.
Why am I on this street anyway?
The same street where I lay homeless and abandoned before I had been saved.
AND THE BEST PART
Now that I have been saved I keep walking down the same street as if I was looking through the same eyes I was before.
It's much harder to breath wearing a mask, and much harder to see when I look through eyes that are blind to what this world really does....
**** me.

A tear falls to the floor in the tune of a dripping faucet.
Playing every reason you feel you don't belong here.
A bad night, and another bandaid trying to hold what is left of your skin together.

and you respond
"it's okay.
I have it under control."
You keep scarring yourself with the Devils words and pretending everything is fine...
But I can see the darkness through your brightest smile.
Please stop hiding yourself from me.
I know long sleeves are uncomfortable in the summer.

I know that razor is the only thing you can feel right now but please don't do this.
Not again.
Please.

Every time you cut into your skin my arm forms a scar, so that you won't be alone anymore.
And it hurts.


You keep telling me how you're a waste of my time and that I should be focusing on someone better for me.
But it's just time.
It doesn't matter.
Im not doing what time wants anymore.
limiting me to how long I can love you and I refuse to believe it has that kind of power.

She walks into the room.
She sees you but doesn't smile.
She sits down on the other side of the room.
You uncomfortably smile, wondering what is wrong with the seat you saved for her.
But you forget that she always needs the seat closest to the bar.

You imagine what might be at the bottom of those red cups because she keeps filling them to the rim just to race the guy across the bar to the bottom.
You see him staring through her shirt so you jump up to cover her skin from his trained eyes.
You can tell he's done this before.
She looks at you like she doesn't understand why you're here.
You sit back down at your seat.

He ask her if she wants a smoke.
She nods, unable to speak clearly.
She has been winning the races all night, but I never saw him refill his cup.
I could see that he wasn't racing her.
He was racing time to see how long it would take her finish his bottle, and then stumble up the stairs to the bedroom to "talk".

They come in from outside.
She stares at the floor unable to hold her head up and he smiles.
You ask her if she is okay and she pushes your shoulder.
You wonder if she knows who she is pushing.
You sit back down at Your seat.
and He grabs her waist, and walks her upstairs.

You clench your fists.
You deeply breathe in every second hoping not to hear the noise you know is coming.
Not long after, he comes downstairs.
Puts on his jacket and leaves.
You hear her footsteps slowly creek down the steps.

She stumbles into the kitchen with her make up smeared and her beautiful cheeks bright red.
She wipes her face with her sleeve.
You wish you could do something to help so you choke on the air...
hoping not to steal anymore of her life, like he just did.
You know she needs to breathe.
You look at her.
You stare,
And You stare,
And You stare.
As you stare you wonder why she didn't choose to sit with you tonight.

Doesn't she know you wouldn't fill her red cup with liquid who's only mission is to paralyze her thoughts.
So much so, that she doesn't see him as a bad idea.
Doesn't she know that you would have walked her upstairs, kissed her on the forehead, and said goodnight...

Doesn't she know that every step she took coming down from that bedroom crushed a piece of your entire Earth beneath it.

She asks her friend to hold her hair as she throws up in the bathroom.
You watch the tv as the ball drops.
Your New Years Resolution: to see her smile without a red cup in her hand.

I found your shirt in my closet.
White with dark red wine stains.
Sitting beside my bed I held it to my face.
Your perfume crawled across my cheek, grabbing onto my nose like it was never leaving.
Why didn't you take it with you?
Why leave a shirt that smells like don't forget me?
Why not stay?
Your records are here.
Don't you need them?
Your records?
Your guitar pick?
Your camera?
They're all still here.
And you said they were important.
You said they mattered.
You SAID you needed these...
It's ****** up but I'm going to keep them,
where you left them.
I cant imagine moving them.
I've never been good at leaving like you are.
Sometimes I wish you would sneak in while I'm gone and take it all.
None of these are mine.
They're a distorted feeling of you.
Sitting on my nightstand.
I found your shirt in my closet.

The moon reaches out his hands and makes shadows on our hill through the trees.
You told me you don't like how you look this time of year, and I laughed because every time you smile I try to capture the moons glare off your teeth in my mason jar like fireflies.
I fill our glasses with Juice because you're still recovering and I know how wine is your weakness. We lay on a sheet talking about how we were never suppose to be together. You always said you love coming here because the sounds of outside are a distraction to your sounds inside. I place my hand on your back and you rest your head on my shoulder. Thank you. You look at me confused, thank you so much. You ask me to stop and say that I am the reason you can still smile since your parents passed and that you wouldn't wake up if I wasn't here. I kiss you and smile. And you cry because you think that I couldn't need you like you need me. I hold you. You ask me why my heart is beating so fast and I tell you that I'm dead inside too but I fight to be strong because I need you to need me. My insides hurt too. My heart play songs that I can't hear anymore without crying and doesn't stop when I can't breathe. So I try holding my breath to stop my heart from hurting me, but when I hold you my heart goes crazy. Like I am overdosing on hurting myself and you jam an adrenaline needle into my heart everytime I touch you. Saving me from taking the only thing you had left in your life. So thank you for being alive. Lightining bugs jump out from the grass dancing out of sight and I smile. We are misfits in our own right and I love how different we are.