where boys become men
and men become memories
...freedom's cost

You just won't look me in the eyes.
I will admit its weirdly adorable.
But I long to stare into them.

I want to lock eyes with you for as long as I can.

In hope that I can possibly understand you more.

Those eyes, they're gorgeous, and they hold so many untold secrets.

I can see something in them.

 Something I long to understand as my own thoughts (as if I understand my own thoughts either).

You're so incredibly hard for me to wrap my mind around.    

I don't know just what it is, but I know I'm dying to find out every detail I can.

I don't understand why you won't look at me.

You'll hold eye contact for seconds then look away.  

I just don't get it.
                                    
Until, you did stare in my eyes..

You see, it was so easy for me to look at you and your eyes when you weren't looking into mine.

But the moment you stared into mine I understood completely.          

Because in that moment, I realized just how vulnerable to you I really am.
                                                        
And it scared me half to death.

Will you remember me?
With my slightly above average grades
My long hair
The chubby physique

I always had a feeling
A want, no
A desire
To be remembered

I just wanted a friend
Who would miss me when I leave
One who would hug me so tightly
That I wouldn't be able to breathe

I've had times where I couldn't breathe
But not from a hug or warm embrace
From being lied to
Back stabbed with a thousand knives

The sting of being hated
The tears I've shed because I know I'm hated
The emotions like a roller coaster
A never-ending thrill ride

All I wanted was to be remembered
But not like this
Because why would someone
     With scars
     With pain in their eyes
     With a beaten up body
Want to be remembered

our love...
exists.
our love exists,
behind closed doors,
behind four walls
that push up against my lungs
squeezing until I suffocate.
our love exists while you
stand there and stare,
open mouthed
unable to accept
the fact that you denied
a delicate butterfly
the right to take off
that you set fire to a field
of tulips that were begging
for new fallen rain.
you touch me with electricity,
but i am used to this burn.
i am used to this broken feeling;
the feeling after your wings have been
plucked off
and every last layer of skin
has been set on
fire.