Fourteen days for you to arrive and I already feel like I'm going to black-out. My mind has been rambling on about what should I wear and how should I look but all I really want is to see you.

Fourteen days for you to arrive and it is so hard. I want your arms to be around me when it gets tough at night, but your night is my noon and my day is your night.

Fourteen days for you to start looking at me through something which is not Skype or any internet related object. Your eyes, meeting my eyes.

Just picture it.
It leaves me breathless.

Do you believe in coincidences? The fact that the person you've been looking for your entire life is standing just behind that door and you manage enter and look their way.
Do you believe in love? The feeling you give me, the feeling this is.

Do you believe in second chances? The time I promised myself to never love again, but then I looked at you and decided to start again
Do you believe in me? When I tell you I love you, when I say it's real.

Do you feel the same? Or do you feel more, shock me with your electricity so you're not alone.
Please be here, please don't leave.

I believe in you.
Do you believe in me?

Suddenly every vocal my mouth pronounced was about you. It did not matter if it was because of you or not, you fullfilled my vocalchords like a tsunami that just destroyed my whole perception of what I was capable of doing, of how much I am capable of love.

Suddenly all the songs were about you. Yes, all the ******, cheesy songs the radio plays atleast 15 times a day were all about you and for you. I couldn't care less that everything that came out of my mouth were giggles and smiles because you are just so good at making me laugh.

Suddenly I forgot what pain felt like.

Thank you for that.

I must admit it has been a while since I ever write. I also must admit it's been a while since I ever loved, my dear. The pages have been blank and wet from tears and blood from many enemies I might dare to call my own monsters or my own sons. The white pages scream to me as I stare at them blankly and full of sorrow, regret and hatred. Why am I back at this place? And I can't help to admit there is another bug bothering my cheek this time and it's making me loose concentration from what I should be writing about, or perhaps it is my own self that does not want to accept I may (or may not) have found love, but this is something you can't tell him, my dear. His hands were not visible the day he confessed what mostly seemed like a sin to him, to say he had liked the way my feet crossed the classroom floor since the day he first saw me walking down the painful isle of college. His eyes are almost always shaped as hearts and he almost always says I'm perfect, to which I always reply with an "I'm not, but thanks". I think he hasn't got the idea of me being perfect is like him not being the sweetest person to have ever stepped on this planet. My heart sometimes skips a beat when my phone rings and it is not him, but you cannot tell him, my dear. I have a weird sensation in my chest, something I have never experienced before. And I can find the words to explain how utterly beautiful he makes me feel and this is also something you cannot tell him, my dear. My past loves have not been as wonderful as him and this has left a tone of resentment in my chest, which is waiting for him to leave.

Please tell him to never do, my dear.

It is all over.
We are no longer kids but we still are and we are begging for someone to understand that, or at least to pretend they do. High school is done and so is my bottle of anxiety pills so that must mean something, it has given so much to me and also taken away so much from me I think we're even. High school was hard. I had problems, everyone did. But I guess that at the end what we're all going to remember the most is the amount of hours we couldn't get to sleep before finals. In high school I learnt that it does not matter if you are suffocating and you want someone to notice and help you and be your saviour, it only matters if you want it to matter. I also learnt not everyone is worth looking at, with eyes that could have spared looking or glancing at books I already returned to the book bank and I will never see again. High school is not about how many times you go to parties or you get asked out because, if you have a different perspective of it all, the movie dates do not drive you to graduation and the smiles for the pictures you take in parties are not the same smiles in the pictures at your graduation day.

I have not cried one day yet over my already done childhood and half-way done teenager-hood, because I already cried enough with a few things I'm quite ashamed to write about now. Perhaps the day it all sinks in and I see my friends not here with me but there with somebody else I'll cry. Or maybe not, or maybe a lot, or maybe my eyes could fill the rivers I didn't cried in all this period were people cried like maniacs while seeing pictures of them with weird haircuts and faces full of acne.

To sum this up, high school was crap. But we all love crap.

Right now I'm sitting on the verge of a hill and I can't even spare a blink. They are screening some movie about how autumn makes the saddest orange leaf to leave its tree and the tears are threatening to leave my eyes but I wont let them this time. Not because I am with my entire group of ant friends and they will drown with my enormous tears. Not because you have teared me apart to freaking pieces and you still want to burn the bitter rests, but because you don't deserve them, not even the slightest approximation of tear molecule coming from me (or whichever other pine tree you have made feel this way).

You made me feel as wonderful as a whole tree green from the spring ******, just to drop me to my lowest as the same tree at the winter ******, and that is not fair. I opened up my rib cage and let you explore every inch of the inner working of my photosynthetic organism and you doubted if I was real because I pumped blood. I could made light turn into different forms of art and you could only make my art turn into blood coming down my branches and trunk like the rain drops that fell between the leafs that laid perfectly in my hair, shaking my whole system, tearing my trunk apart.

My branches itches and my leafs claim to be attacked, and my wrists are ready to be destroyed and ridiculized.
But i won't, i won't, i won't.
Or at least I'm trying not to.