i know how many smiles
must be shining over at that house
(good god, yours better be one of them. it's a perfect smile.)
while i sit here singing pop punk and indie songs
to myself, wrapped up in a blanket that still has your scent to it, and imagining
that you would harmonize these words with me
and you'd sit on my floor
churning out random chords on my guitar that you said was
"perfect for indie music."
i haven't eaten a ******* thing in six hours
or so and i don't intend to
because i'm getting that rush again and my brain might be
rolling to a stop on the treacherous slopes of my anxiety and
the silence of my house that is its breeding ground.
i believe that we are something astounding
and inside these rewired bones of mine, i feel
that you and i could do anything
so long as we had one another
but you're five minutes north of here
as you should be, giving thanks with a family that loves you
(i know they're overbearing, darling, but they only care for you and want the best for you.)
(and i love them too)
and isn't broken apart,
forgetting about the sad 18-year old's existence,
or dead and gone,
like mine.