Science taught me that eventually, everything dies and returns back into the Earth. I'm just writing on a piece of future compost to a person who's going to die. That's not a proper way to think, though. Right? I'm going to be older and look back at how I used to be and hate myself for being this sad.

People have been treating me like ****, and that's I have been beginning to feel. Like ****. You said you were coated in ****, but babe, I'm the human embodiment of it.

It's white outside. Whiter than the whites of your eyes. Whiter than this paper. Everything is white except for the bare branches of the trees and the outlines of the houses and street lamps in the distance. You would think this is a white world (it's more of grey-black slush), upon first looking. After your pupils contract and focus on the whiteness, you see the waves of snow blowing from left to right at a constant pace.

The trees outside look tired, branches limp instead of *****. How I'd love to be limp with them.

I want to go to the roof of a building and sit on the edge and feel the air pull at my feet.

I always shake my left foot, sometimes my right. It's my way of keeping part of my body constantly alive. I am alive. Plus, I'm a nervous wreck who is addicted to the beating of people's hearts.

I'm a vessel of those chills that crawl down your body.

Everyone told me how I looked cute today. I wonder if I'd still be cute if I gave them a tour of my mind.

The hair on my head is the home for my troubles.

Apparently my eyes haven't been that white, lately. The veins are prominent and I feel how bloodshot they are. Too many tears, no wonder I'm dehydrated.

I like seeing the silhouette of the trees outside through the cheap curtains of this hatred-filled school.

My handwriting is like a kiss and slap on the cheek at the same time.

I have always wondered why people kept track of the sunrises and sunsets. Night and day should be one. Goodbyes end, just get this one over with already. I wish we never knew the differences between seasons and days because then time would just be spent with others and budding flowers would be surprises.

It's March 12 and I feel like I've been 15 for longer than 10 days.

Kissing shouldn't be a big deal.

I want to tear up my clothes and wear them like it's a fashion trend.

My boots are worn out by my wandering mind.