I still remember the summer I fell for you.
That summer would define the next three years of my life.
It would shape who I was,
who you made me become,
and who I will be.
The grass was dead on that hill,
oh how poetically predictive.
You waited until the last second to ask me to our formal dinner.
Even from the beginning you barely cared.
And to think this all started at church camp...
You ruined that for me you know?
Church and fellowship-
why would I go if I have to endure your face?
You broke your life.
Was it really necessary to break mine too?

That summer will create the foundation for scars that you will never get to see.
There are days,
well mostly nights,
that I am overcome with those torrents of emotions that drive me to tears.
They used to be waves of confusion and love-
a sadistic, twisted love.
But now,
it's just pain,
and rage,
and a hatred that moves me to tears.

I hate how bruised and broken you left me.
Don't you understand how much of a mess you left me in?
Forget about me.
Think of the next man I will let into my heart
(if I ever take that chance).
How is it fair to him?
What gave you the ******* right to leave me a damaged ball of bitterness?
Who would have thought the power of emotions I feel could fit into my 5'2" frame?

It's dangerous.
I'm a wildfire that could burn through my soul,
scorch my best friend,
break my new possibility,
and destroy you.

Oh how I could destroy you.
You don't realize how much I am holding back.
Every text,
every hug,
every smile,
every word that you tease me with takes an immeasurable amount of my control.
And when I run out of that control,
boy,
you
better
run
too.
I can destroy you.
Yet I choose not to.
You need to pray that I will never make that other choice.
I promised you that I could burn through the center of everything that you hold on too.
Boy,
I could destroy you in ways you never thought of.
I could pay you back tenfold.
So here's a warning-
stay far away from
me
and my rage.

Time,
oh time is a silly thing,
it proves things right
and it proves them wrong.
Its’ seemingly long years change you and all that can be touched.
Time-
this illusion we base our lives around, this illusion we obsess over
(don’t deny it, we all do).
It confines us to a routine, to a norm.
The time spent at desks makes us into zombies.
The time spent after chokes us with copious amounts of papers and projects.
But occasionally it grants us a wondrous thing called
wisdom.
It bestows upon us insight and growth.
My always shrewd teenage self has grown to believe that time…
can go **** itself.
I want to fall into a slumber that is a day or two long,
catch up on rest and miss the trials of everyday life.
Of course, once several days pass or several thousand ticks of a clock,
I’ll crave another respite.
Life.
Life is hard.
It’s tiring.
And somehow there is never enough time to
work,
work on the work,
rework the work,
eat,
sleep,
take a couple deep breathes to keep from jamming a stapler into any eyeballs,
be a healthy person,
and do all the things that society tells you to do.
Maybe a designated sleep day would be nice.
If we only need 8 hours of peaceful slumber
for every 16 hours of traumatizing wakefulness,
then sleeping for 24 hours would give us
48 hours of working.
Right?
No.
But it’s a proportion,
so theoretically it should make sense.
Which leads me to conclude that 8 hours is not merely enough time to rest.
Unless you’re under the age of 6.
Or you’re retired.
Or in a coma.
Or…
But no.
No, no, no, no, no.
We must keep going.
Like good little soldiers
on and on
for 60 years,
70 years,
80 years?
I’m sorry but that just does not appeal to me.
Why oh why would I want to work my body to unhealthy levels.
Why oh why would I want to exhaust my mind to points of breakdowns
nearly
every
day.
It’s silly to want to have enough time to eat healthily.
And hit the gym 3 or 4 times a week.
And sleep until recharged.
Yes that’s preposterous.
Ridiculous.
Time is an illusion
that is ruining lives.
If we have an illusion
destroying us from the inside out,
does that make us
crazy?

It makes as much sense as a colorblind interior decorator,
but you, my friend, are my dangerous refuge.

You are my safety
and my pain.
You are my constant
and my storm.

I run to you,
but oh I long to get away.
My breaking heart is the sound of you,
my breathless excitement signals you too.

I think I fell in love with the pain that you bring.
The ups and downs each capture me as well as your somewhat crooked smile does.

You have me on leash
and whenever I get too far away,
you know just how to yank me back.

You'd think I'd have learned by now that the pain isn't as fulfilling as walking away.
Maybe I'm a *******.
Or maybe I'm just a silly teenage girl.

I used to think I would never do the things I've done.
But growing up changes more than you used to think.
Almost never for the better, because what you think might be better,
might be worse in the end.
There's the confusion of growing up-
Things can always be twisted around,
around your neck and around your heart.
Even around your hope,
the very essence keeping you alive,
can be broken and bruised,
tried and diminished.
It's wings get caught in the rain.
As it falls you wish you would hit ground already.
This free-fall of numbness is to unbearable.

I know things change,
and almost never for the better.
Here's a body you didn't get to pick,
but don't worry you will be judged anyways.
Here's a few friends that you think could never hurt you.
Maybe even a person who captured your eyes and then your heart,
and if you are one of those lucky few, captured your soul.
They never last as long as you think.
Here's you picking up the broken pieces of a once lovely life.
Pick up the pieces of the body you despise, the body you scarred, the body you pumped venom into.
Pick up the pieces of the friendships and loved ones who are now long gone-
if you're quick you could catch their sent on the last breeze.

You could be lucky and have someone there who can help you sweep up your now dusty soul.
Things change and not always for the better.
Who would have thought your heart would have hardened at such a young age.
Not even past your first graduation and you've experienced things too lofty for small shoulders to carry.
Nothing seems to phase you anymore.
Stories that would have been unspeakable don't dent the hard surface you've erected for yourself.
But don't you know how hard that is for those who want to care?
Someday a person will want to hold you.
They will want to help you sweep up that dusty soul of yours.
That person might help heal the wounds you picked up through the years.
How hard will you make it for them?
How hard will you push away?
Run away?
Lie?
Lie to yourself.

It's easier-
yes, that's it.
It's easier without love.
Without emotions.
Feelings are troublesome things.
They distort and disgust.
They burden and batter.
No, feelings are for children.
Us, those with the hard hearts,
we know the truth.
Life.
Is.
So.
Much.
More.
Fun.
Without.
Emotions.
Turn it off.
Turn them off.
Love is a notion in the back of your head.
Another conspiracy you hear during those dodgy school hours.

I know that you will want to hide.
Behind your hair or your makeup,
behind outrageous clothes or dull ones,
behind shyness or sarcasm.
You'll hide the scars,
because you believe no one could ever love someone so broken-
so twisted.
The scars, I promise there will be too many.
You won't want to be scarred or broken.
You'll hate yourself for it everyday.
How are you the weak one?
Why do you have to be the ugly one?
The dull one?
The unintelligent one?
The crazy, worthless one?
Why why why do you have to feel your scars and broken limbs?
On cold nights why is it you who has to pick up the knife,
or, if you are stronger than you think (and I guarantee you are), put it back?
Why do you have to drag your body place after place that gives you chills or sickness?
Why are we the different ones?

I want to be one of the other ones.
The ones who don't see the scars that she acquired through the years of tear-stained nights
or wounds that won't stay closed (some just never heal, you know?)
I want to be that girl because I am so **** tired of the life I am living now.

After all this time,
I still want you.

I
want
to not
want
you.
Trust me,
I really do.

But I want
to get lost
in those
blue eyes.

And run my hands through that brown hair
that just happens to be the perfect length
for me.

And talk about shows all day,
and maybe all night,
because we would be that couple.

That nerdy awkward couple
that I find so adorable.
That would be too embarrassed to kiss in public,
but everyone could see that what we have is real.

I want that
and I want that
with
you.

I know it's silly-
to hold onto
hope
when nothing could ever
come out of this.

But still,
I want everything that we could be.
It haunts me in the day,
and I'm sure it finds me in the night.

I want you.
Could
you
ever
want
me?

There was a time
when I would have bet my soul
that you wanted me too.
And I am not a betting girl.

But now,
I'm all lost.
Our story fades
in and out,
It's woven throughout time,
like the Doctor and River.
I know you when you don't know me
and vice-versa.
Always opposite.
Always slightly out of step.
No, I doubt our story will end anytime soon.

We will come back to this small town,
that I picture with bars,
and a few simple words
will start it all anew.

Maybe then
I'll have the confidence to ask,
"Did you ever want me,
or was I just wasting
paper?"

Tell me I'm beautiful,
even if you have to turn your face.
Tell me I'm funny,
even if you have to force a smile.
Tell me I'm yours,
even if you have to lie.

Yes you heard right.
I'm asking you to lie.

These, these are the marks to show the
pain.
These, these are the marks upon my
veins.