In this moment, I am standing here with my feet unsteady. My room is a war-zone belonging to a person who never outgrew five on somedays but on others has matured past forty. I am sixteen and I am learning that love does not come when needed, wanted, or even when you're ready. I have stood for too long with my arms outstretched, a cavity between them for someone else to fill, but all they leave behind is blemished skin. My hands, numb at the fingers, don't know what their use is anymore. Love comes when you recognize it. It comes like a bee sting. When it leaves, it takes chunks and craters. It leaves a stinger pumping poison until you locate the burning. This could take years. For now, you are the moon. Look at you, glowing madly for all the wrong reasons. The lights in my room rust into the wall with a smolder, the cassettes play the color blue and the bottles, with their stale water, are all the fixtures in my room left static. See, either way I'm either making people stationary or throwing them away. I know that we are all on our own path to fate, which remains the same, hurdling around the sun at what seems like a snail's pace. I am going to stay here a little longer and hope my path will cross another's, like a road pierced with train tracks. Crash into me. Make it hurt. Make the wait worth everyone before you who fell short. Make me remember what my hands are for.
