Sometimes I wish I was Margo Roth Spiegelman
I want to be able to follow my heart and do the things I've always wanted to
I want to dance with wind
Feel the grass beneath my feet
The stars to blanket me with sparkle
And the moon to light my face
I've always wanted to run
And never look this way again
To be the captain of my own soul
Seizing all the hours of my day
I have feet because I know I wasn't meant to stay on the ground
I wasn't given wings because I know I am no angel
But I knew I was destined to fly

My heart ached in my chest.
It was swelling up, finally getting ready to shatter into millions of pieces.
Tears wanted to drip out of my eyes.
My breathing sped, as I tried to control my breathing.
inhale   exhale inhale exhale
What if I stopped?
What if I stopped thinking about breathing?
Would I stop breathing?

A wise man once said "crying doesn't help a problem "
So I held my tears, until I absolutely needed them.

Until my pain was 10 on a scale of 1 to 10.
Until my pain was Unbearable.

He used to quote John Green

Like the cancer kid he was "on a roller coaster that only went up”

He never told me he was afraid of heights

She is a diary, a diary you'd never want to write in. One you don't want to read again. A book who's pages you'd never want to turn. She, is a diary that's never been opened.

Buried deep within teenage romance
And wit and strife and philosophical musings and --

He'd nudged my foot,
His face is a gorgeous grin over these pages.
I glance back to them.

The love interest rose up now
Handsome and beautiful
Charming, clever, humorous, and deep
(But did he have to be oh so middle class American??
And did she? Or I, first person as it is?) --

He's started to stroke my toes now,
Gently, just how I like it.
I'm not kidding when I say
"If you touch my feet I'll fall in love with you"
It's almost instantaneous.

A heroic act of selfless love:
Amsterdam snows confetti
Virginities are lost or traded or gifted
Heroes are demoted --

He kisses my head now,
My cheek, my temple
Interrupts with a story,
Hilarious I am sure
"What was that? Sorry, I'm distracted"
I giggle
Engrossed in the 'other land'

Love blooms on the wings of angels
(And all those other cliches)
He is perfect, yet flawed, as they all are.
As we all are.
They click and rebound and discuss
They laugh, they cry:
They try to fill a part of themselves with
The Other --

I glance up, spying on my own lover
His soft glance on the laptop
Beautiful lips
Gorgeous style
Our own joking, rebounding, enthused exchanges.
Our own supporting, caring, deep meaningfuls.
And I'm not jealous. Not of them. Or anyone. Not one bit.

Yet tragedy is ever present!
And our handsome and perfect lover
Is tossed into Oblivion:
Or to a Something's Somewhere --

"He's dying!" I cry to beautiful brown eyes
Framed with long wavy black.
The darkness holds amusement and affection.

Their perfect and tragic love is ever more so
For its fleeting 'forever'
Its lessened 'infinity':
Beautiful and fragile --

His arms are around me tight
Why am I affected so?
Too easily invested?
But it's not that.
The emotions are too close.
It had been described so well.
Loss.
So accurate.
And these feelings not completely healed
- But healing. Slowly.
Time heals all wounds,
But maybe some are forgotten, sealed away
This one. This one slowly eases.
Some infinities are larger than others.*
And his love surrounds me
As emotions leak from some deep place
Let out to the Universe
Hopefully to never return.

The fault of our reality is not written in our stars
And it will not dance across unfavorable constellations,
Or dissolve into inconsolable fragments.

The fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.

But how fortunate would it be?
To cast the providence of our unlucky affairs
Into the gloomy twilight,
Where the sky is so unilluminated
That we could close our restful eyes
And fathom a world where it does not exist?

But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.

We are heavily folded sheets of stationary:
A collection of utterances
Bound into melancholy novels
By our mangled hearts,
And though spoken words
Still fall onto my turning pages
As tears do fall from my reddened cheeks,
I have yet to forget
The chapter you have left unwritten,
Because an unwritten chapter is one to be adorned:
It cannot end
For it does not exist.
And so we fumble through an amorous affliction,
Fabricated into a bittersweet infinity.

And at midnight,
When my restless fingers
***** the empty air for you,
And the reality of our desolate fault
Seeps into my hands,
I wish you were here.

But the fault, my love, is not written in our stars.
It is written in ourselves.

j.s.

She was a hurricane
a tempest so true
so strong and indestructible
blowing through existence
and soaking everyone
in her way
day by day
more fell wounded
from her rage
but ignorant
to the truth
inside
too big for the small town box she’s locked inside
she wants to matter
she dreamed of gettin’ out
for herself
yet she worries
what
if…
she was fighting a war within herself
endless heart wrenching vindictive battles
she lost
every
one
she’s drowning
she doesn’t care
she’s had enough
of the paper towns
the paper people
the paper lies
sooner or later
the paper will
tear
and
so
will
she

Oh John Green!
Why must you see me this way?
You make me weep
and wish they would live another day.
You are so witty
but you do lack certain skills
Killing the main character is so unfriendly
But chocolate will solve the problem anyway
You make me think a lot of things
but they don't have a lasting effect
I know you throw a lot of paper in the bin
But in all due honesty
I feel like setting you ablaze.
Much love,
J

You told me I was beautiful,
A cigarette between your teeth.
I raged at the careless gesture,
You laughed and smiled.
The first meeting,
A beautiful metaphor.

A first kiss,
A shared wish,
And the silent love.
A beautiful metaphor.

Happily Ever After came crashing down,
Our demise up in lights,
You held on 'til the bitter end,
A flickering candle in the dead of night.
A beautiful metaphor.

You'll live forever in me.
Augustus and Hazel,
Okay? Okay.
A beautiful metaphor.