I wonder to the bar and see lipstick
tags holding on to lonely sticks.
A stirring of moments, melting pots of
relaxing reflection they called it dove.
As your worries fly away with everyone
you have, and then I'm served and done.

Collecting my shuffling skills to weave
the ocean of others, our drinks we've
been able to keep from sinking on others.
Thirsty friends awaiting our return, like
maidens on the shore, smiling a dislike
for a wrong drink brought. acting childlike.

But he holds no argument as butts lay
static. We were the sailors escaping the spray.
Telling them of our journeys and sights seen,
mouths a gasp at observing a beautiful scene.
A number taken with but a glance of smiling
eyes and with a drink brought clearly willing.

He knows that is for another time, as the street  
we surrender to. As hunger outweighs sweet
perfumes enticing friends to anchor away from
needing mates. Aromas perforate a needed outcome,
handing over spare change to fulfil a nights hunger.
Laughing as were old, never wishing we were younger.

As wisdom teaches that a fish may swim,
but to much of a good thing can end in a whim.
So one must always leave a little in a glass,
for we need not want our slumber to be on grass.
Awoken in our beds slighty misty eyed but
a nice number in the phone and in my pocket a peanut?

-Numbers 1 to 9-

I am happy to be here,
Where I can find numbers each morning.
Sun shining through my window,
I walk barefoot downstairs,
Even though my bones crack
I am quiet as a cat.

With warm coffee I can sit,
And as I nibble on the food
I fill out all the blanks.
My pen is black in color
Just like the ink on paper,
They both match each other.

I recall my resolutions
I made a list just days past,
But writing is so much fun.
I write numbers one to nine,
When they are correct I feel fine,
But some numbers I cannot find.

I have finished all my food,
So I go out to sit in the sunshine.
I cover up my face,
Place the paper on the grass,
I let the noise fade at last,
But I must consider every remark.

With criticism one can be better
But then why are these tears around?
I can’t find seven and eight.
I need those numbers,
I need to make them match,
I need to complete these lines.

A plastered note covers my eyes,
a girl is there with a gentle smile.

Today my wounds were on display,
everyone saw my wounded face.

But I felt a pat instead of a hit,
my heart is filled with sprinkles of gleam.

For now I'm a face, a heart to love.

I'm not a number anymore.

1 People who take red lights as suggestions
#2 People who drink espresso straight
#3 People who flirt with no intention
#4 People who have a hatred for anyone who isn’t straight or normal
#5 People who think short people can’t do anything. We can but it may involve climbing on anything that gets in our way
#6 People who follow the rules
#7 People who don’t follow the rules
#8 People who decide that they’re better than everyone else because they’re parents have a little more money
#9 People who think getting tattoos and dying your hair is a mistake
#10 Math teachers

I am obsessed with my health. Not just simply my health, but my weight, and my eating habits, and my view on life and myself. I am so obsessed that it has now gotten to the point where it is all I think about, and it has become obvious to everyone around me.

I can tell you which lunch ladies at my school won't question your lunch choices, which teachers will let you sit in their classrooms during lunch because you don't want to be around anyone or food; I have memorized restaurant menus, and I can tell you the meals with the lowest amounts of calories. My photo gallery is full of screenshots of healthy, low calorie, low fat, no-sugar recipes that I intend to make when I choose. I follow 177 eating disorders blogs on Tumblr. One of them being my girlfriend, and I get notifications when all of them post anything new. I weigh myself everyday, I know what I am eating two days from now, I overexercise, and I can tell you how many calories are in the 6 200mg ibuprofen I take everyday before facing the world.

I have lost 20 lbs. That doesn't seem like something worth keeping to myself, but it is when you are a high school girl; it is when all girls think the same, and suddenly when they hear numbers, they want to be number 1; they want to be the lowest, to be the winner, to be the most miserable person.

I can tell you exactly what it feels like to be embarrassed of being in your own skin.

I love giving other people food because I want them to remember that food is good for them. I want them to feel as though being given food is a kind gesture, not a last resort.

(0.) Even though the irony it has 1 dot.
All is contained.

1.
Infinite dots yet so perfectly lined up.
0 is infinitely small while 1 is already so long.

2.
4 directions to us so normal. X-ray vision but we don't care because its not about us and because of the limit we see yet potential something we like to forget.

3.
This is all there is. It's important to some in the future and to some in the past which both cant be seen yet all we can imagine because small is too small and big is too big. Also has the biggest potential because of its infinite directions yet so finite in our heads.

4.
All is the same. No past or future here.
To them we are also seen in xray yet they don't seem to care either. 2. Was too small while 4. Is too big. Yet existence is, and even though in cycles, but is.

5.
4. Was too much so what do I know about this one? Maybe here to exist and not to is the same thing as in 4. Where future and the past are the same...

Sure you still have the eyes of all seeing?
Yeah you do actually. There would be no world or no, no world. There would be no you since you are all that is. Bigger yet smaller than everything. Should you disappear, there will be everything missing once more.

Time is a human construct.
It will spill numbers on the floor,
Whilst it slips its fragile hands around your throat.
Choking you out,
Until breathing becomes more of a chore than reality.
Until it feels like you’re drowning from the carbon dioxide swimming in your veins.

The clock is the home that stutters away when you get to close.
It’s the boy who tells you he loves you,
And then never calls.
It’s the sound of your ribs snapping in half,
Simultaneously filling your lungs with ambrosia.
So that when you take your final breath,
Time will be there to remind you that no matter what,
You were never ******* enough nor ever really there.

Time is the intruder that breaks in
Steals your youth, your drive, your ******* life.
Erasing you slowly,
As I’ve done to every minute since I saw the universe in your eyes.

But, god, what would we do without time,
How would we subsist without measuring cosmos in our hands?
How am I supposed to live without the warmth of your body next to mine?