Baby girl,

When you are born in this world no one tells you that one day you will become sad, depressed, psychotic, or ****** up. They don't tell you that every night before you close your eyes that your life will flash before you and undoubtedly, you will cry. You will cry because it isn't fair that a fire burns inside of you that seems to scorch everyone else. They'll swear you have a heart of ice but it's only because they made you so ******* frigid that your heart will never beat normally again. When you are born, you are pure and untouched. Perfect, beautiful baby they say as they probe your skin with their filthy fingers and ****** themselves inside of your purity. I wish they told me how many times I'd ******* slice my skin just to feel that hot love pour out of useless body. All the while my peers laughed and played out their sick fantasies of torturing my mind. Holding me hostage to the prison of my own head. Nobody will ever tell you, baby girl, that your innocence will be stolen by men who never even deserved it in the first place. They will stalk you in your own mind till one day, you know nothing but him and the way his fists look imprinted in your tired skin. As you age, everyone you love will slowly fade and the hope you had in humanity will be lost. You won't cry this time because the emotion stored inside you will have already left for vacation and soon your mind will join. Listen. The last live bits of your anatomy will slowly wither like the last of the autumn-browned leaves. When you become the fragile bird everyone has always told you you were. You will believe them. You will finally give in to the devil on your shoulder who seems more like friend then foe. He has always been there since the beginning, the only one who ever was. My god, it will ******* hurt but now that you've seen it, baby girl-

Rebuild

-I've been there

Foolish, faulty
         feathers of quill
                                     Create
         Dizzy, drunk,
                  doodles on paper
        
                                            Drizzling
               Intense, irreversible
                                                Ink
                                                        Spilling
                          Curious, chaotic
                                            chemical imbalances  
                                                                ­               E
                                                                                   n
                                                                                      d
                                                                                         l
                                                                                            e
                                                                                               s
                                                                                                  s
                                                                                                    l
                                                                                                      y

the most frustrating thing
when it comes to a writer
is when everything
every word, every letter,
isn't enough to give justice to
the captivating picture of you
in the afternoon:

soaked in sweat,
grinning foolishly,
striking up a conversation
about coffee,
and how unhealthy it is
for me to drink
three cups straight,
to stay awake,

yet the bittersweet taste
stains my lips.

it spills down my throat,
covers my lungs,
and drowns them
with the addicting aroma
of coffee beans
and lazy dreams,
until i cannot seem
to breathe,

and the only thing
i can ever do
is to spill ink
for you.

To those of you who know me,
You know me not at all.
To those of you who don't:
These are my beacons in the fog.
These words have been my anchor.
They've been there to break my falls.
I've illustrated my escapes
From within these empty walls.
On these pages are the prices
That I've paid for life's surprises.
I've lain waste to pens revising,
Re-copying, refining.

Not all of it is exciting,
Nor sad, or uninviting,
But I gain pleasure from these words,
And from the simple act of writing.

And so for this I'm pleading,
And maybe even needing:
Take pleasure from these words,
And the simple act of reading.

they say,
"**** kid you write so much"

i say,
"how could i not when my home
was stripped off words
for so long -
so ******* long that my lips cracked
like aged paint tearing off walls.
and i thought my voice
will forever be lost in these desolate rooms
that i learned how to scream
without having to make a noise."

and maybe if they say,
"**** kid you write so well"

i'll reply with a shrug,
"maybe for you...
but i never thought about it
all i know is that i've felt empty
for so long -
for so ******* long that now i let myself write.
write whatever. to fill the empty
rooms with new, colorful paint."

-n.c.

I think I'm always meant to be a writer; in the way where I always see things in third person.

I guess the past boys I used to like were, in a sense, too flashy for me. At first, I don't know what they lacked that I had to stop. I'm looking for something but they just didn't have it. Maybe I'll know when I meet the right person?

So now, I'd rather stick to just observing the boys around me--those of potential love interest or not, like I do with every other person. The most recent boy was such a main character in many people's stories; he has main character quality, albeit only from afar.

I conclude I'm looking for a person who's like me; not exactly a writer, but someone who balances. A reader, perhaps? Someone who sees things in a third person perspective as well; someone who can read people, understand the atmosphere and we can watch and scrutinize over anything and anyone.

I'm not saying that the boys in the past were incapable of being observant, but maybe they just don't care about these things, in the way that I do. And I don't really want to waste my time on a person who's like that.  When you observe a reader, they sort of observe you back.

So, back to my most recent--he's just a main character, lolling about in a plot, used to being watched, and not being proactive enough to be another writer or reader. It's ironic, because there are supposed to be two people in a love story. Two characters are needed but I don't want to be in that situation because I don't think I can be "main character" enough.

I'd rather find myself a reader to match me, a writer.

I've learned something about myself after liking a person. Now that I think of it, I guess I am looking for that thing that sets non-readers and readers apart. It's just really obvious, to me at least, when you know a person reads or not.

The superficial factor is, which I'm sure everyone sees, if a person "looks" like a reader. But you'll only truly know when you interact with them. The reader's thoughts are beyond their "looks" as a reader and goes farther than the minds of non-readers.

There's no rush in finding a relationship, I guess. I believe the readers will find the writers they will want to read, even if they don't know the writers' names at first. They'll come across our stories and they'll feel like being a part of it once they've read; not in the sense where they feel like the main character, but how they understand the writer's thoughts through the plots of the story.

You can see it in one's eyes and we writers have this in-depth instinct in sensing out different types of people: bad, good, weak, strong, non-readers, readers, etc. I suppose sometimes we don't want to admit these things because of easily misjudging people, but it's a fact that's silently agreed on by almost everyone.

I'm really dead set on on finding that quality which will make me love a person, a reader. And so far in the boys I've met, I never found it. But that's okay, because I always find little bits of myself, even if it's just a bit, every time I don't find what I'm looking for in them.

It turns out I'm looking for my other self in someone else. I'm looking for a reader who can read, know and understand me.