Part 2: My fault

I grasped his hand and he grinned so brightly it made me want to cry at the supernatural kindness of it. We strolled through the halls showing our obvious connection to the tiny world we currently lived in: High school. A time when no adult can take anything that means something to you seriously, especially romance. Like any other teenage in love, I would defend my relationship to the death, knowing in my heart it was meant to last forever. There was no way it couldn't.

"How was English?" he asked me after a minute of walking in silence. The entwining of our fingers when we held hands was enough to make us feel completely connected even when we have no words to exchange. I know when we speak to each other it is because we are genuinely intrigued in what the other has to say.
"It was fine. We had to share our poems out loud, and you know how I feel about that." I rolled my eyes. If anyone knew, it was him.
"I'm sorry, but I'm sure it wasn't as bad as you thought." His thumb traced the back of my hand in reassurance.
"You've never seen how terrible my writing is."
"Since you're always doing it, it must not be so terrible. I wish you'd show me."
"Someday, Derek..." I said with no meaning. I would never share him the inner workings of my mind. Letting him know about my daily struggles was difficult enough, I didn't want to let him know everything.

This hour we had social studies together, sitting two rows away, but both 3 seats back from the front. We had a perfect field of vision to constantly make eye contact throughout the hour. We quickly kissed before heading into the room, slipping our hands away from each other. I couldn't help but feel less loved than I did just the moment before.

We had been dating about 8 months, and everything about that time had been awe-inspiring. I had transformed, no longer the depressed Christian girl I was entering a new school. Now the only thing I worshipped was our love, our relationship. As for the depression, it was subsided with feelings of love and belonging, two things I had craved my whole life.

We were watching some video on industrialization today, a perfect chance for Derek and I to make constant glances back and forth. I looked at him and saw him kiss the air. I smiled and winked, but found myself turning back towards the front. He was probably concerned, but he didn't realize I was perfectly content daydreaming. The only problem was, I wasn't thinking of him.

a missing piece.

I suppose there is a reason for it all. For the stars to appear magical to us, for hearts to feel so full and so empty at once, for glass to shatter when one stubborn crack is formed on the pane. I go along with the motions, hoping that the happy ending everyone talks of is in my future even if I'm not close enough to it to realize. I wonder why I feel this way, the horrid thoughts never seem to exit my mind. They are only temporarily locked away.

When they surface, not even the most wonderful and romantic moments can save me. I am consumed entirely by natural disdain, disgust, and disappointment towards myself. Am I shuddering because the sudden throws of love fill me with contentment or because the lack of it? And why is it every time I feel a shred of insecurity and detachment I pull away from the life around me to scribble in my notebook?

Things I want to do before I die

In no particular order, some of these things have been accomplished after the time I originally wrote this list:

1. Get married
2. Have a baby
3. Graduate college
4. Write a book
5. Write a published script (television or movie)
6. Learn to play guitar
7. Write a love song about a man I love
8. Sky dive
9. Have a leading role in Rent
10. Backpack through Europe
11. Witness something I deem a miracle
12. Be applauded by more than one thousand people
13. Beat Zelda and the Ocarina of Time
14. Dance in the moonlight.
15. Surf
16. Be on MTV
17. Win a nationally recognized award
18. Go on a safari
19. Go on a spur of the moment road trip
20. Audition for a reality TV show
21. Sing a full song (not just a solo) well by myself in front of an audience
22. Get a driver's license
23. Drive a motorcycle
24. Fire a gun
25. Visit all 7 natural wonders of the world
26. Kiss on top of the eiffel tower on a starry night
27. Be on wikipedia
28. Be in maxim
29. Help fulfill another person's greatest wish
30. Meet NPH
31. Swim with sharks
32. See a Bon Jovi concert
33. Sing with a celebrity
34. Go to a party at the playboy mansion
35. Wish on a shooting star
36. See the northern lights
37. Climb a mountain
38. Study abroad in Spain
39. Get a nonconventional piercing
40. Get a tattoo
41. Meet Britney Spears
42. Visit the grave of Edgar Allan Poe
43. Write a rock opera
44. Learn the to play the piano
45. Cliff dive
46. Help someone in their greatest time of need
47. Go to times square on New Years
48. Swim with dolphins
49. Pet a tiger
50. Be fluent in a second language
51. Pull off a magic trick
52. Visit a waterfall
53. Go somehwere no other person has ever been before
54. Eat an atomic chicken wing
55. Ride a horse
56. Do a back flip
57. Memorize 1000 digits of Pi
58. Go camping
59. Perform in a burlesque show
60. Be in a movie
61. Have sex outside in a tropical place
62. Makeout with a girl
63. Gamble in Vegas
64. Skinny dip
65. Sing the national anthem for a packed stadium
66. Ride a mechanical bull
67. Ballroom dance
68. Go to comic con


I'll add more as I think of them.

The way my sister views me

I wanted to post these two pieces my sister wrote about me. One was when she was a freshman and I was a little kid. The other was just this year for my graduation. I feel that having this on my blog will be a constant support system for me, and that maybe this way anybody reading my blog and feeling close to me through my words can get a chance to feel even closer.


THEN, Titled: BEAN

My brothers call my sister Brittany "Psycho" or "Little Spaz," but to me she's a little shadow, constantly copying my every move.

She is short and thin as a rail. She weighs less than my brother who is over a year younger than her. She has hair so curly that it can not be straightened. Her hair is like little corkscrews plastered to her head. She has eyes like the ocean and a little button nose. She looks really out of place because all my siblings and I look alike except for her.

She is always following me around, copying what I do. If I eat a cookie, so does she. If I put my hair in a pony tail, so does she. When I go outside to practice my rifle or colorguard flag, she takes a plastic kid's baseball bat and pretends to twirl it around.

She changes clothes more times a day than a runway model. I have no idea why she does this, but every time she walks upstairs and comes down again, she has a different outfit on. She loves frilly dresses that she pulls out of her dresser to wear. They are supposed to be for holidays and special occasions, but she doesn't understand that. My mom has given up on her dressing style, and lets her do whatever she wants with her outfits. I don't get surpised when she is wearing a wool Christmas dress in June.

I swear that she has schizophrenia. She can be a little monster or sweet as sugar. She flashes her big Colgate smile to get out of trouble and says her famous line, "I didn't do it." She gets into my makeup, breaks my hairclips, and loses my jewelry that she steals from my room. I know she does all this for attention, but I really hate it. After she cries and says she is sorry, I usually forgive her, even though I probably shouldn't.

We call her "Bean" because she thinks she is Dominique Moceanu, and she is always flipping around like a little jumping bean. She is actually pretty good at it for a four year and old and I wouldn't be surprised if she was in the Olympics someday.

Even though she's weird and the odd one in the family, she's my little sister and we stick together.


NOW, Titled: BRITTERS

My brothers won't take her disc golfing because they think they'll be slowed down by her less than spectacular athletic abilities. I would take her everywhere, because to me, she's the best person in the entire world.

She is still short and still thin. She radiates beauty from her heart and dazzles everything and everyone she encounters. Her curls have straightened out and has a texture similar to mine: like a "messy day at the beach" crazy hair. She has illuminating blue-green eyes that sparkle with the same pixie mischievousness of her youth.

She walks by my side, enjoying life with me. No longer my little shadow, she has discovered and creates a beautiful life of her own. She has friends that adore her and the words she expresses, whether by voice or written word they make a difference. We have enjoyed so much together: our first vacation, the Producers, nature walks, and random adventure days. Her laughter will open up any room to love and awareness.

She still changes clothes more times a day than a run-way model. I'm happy she's learned wool Christmas dresses are not appropriate for summer. She has a unique style that I could never dare to try on and it makes her uniquely her own. Fashion.

Her schizophrenia has calmed down into a very expressive and creative woman. She still gets into all my stuff, but I don't mind now because I can fit into her clothes too! The Rory to my Lorelai- She can borrow whatever she wants.

We call her "Britters." I think my great friend Jessie created that nickname. Instead of watching gymnastics, she's now a talented dancer. She is very good at it, and I wouldn't be surprised if she danced for UW Madison someday.

Even though she's still weird and odd, it's wonderful. I remember being 11 or so and telling my mom that I wanted a sister. It was as if I knew she was coming. I can't imagine life without this fantastic woman that is my best friend, with the entire world ahead of her. Magic follows her whenever she goes. She is the change I wish to see in the world. Now, if she would just care about starving children, she'd be perfect.




My sister is my world. My everything. In 6th grade I wrote a paper about my hero and chose her. I still feel this way, only more so. She's not only my hero, she's my best friend, my guardian, my sister and my mother rolled into one. I couldn't ask for a better person to talk sense into me at 3 am and to watch Grey's Anatomy marathons with. She's beautiful inside and out, and she is everything I can only hope to emulate.

Starting over. Part 1: Here I lie, a wasted soul condemned to a body

The names in this story I am beginning may seem to line up with reality. However, I'd like to ask you not to assume that's the case, because though many situations I will write about in this piece are true, many are not. This is part one. The first of many parts.


"Paradox of mystic misfortune trying to soar to frightened souls with a message of brevity,
yet the people, they throw back outrage to break your wings and end your longevity.
Black satin of Satan, but your heart has silver thread,
pulsating fire away from that which is dead.
Angels blind demons, quicker shadows will cease,
black flame unfolds, magic in every crease.
People! Listen to whom I quoth "Nevermore!"
Let go of inhibition and word of "Lenore!"
Your power unspent, Hell ashore, the tide,
people know from fate they cannot hide,
time again they refuse to abide.
They must learn wisdom, forget, recant the spells,
find a way to release from their hells.
You, Raven, bask in your wit
love's bleak mind hath misinterpreted."

I tried to relieve my dry throat. Speaking in front of the class was frightening enough when it was a presentation about something entirely factual. But this, sharing a creative work? Something my own imagination thought up? There was too much risk of judgement. I tried to spin it like what I had written was just an ode to a favorite poet of mine, Poe. An obvious choice for a favorite, yes, but there was a reason he is so well-known. I don’t think anyone really understands him the way he wanted to be understood though, and with that I felt a kinship toward him.
“Anyone have any comments? Questions?” Mr. Hayes asked. “Thank you for sharing that, Brittany.” I looked around the circle of desks, some faces were blank and obviously not here in the moment with the rest, some faces were confused, and some were, well, delighted. A smiling classmate raised her hand, and I really hoped she wouldn’t have any questions.
“Yeah,” she giggled. I had many classes with Lauren and I noticed whenever she spoke that she didn’t seem to take herself seriously. She laughed at her own words, maybe at even the thought that she could form coherent statements. She put doubt into herself before others even had the chance to. “I was just wondering,” she began. Oh fucking fantastic. “Who are the people you are referring to? Like society as a whole… or like a smaller group of people?” She looked at me with a genuinely puzzled expression. Then a look of shock ran over her face and she quickly added, “I also totally loved it by the way. So cool, so different.”
“Society as a whole. A generalized version, not viewing any ‘exceptions’ to the rule.” I stated.
“What rule?” Her second question took me by surprise.
“ The objective rule,” I couldn’t believe I was answering her. “The way that morals function in form of church and of state. For instance, murder is bad, thinking of others instead of yourself is good, love is important but family comes first. Stereotypes that are all too true in the hearts of many.” I was shaking. I didn’t like this. I didn’t like anyone to know what was going on in my mind, because I didn’t even know myself. If I gave them clues, maybe they could figure it out, and then I’d be the one left in the dark.
“Oh okay. “ She still looked as if she had no real idea of what I was getting at. Come on, I thought. Can’t you question the way you raised and the society you live in just once? This is an advanced english class for crying out loud, you must have some sort of artistic depth to take AP dramatic literature.
“Who’s Lenore?” A very quiet boy in the corner asked. I couldn’t remember his name, it was something complicated.
“The dead lover of the protagonist in the poem The Raven by Poe.”
“So, what’s the significance?”
I didn’t know how to answer him. I don’t know what the significance is, I thought. I just wrote it. Mr. Hayes could tell I was struggling. He stepped in.
“Brittany, did you have a message carved out in the poem you wanted to share with people? Like that of other authors during the gothic influenced romantic era?”
“N-no. I just wrote what I felt I should write.” Everyone looked confused. I know, you’re supposed to have an ending in mind when sculpting a beginning. But it didn’t work that way when I wrote, I just jotted down feeling and the words that were on the tip of my tongue. The bell rang, and my blushing red cheeks finally ceased burning. Saved, of course, by the fucking bell. And as I turned to leave the classroom, I heard my teacher calling out to me, I knew I would. He looked out for me it seemed, like he thought I was fragile. Like he knew I was fragile. I opened the door and I already saw a person waiting for me. A boy that I had completely given my heart and soul to. That I surrendered my life to with ease and no looking back.

What happens?

What happens when you start piecing together very different works of fiction that all have the same central element in common? A story is formed.
Maybe that's all I need to do... is tell my story. No characters to invent. Just real raw emotion in the form of my memories.
This feels right. I think that fiction novels seem to be best when it turns out... it isn't really fiction at all.

Part 4. I don't know about this anymore.

***Writer's note: I feel like this isn't what I want to be known for writing. This is just for fun, just to carve out a story minus the beautiful way of crafting words. This is not good by any means, but I need to write a bad fiction novel about teenage years before I can ever move on to writing something decent.***

I often make excuses about my behavior to myself. I blame my mind, as if my mind and myself are two separate entities. Staggering through seemingly endless hallways I was silently screaming at my mind. For some reason, I was struck by his tinted-green blue eyes. I couldn't get that cocky but sensual smile out of my head. I try to wave away the thoughts, I can't do that to myself this time. I focus on trying to find my english class with a mister... Fuck, gotta pull out the schedule again, such a demeaning task. It doesn't cross my mind that I had been walking through this building with no real intent on ending up in class until that moment. That I had no idea what I was looking for, so there was no possible way I could have been looking. But my mind doesn't realize this. Mr. Riley, AP Dramatic Literature Room 1234. The numbers for rooms go that high? I feel stressed. Starting to rush because I know I only have about another ten seconds left until I'm officially late for my first class, I round the corner and see that the room I want to be in was to my left. I can't help stumbling in with my sudden change of pace, I slightly bump into a classmate who is sharpening their pencil. A boy. He turns around and smiles, a wide, obvious smile.

"Hi," he greeted brightly. I can feel myself snickering in my head at his over-confidence and outward charm, but I find myself politely responding aloud.
"Hey, I'm Lilah," I flash back one of my rare smiles. That was all it took for Graham to fall in love with me.

Just stayed up the whole night through, felt I should scribble something down

All too often, I feel emotion overwhelm inside me, my eyes filling to the brim with tears, and all I can do is write. I long to release my tears in the way I release my words. Even more so, I long to release my pain. These moments in time, these unspeakable, earth-shattering moments, replay their haunting film in my head. I try to step into the frame, to remake what was originally produced, but there's no way of changing anything. I wonder why writing doesn't work. Why you can't just express every last bit of how you are feeling and then it gets better. Or why you can't just write down what happened. No, instead I wander in my incoherent thoughts about writing and emotion and how I think I'm supposed to feel. Maybe I don't want to feel. Maybe all I've ever wanted is to not feel.

I place my hand on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart becomes my reality as everything else fades into the background. I clench onto his shirt. I want more. My breath slows and I inhale deeper while I lean in to kiss him. The moment my lips touch his my body goes into shock. An immediate sense of lust consumes me. I ask him to take me, to make me his. I shudder when I feel him. I don't know if that's because I am happy or disgusted. All I know is that this is now, not then, but somehow it still feels familiar. But I've never done this before. Not really.

If I was selfish enough, I'd tell more people about the severity of my disturbed mind. That I can't have one day where something societally "unusual" and "unacceptable" does not enter my thoughts. I don't want anyone to think I'm a freak. I don't want any of those people I try so hard to keep around to think that I am not worth it. I'm not crazy, I promise anyone that.

Why should I worry?

Stress kills, sadness pains. Why should I worry? I'm sick of being bothered by the most idiotic things. I'm ready to be BRIGHT AND SHINY, as Grey's Anatomy would say. I want to go roller blading with a chocolate ice cream cone, feeling the heat of the sun on my back. I want to go to a carnival, win a stuffed animal, and eat cotton candy. I want fun! I want happiness. I want pixie dust. So... why should I worry? Instead, I should be awesome. I should manifest my own awesome-ness. I should not mope and be sad and wait for somebody to be there for me. It's so much easier not to care. It's so much easier to say fuck the rest and just LIVE.

But it's so difficult to stop worrying. It's so difficult to be bright and shiny.

Por favor

I need you to notice.
The things that I do when I'm upset.
The things I say when I feel bad.
The things I hide when I'm hurt.

I need you to notice.
The influence other people have on me.
The influence you have on me.
The influence I have on me.

I need you to notice.
I'll never tell you what to say.
I'll never say all that's wrong.
I'll never stop pretending.

I need you to notice.
It only takes a few words to make it all go away.

I should be a heart surgeon

Because I really want to be. Because I want to save lives. Because I am fascinated with medicine and the human body. Because I would love to be able to do what it is I know I'd be happy doing. But instead of being a surgeon, I choose be uncertain. I choose to have absolutely no idea what I want to do with my life, and to wander aimlessly through every path I take hoping it will lead me somewhere. Why can't I just fix people's hearts? Because that's all we really need to be alive. Not love, not sex, not art, not words. Just a beating heart.

Part 3

Fuck. In the building for thirty seconds, and I've already made an idiot of myself. Not that I'm worried, because I really don't care what these people think of me. Still, the floor was not the first entity I wanted to meet today. Dazed and confused, stars still circling my head, I stand up and face the person who knocked me off my feet. Tall, handsome, and... older. Too old.

"Are you okay?" He asked me. The obvious question after you blatantly hurt someone. I kept staring at him unable to respond, as if his presence had paralyzed me. A teacher. He was a teacher. I just wiped out in front of everyone and the only person to help me up is the teacher that ran into me. No big deal. Whether or not I'm remembered for this, it doesn't matter. None of this matters.

"Are you okay?" He seemed concerned. His hands were on my shoulders, he was searching for a person behind my eyes. My blank stare left and personality flooded my face.

"Uh yeah. I'm fine. I'm sorry, I'm really sorry. I'm pretty clumsy."

"I was definitely the one who didn't notice you, not your fault." A mischievous but forgiving smile crossed his face. I nodded to him and walked away, trying to find my first class.

He didn't notice me, why did that sting? Did I want him to notice me? And not just notice me, but notice me in that way. I mean, I'm used to getting some attention from guys. I know how I seem to them, an easy target. Something about the way I dress and my lack of eagerness for conversation lead them to think I'm vulnerable and open to sex as my way of connecting with people. I may not be a virgin, but I am no whore. I'm also not going to say anything else to defend myself on the matter, because that would show weakness, and I don't need to explain my values to anyone.

There is a part of me, though, that loves being misunderstood. I don't mind if others view me as this girl calling out for help, and will do anything to get it. The whole world is starved for attention, that's not an original trait.

Part 2

I don't eat breakfast. It's not that I have something against this meal, I love eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, all the traditional choices. I just can't eat right after I wake up. I need a few hours. Before I leave the house, my dad tries to get me to at least drink some water. I take the cup and proceed to take a sip before I pour it out when he's not looking. I hate water. Is that normal? I just... can't stand it. People that say it has no taste, they are stupid. Water is pure evil, of this I am sure. If I drink it I feel the need to vomit. Maybe I'm not human.

I'm a senior this year. The final year of high school. This is supposed to be "my year" as the stereotypical kid would say. But I'm going to a new school, another place where guys think I am an airhead and girls are too busy protecting their own egos to pay any attention. I can't drive. I'm 18 years old and I cannot control an automobile in any way. Maybe it's because of my past, I feel haunted every time I put my hands on the wheel. Maybe it's because I like making excuses.

I'm one of those day dreamer types, so when I walk in through those doors and step into this building full of annoying, ungrateful, bastard high schoolers, I soak in everything but reality. I see troubled waters, dark clouds, sunshine in one corner, a witch in another. I see Harry Potter flying on a broom and Peter Pan wishing he'd never grow up. I deny everything that's in front of me, including the villian who is about to run me over.

Part 1. The first of many parts.

When I saw him walk away, I knew it would be the last time. The last time he could abandon me, and I would never give him the satisfaction again. Though it wasn't my choice. I didn't want it to end here. I would've lived through worse suffering than this for him. But I can't live. My body won't let me. And here I am on the ground; severed heart, losing blood fast. All I can think is: thank God or Zeus or the stars in the sky that he is not turning around. I start to cry.

*******************************************************************************

There's something about a morning like today’s. It's not as easily praised as the typical morning with a coral orange sunrise, its rays causing dew on the grass to sparkle. Gross. Those are the mornings poets write of, the beauty that cannot be understood. Me? I feel that kind of beauty is too easily understood. It is obvious, boring, and noncontroversial. I like the beauty in a light gray sky, thunder slightly murmuring, drizzling rain, and no lightning, though you can feel the tension building up. It's impossibly bright but you can't see the sun. This is my morning.

I find it extremely exhausting to be a teenager this day in age. It's not the annoyance of the media and the stupidity of the human race that gets me down, rather the constant paranoia my parents feel that I will do something "awful." Excellent grades, good-hearted friends, and sobriety apparently just aren’t enough. It really is okay. I don’t mind that they care only when they feel I’m making mistakes. At least they care.

I force my groggy self out of bed; there is no point in trying to squeeze in the extra 15 minutes of sleep today. My mind is restless this morning. I think about nature, I think about boys, I think about death. Is that last one normal? I turn off the television I had on all night. The voices and slight glow of light keep the nightmares at bay. One glance in the mirror in the corner of my room makes me disappointed. Hopefully a shower can wash away the imperfections I hate.

Why is warm water beating down on your back while you rub through tangled messes of soapy hair so completely wonderful? It’s a battle to leave this damn shower. The instant I do I will be cold and miserable. The clean only lasts so long, and then I have to jump right back in. Why not just stay here? Let the water pour. Eventually the hot water will run out, but once I’m used to the colder temperatured water I’ll be fine. That makes sense right, I’m afraid of cold air but not cold water? Hell, I don’t need to make sense; it’s 6 am.

Sure enough, the moment I step onto the tile floor, I am cold and miserable. I wipe away the fog on the bathroom mirror.

“Morning.”

I stare at my reflection. I wish it was like a cartoon, where it would begin to talk back to me and take a life of its own. Instead, I have to imagine the flow of the conversation.

“Good morning sunshine!” My reflection chimes in. I grimace at the particularly cheery response.

“How are you this perky already?”

“I’m just trying to help you feel more excited about your first day.”

“It’s a new school, not a new me, not a new life. I’ve been through it before. You know how I feel about first days.”

“Oh please, you plan out fifty outfits and end up choosing one you didn’t have pre-made. You mess with your hair for an hour, and you put on extra makeup. You like first days.”

“It’s too much to live up to, the whole fantasy of the first day of school. Everything has to be perfect, my shoes, my hair, my speech, my encounters... Nothing is perfect. Besides, you know what my mom will say if I’m not wearing extra makeup. Lilah Rose, you’ll never make friends if your face scares them away."

“I wish she wasn’t so hard on you. You’re beautiful.”

“I don't appreciate lies and slander. Time to make myself look somewhat decent.”

“Someday you’ll see what I see.”

“Hopefully, since the words you’re saying are a figment of my imagination." I see my reflection make a depressing expression, but it's just me. I can’t hear her anymore. She’s gone. I have nobody.

I pick up the foundation sponge and begin to apply my mask. First days are a bitch, even a beautifully gray morning can't change that.

Blah blah blah. I should shut up.

What if you lived an entire lifetime without feeling anything for anyone? This thought just struck me, and I have to say, I couldn't imagine a person that has never felt one emotion.
I've felt it all except maybe pure anger. It's the one emotion I feel that's always tied in with others. Why? I'm not quite sure. Maybe it's because if I ever experience it alone I'd kill someone.
Even serial killers have their reasons, inate or calculated. Have they lived their lives without ever feeling happy, sad, mad, jealous, sexually frustrated, excited, anxious, scared?
Not to get into the psychology of human emotion, watching medical shows makes me want to stray away from the brain at the moment, but... why are we this way?
Why are people so in tune or disconnected from emotion? Why does emotion carry the biggest piece in who we are? Why does emotion rule the world?
What would your life be if you never felt anything? Who would you be? Anyone? I think... I FEEL... that I would be a thing. An object. I might as well be brain dead. Be nothing.
I allow myself to feel. Everything. The anger attached to whatever accompanying emotion, the happiness, the sadness, the sucidal gloominess, the uplifting hope, the sexual frustration... All that makes me this strange girl.

Cheesy.

Cheesy. Curse the satanic spawn who created this term for all that is sappy, over-used, romantic, and WONDERFUL. Damn it, I love cheesiness. It opens my heart, makes me want to sing, and begs me to kiss people.

I want to feel your hands graze mine. I want your lips pressed against mine.
I feel lightning hit when you touch me. I feel oceans burn when you kiss me.

I could say anything in relation to love and every single thought, every word spoken and unsaid is CHEESY. Fuck this shit.

Snippets of my life.

I like to get personal on my blog, but for some reason sharing my happy feelings scares me. I'm afraid it'll ruin the magic.
Perhaps it's because I'm a lunatic. I'm a nonsensical person watching unnecessary censorship youtube videos and feeling somehow inspired by them.
Perhaps it's because everytime I praise anything great about my life it ends up going sour and for once I don't want to fuck it up.
Perhaps it's because the one time I have a clean break with good feelings it turns out to be one huge lie.


And the stars collide
I feel something inside
The music starts to play
And you take me away
If you somehow knew
I am in love with you
Then maybe you could stay
Is there another way?


And we say goodbye
I'm trying not to cry
You say we'll keep in touch
Because you care too much
Now it's time to go
But I want you to know
I'll be waiting for you
Because I love you too


It's crazy to feel like this. It's crazy to believe in someone else so much, and that they make me believe in myself even more. It's crazy to forget everything else. It's crazy to sound like an obsessed freak just because of a few chemical reactions. It's crazy that he's this wonderful. It's crazy that I'm allowing myself to be this exposed and vulnerable to an unknown audience that may or may not consist of those who broke my heart and those who fixed it.