Moving forward is the only way to survive.
My eyes are two professional pickpockets, stealing everything away in my mind. I lose track of the minutes we trample over.
I feel like I’ve been split open and stuffed with sunshine.
This girl is destroying me. A girl who has spent the last year in an insane asylum. A girl who would try to shoot me dead for kissing her. A girl who ran off with another man just to get away from me. Of course this is the girl I would fall for. I close a hand over my mouth. I am losing my mind.
The small hand of a clock taps me at one and two, three and four, whispering hello, get up, stand up, it’s time to wake up wake up “Wake up,” he whispers.
I want to study the secrets tucked between his elbows and the whispers caught behind his knees. I want to follow the lines of his silhouette with my eyes and the tips of my fingers. I want to trace rivers and valleys along the curved muscles of his body.
My body is a carnivorous flower, a poisonous houseplant, a loaded gun with a million triggers and he’s more than ready to fire.
I clench my fists and try not to scream and I tuck my friends in my heart and revenge I think has never looked so sweet.
Life is a bleak place. Sometimes you have to learn how to shoot first.
In just two days, one girl has managed to cripple me.
The sun drops into the ocean and splashes browns and red and yellows and oranges into the world outside my window.
Son of a motherless goat!
Hanging out with you has made me weird, J. All I do is sit around thinking about my feelings these days. Thanks for that.
I will give no one the satisfaction of my death.
He’s a hot bath, a short breath, five days of summer pressed into five fingers writing stories on my body.
He looks up, so slowly, gold lashes lifting to reveal more sadness and beauty that I’ve ever seen in the same moment. I didn’t know a person could convey so much with just one look. There’s extraordinary pain in him. Extraordinary passion.
I have an extremely low threshold for disorder; it offends my very being.
I’ve finally gotten to a point in my life where I’m not afraid to speak. Where my shadow no longer haunts me. And I don’t want to lose that freedom – not again. I can’t go backward. I’d rather be shot dead screaming for justice than die alone in a prison of my own making.
You’re a coward,” he whispers. “You want to be with me and it terrifies you. And you’re ashamed,” he says. “Ashamed you could ever want someone like me. Aren’t you?
I peek up at his features, at the crooked grin i want to savor, at the color in his eyes i’d use to paint a million pictures.