Day Twenty.

The truth is, I'm impatient.
And what I really want you to do,
Is everything you've been thinking about doing all along.

Day Nineteen.

Ahaha.
I'm a great artist, I know.
(L)

Day Eighteen.

When I'm lying awake in bed, waiting to drift off,
When I'm walking by myself, counting the side walk cracks,
When I'm staring out the window in class,
When I'm listening to slow songs on repeat,
When I'm going somewhere, anywhere in our car,
Just whenever I have a moment,

I'm thinking about you.

Day Seventeen.

I missed a day again, but I wrote in my notebook:

True beauty, is not in the shape of your face, the colour of your eyes, the way your hair frames your face. It's not the size of clothes, the length of your eyelashes, the muscle tone of your thighs, how flat your stomach is.
It's the way you touch her face with such careful passion.
The way you hold yourself, with such confidence.
The intensity in your eyes when you look at him.
How you so tentatively push the hair out of your eyes.
The sound of your laughter, the sound of real tears slipping down your face.
Your energy. Your heat.
The way you make him/her/me feel.
Your tangibility.

Day Sixteen.

If you could just stop.
For one second, and listen to the rain splashing on the side walk.
Feel the drops sliding down your face, taste the thick humidity on the tip of your tongue.
Maybe you would let yourself notice that person looking at you in the scattered puddles.
Admit to yourself that the broken reflection is you.
Just stop over-thinking and let nature take its course.

Day Fifteen.

I just woke up, and I had the strangest dream about you.
I'm already forgetting the details,
But it basically goes like this:

I can't get ahold of you, and it's important.
It's driving me absolutely crazy.
So I go to school like normal, except everything is different.
You're hanging out in the back of the school, with people you never hang out with,
people I sometimes hangout with.
And I go up to you so I'm right up against you.
You're sitting down though, on a wooden bench.
And I take your phone, which is the same as mine.
To see if you've been getting my calls and stuff.
But I decide to open a game on your phone instead,
Unreal Tournament.
While I'm trying to figure out how to go back to the main menu, You lie down on the bench.
I come to sit down and you put your head in my lap,
And you changed the picture on my phone to a picture of me levitating and looking surprised,
Like I just woke up. But it's from some kind of video game.
I'm confused.
We talk, then. And decide we want to kill ourselves together.
It's a sunny day, and we walk under the trees, holding hands.
We're going to find the train so we can jump in front of it.
I think about whether I want to die, or if I just like the idea of dying.
"What if I don't want to die?" I ask you.
"We can wait, until I'm turning 17 and you're 18." You say.
We're not outside anymore, we're in the art room at school.
I tell you that sounds good.
Because I haven't fully experienced my life yet.
And I have things I want to do before I die I haven't done yet.
People are around us, doing things, the bell has rung and the next class is starting to come in.
You're leaning against the sink, and your hands are around my waist.
We just kind of stare at each other and I think about kissing you,
But then I decide I want you to kiss me first.
Neither of us does anything, though. And I wake up.

I wonder what it means.

Day Fourteen.

I am really trying not to freak out,
But I wanted to do well in school this year, and I'm already starting to fuck up.
And I'm really trying not to get emotional, but I can't fucking help it.
When I am this incredibly stupid.
I just hate it when everything goes wrong.