Confused.

           The air is so violent today, chilling me to my deepest core, and it kind of makes me wonder how things would have been if I hadn’t chosen the school that I chose to go to and the place that I call home. Days like these make my imagination go as wildly as the thrashing winter wind. How could I be so grateful for what I have and the people who I am surrounded by, but at the same time be so selfish, lonely, and stagnant in this unending spiral of despair? There is a poison that runs somewhere in the depths of my veins that should be warm, but I can’t seem to identify it or get rid of it.

           I think I left too much of me with you when I decided to cut you off.

           This massive downpour of rain is unsettling. It hasn’t rained in days and I can so vividly remember that the last time that it did, I was crying so harshly that all two hundred (more or less) pieces of my bones were quivering with the strangest, most unspeakable sadness. I’m really trying to get better, I really am… But maybe I’ve just been too busy with life and everyone else that I haven’t gotten the time to sit down and look at myself, hard and retrospectively like I used to. That — everything — has all been so upsetting and exhausting.

The ache in my heart is the lullaby I listen to.

           I can’t bear the aching silence, the loneliness, and the way that even my blankets don’t even stick to my skin the same way that your curious hands did. I don’t know how to control the pangs of pain that stab at the gates of my heart during the dead of night when everybody else is fast asleep and all I can hear are my own thoughts pounding down every wall that I have learned to put up. These tears come so naturally, as if my purpose in life is to be excruciatingly and eternally sad. And maybe that’s why I cried so loudly and endlessly when I was a baby reluctantly coming out of my mother’s womb, as this whole, depressing joke for this woeful life of mine.

           I hate sleeping alone. I hate not having company. I hate sleep. I hate the way my mind, my thoughts, spins so crazily in these complex, convoluted circles. I’d rather stay awake for days than go through this hair pulling process of trying to exhaust myself by crying myself to sleep.

           Alone, alone, alone…

You make me drunk.

           Remind me not to take Red Bull and Vodka. My heart is palpitating so rapidly that I can hear the blood pumping in my ears, the fast pace of these lub dub dubs, and the way that they are constant reminders, screeching at me with an irritating voice:

           YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE ALIVE. YOU’RE ALIVE.

           Well, maybe I don’t want to be so alive. Maybe I don’t want these veins and blood cells and the way that I bruise so easily; what fickle human emotions and a soft sack of brittle bones. Who really wants to be alive anyways? And who really thinks that they find their lives so fanciful, so meaningful?

           In the end, it’s all the same:

           You come in alone and you leave alone.

Strikes one, two, and three — and maybe even more.

           i.

           What do you do when the ground gives out and your legs are trembling and everything stops speaking to you? The machines stop whirring, the blood in your body crystallizes, and even the air falls flat, static. When you can’t even suppress your frequent, seizing panic attacks because they come so often and these demons gripe at you like you’re some frittering coward.

           ii.

           I began to prefer the stars over the moon. The knife feels better in the dark anyways.

           iii.

           What if I said that I didn’t want this anymore?

If I listened closely, my heartbeat would be in sync with nature’s lubdub murmurs.

           I miss scooping up and hugging my knees on the black, metal chairs that have been in my backyard since I was two years old. Lighting up and smoking through my pack of Newport cigarettes that would sweetly send out its tantalizing toxins to the cumulus clouds above; the same ones that I have always made casual conversations with. And it would be somewhere between the transition from spring to summer that the golden beams from the radiating sun would weave their way into the seaweed strips of my hair, revitalizing them and stirring up the lost life in me.

           When I envision the scent of summer, the grass grabbing at my scrawny ankles, and the bugs crawling out of their shelters — I think of you, always. When I first met you, where I ran into you, and how badly I wish you could be here to converse with me. But I know, deep down, that you are venturing off as well, somewhere deep within the bowels of nature, probably amongst the Massachusetts trees, with a backpack strapped behind you and your complex thoughts to keep you company.

           You always knew how to fill the holes in my heart. What to say to make me feel better without coating your words without impatience, ill will or devilish intent; instead, with wise words strung together like rare pearls on a necklace.

           Well, aside from you and this lovely house that I have lived in for almost all of my twenty years, I am beginning to think that I need to take some time off from here because I never quite fit right in the first place. (Like I never had a choice to be here, but I did alright regardless.) I mean — with the people, with this gut-wrenching feeling, and the way that these uneven, shifting floorboards in my house nastily creak and croak…

           I should have known better, a couple years back when my sadness and loneliness hit me hard.

           Hasn’t it always been the better option to keep yourself busy and going instead of thinking and waiting to see what is out there?

           Try to fill in these gaping holes because you’re too lonely. Keep yourself busy because your thoughts that you have been running away from are catching up to you. Stare hard at the demons around you and distinguish whether or not you are one yourself. Keep breathing, keep thinking, and keep acting; you have a long way to go, my friend. 

I fell in love with the way your brown eyes light up when you talk about life.

           Tell me what your soul yearns for, what your passions are, why your eyes are so hazy and clear both at the same time, why you pull at the ends of your hair when the moon is covered by the clouds at night, how the stars make you feel so nostalgic, like you’re looking back into the exploding past, hundreds of years back, what makes you feel so alive, what your heart burns for, why you wish you could have been born in the heat of a Californian desert instead of the cold, early winter hours of Colorado, how your dad pushed you onto the cold bathroom tiles when you were five because he hated seeing you cry, why you prefer to not eat leftovers because they remind you of your tired mother packing you lunch every single day at seven in the morning during middle school, and how that makes your heart hurt and your stomach turn, and how the strokes of my soft fingers against your skin feels like the blankets that you hold so dearly on those lonely, unstable nights that I can’t be there for you —

           Tell me everything and more and I promise to love you forever. 

Dream.

           I still remember your vibrant almond eyes as they were, a little more than a year ago. They were always so crucially different from any other pair of eyes that I had seen, all throughout my heaving, little life; they had tremendous movement inside of them. And if I stared for too long, which I would have no knowledge of because I would often lose track of the time whenever our gazes struck, then it was almost as if I could see the beginning and the end to everything and nothing all at once.

           Running your calloused, left hand through your slicked black hair, you asked me excitedly, even though there was no hint of it in your voice and your actions,

           “How are you? How have you been?”

           I carefully mulled over the question while glancing around. You were always surrounded by an annoying, raving sea of people who very much envied our undying affection for each other and my relationship with you. You never really talked to anybody else with the kind of vulnerability and patience that you had with me. Slightly flustered and not knowing how to respond, especially because I hadn’t seen you for so long, I casually threw back with some sass,

           “Well -.. I don’t know.”

           And I paused before continuing, watching your face turn and your lovely eyes roll in disgust at my overuse of always not knowing,

           “Good? I guess? How can one answer that when we have so much to catch each other up on.”

           At that, the question that I said as a statement, you smirked with that beautiful smirk of yours, as if you had practiced and perfected it during your adolescent days, and nodded your head slowly in agreement.

           —

           I should really call you, maybe sometime this week, to meet with you.

           But it would be very bad for my health.

Sipping on black daiquiri.

           I just want to die, is that so much to ask for? Maybe that’s why I painted my nails with black, for hopelessness and oblivion, but left specks of gold on my fourth finger in hopes of being saved by somebody. I hate this, I hate this, I hate everything to all of its boisterous bits, pitiful pieces, and aggravating atoms. I feel this twisting and turning sensation in the depths of my stomach that makes me revile at how the world turns ever so slowly, but this ticking clock that sits beside me beats so inexplicably quickly. How can things be so cruel — I want to leave and never come back. Send me off into space as an immoral experiment — I just don’t care and I don’t see how I could —