you want me to stay. i don't think that i can. it has come to the point where hearing your name spoken hurts, where seeing a picture of you makes me freeze. in horror? in terror? i'm not sure anymore.
my room's a mess, and I'm a mess, and i'm practically spilling my inconsistency onto the paper for you to read. Or for no one, because no one is going to find this. Maybe I'll burn it, and maybe the wisps of smoke will float into your window across the street and spell you to sleep. maybe
My hands are stained blue. the pen i'm using is leaky, but it's my favorite. It's the one you gave me six years ago, at the fair. said you got it just for me. I was happy that day. i think you knew because you were too. we were always too influential, too close. I had wanted a best friend like you, but i didn't bargain for the pain. It's like cutting a limb off. (why can't you want it too?)
listenlistenlisten we're not good for each other
it's five minutes until midnight. Are you thinking about me?
writing distracts me. writing makes me tired. you make me tired too. so i write.
i looked through our photo book today. It's the floral one, the one that you hated and claimed hideous back then. I agree now, but i don't mind the cover as much as the insides. The pictures are polaroids (we were obsessed with those) and some have marker smears all over them. Your fingerprint. mine. Maybe even Patty's from down the street. i miss that. not us, but that(/those days)
i want to cry (i was going to say die but i think i cherish life too much, that bastard)
Hey. can you come outside with me? the stars are bright tonight. The moon's only a crescent, but you've always loved it that way. Come. I miss you.
i'm
sorry i
can't
(and don't)
love
you
all the time.
