half of my heart // hs ON HOLD

fifteen

599 Days Before

'you reminded me of stale cigarettes with the scent of a freshly burned out candle: vanilla. you would skip class on Fridays and come to the jh to pick me up in your high topped truck with a cracked windshield.

people always thought it was almost incoherently strange how a sister could love a brother so much, and I soulfully laugh and said: we share the same blood, how could you not love the one with the same bones as you? and out of the majority of the speechless surroundings, I would make a new friend just by saying, "Sammy is not only my brother but my best friend"

sometimes you would buy me icecream, and sometimes you would call me Frankie after a sentence, but a lot of the time, we didn't speak- because we weren't close, not at all, but you were my best friend, yeah, that sounds better than allowing this ink to write down unsourced shit that everyone says to me times two, but Sammy Atkinson was my best friend, my brother.'

Out of all the things I have lost- I missed my mind the most.

It was over three thirty three because the last time I checked the buzzing green light that illuminated the stained black stove with a pan and a piece of pepperoni pizza scattered across it's border, I continued to sit in a bored silence humming against the memories of the day I met Harry Styles.

I can remember watching him walk through the simple gated door- but at the time, I didn't think twice, yet I remember the color of his skin olived out compared to the majority of his pale fingertips as he pushed the door open with a determined smile cutting into the tips of his ivory cheeks. I didn't take note of the color of his shirt nor did I notice that his hair was covering his forehead the day I met him, but ever since- it was almost like I couldn't remember a thing before that day.

It was the book that was set in my lap that brought the silver lining kiss; the feelings; the midnight calls; the chocolate chip pancake flipping contests; the men's body wash smelling comparisons; the early morning pizza eatings; it was the whole nine yards, and Harry shared all of them with me- but I wouldn't be shit without the peeling journal igniting the fire inside us all.

And so I set out that day, exactly eighty days since I've met Harry Styles and exactly seventy nine days and twenty three hours since I have had the demon brimming journal that holds my past in tear stained ink- I was going to find Matt Dickson.

Matt Dickson: the one and only hell holed creature himself with enough nerve and ambition to ruin one's life with a weekly visit and a swirly chair that sqeaked every time you spun to far to the left; and I hated the sound, but I never hated the sound as much as Matt Dickson did, and if Matt Dickson hated something so much that it made his eyes steam, I went out of my way to turn three sixties all hour long, the color draining from his pupils was too amusing to even cease an end.

Matt Dickson: the same man I tortured with name calling torments and horifying insults that left the boy broken hearted swimming in his own sorrows.

Matt Dickson: the fuck up that contacted the birthing bitch that donated me into this earth three days after I was checked into the loony room- yeah, that bastard contacted the she wolf who not so much but basically fucked my whole life into a pretezled knot.

So yes, Matt Dickson was classified as the man I have hated since I was seventeen and begging to see the gates of hell but feel the clouds of heaven, and yes, it was I- who after five years, it was my time to resign the bitching mobile device that was stuck in the tubes of my lungs and it was time I grow past the late night slicing and early morning food wasting- I wanted to be alive.

There was only one place Matt Dickson would be to this day, whether he kept his honest to god sauge fingered truth, there was no doubt in the back of my uncontrolled soulless mind, that in approxiamently two hours and twenty four minutes Matt Dickson will be at the cleanest Waffle Taffle with an order of bacon, eggs, sausage, a plain pancake, two sides of butter, a blueberry muffin, and a cinamon raisin piece of toast just forty five minutes from town- and he would be stuffing his face to forget his third maybe. fourth marriage that sunk down the drain just like my dead brother.