I could write about a lot of things tonight.
Like how I wish she'd let me be her's. I would love her like how the flowers love the sun, and admire her like a rainbow, shining through the clouds on a rainy day. But she doesn't care for me, so I won't bother her even more.
Or how my best friend cries herself to sleep every night, her mom passed out drunk with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. I tell her to call me when this happens, I tell her I love her when she calls me crying. I hope she makes it out of there.
I could write about the girl who used to sit across from me. And how whenever I talk to her it felt like I was talking to a best friend, even though we only talk occasionally. I've seen her eyes before, warm, honey brown and Déjà Vu stare back at me. She's a scrapbook of memories I never made, but remember making.
Or how terribly sorry I am to my parents, who have a poet for a daughter. I'm sorry that I don't know how to talk about my problems, and have too many problems problems to count. I'm sorry they thought they raised a beautiful girl, but instead got my sad self with a too-loud-voice and eating problems. I'm sorry to my parents for once being perfect and now feeling all burned out.
I could write about a lot of things tonight, but instead, I think I'm going to write about the sunset I saw earlier, and how it turned the sky cotton candy blue, rosy pink and tired orange, and the three little pink flowers I picked on my walk today, I found them by the side of the road with tears tumbling down my face and picked them gently, cradling them in my hands until I got home, before I pressed them in a old, 1920's bible written in German. I'll write about these tonight because the world needs more pretty sunsets and tiny flowers.
