You're not reading these words

I don't- I don't wanna know.

Say it, but don't let go.

Don't yell, whisper low.

Yeah, but don't let go.

I love- really like you.

So say it, but hold me through.

And keep your head up, always true.

Just say it, but lie to me too.

Running

I'm running.

I'm taking it one, quick stride at a time, pulling in air, pushing out air... running.

I'm dragging my body across the ground, moving as fast as humanly possible, and getting past everything that I go through.

I'm dying, because my air's running out, my lungs are bleeding, and I think the bruises on my legs are started to pull me down practising, so I can win marathons.

No, I'm just running.

Just simple left-foot-right-foot thump-thump-thump on the ground, going where ever.

Just simple air-in-air-out, heart-beating, legs moving.

Just simple, primitive GO GO GO!

I'm running, but I'm still not moving faster enough.

I'm not bleeding enough, yet. I'm not crying.

I'm not moving fast enough.

Travelling

It's like...dingy.

A little senseless, a little crazy.

But then again, that's everything.

I went along the side-walk today.

Past the train-tracks, past the high-way, past the filming lots, past the grey-hound station, and past numerous gas stations.

I passed the baseball field where they used to film scenes from RFR. I passed the bleachers, behind Micky's. I passed Degrassi st. I passed my world by, and kept going.

I want to sit on the train tracks and see how long it takes a train to get there.

I want to drive along the high-way road-trip style, without turning back; everything important to me in bags and suit-cases, set around me. I'm gone.

I want to be filming in those film lots, getting the necessary shots for that last scene in the movie. All for a character that I am conveniently not.

I want to haul my bag over my shoulders, dragging a suitcase behind me, too, and get on the grey-hound, going nowhere. Yes, running away, but that's starting something new, too. I want to get on those greyhound buses the most and go to New York, or Boston, or England, or anywhere...

I'd sit on those bleachers and watch the ghost-players play ball.

Everywhere.

I want to go everywhere, explore.

I want to live.

But I'm tied down.

Barely smiling...

Wow.

Wow, because how do you handle everyone around you not wanting to be there anymore?

Wow, because I didn't know she was still cutting. It's making me sick to my stomach.

Wow, because I'm so happy right now, how are you. You're happy, right?

Wow, because you should have taken her with you. Don't leave her out. You're not allowed to be alone, to be happy. You're not allowed to do anything you want, if it doesn't include her. If she can't have it, too.

Wow, because I'm sinkingsinkingsinking with my weight.

Wow, because he wants to kill himself, too. Yes, he's eight. But he's not happy, either.

Wow, because EVERYBODY'S CRYING

DYING

AND SURELY...

not trying.

Wow.

Wow, because everyone is plasticfake.

Wow, because no one sees anything.

Wow, because I'm upset.

Only, how is that a surprise?

Why would that matter?

Wow, because she wants to kill herself, and he wants to kill himself, and so does she, and she, and she, and she...etc, etc, etc...

Wow.

Everyone's sosad sosad.

So

sad.

Shit.

It's actually getting to me, but it's still all about you.

All of you.

I'm one in 6 billion, not any more important than anyone else.

In fact, maybe even a little less.

But I'm going to go to school on Monday, no breakfast, no lunch, no dinner, with our lab work done, and having studied for our French test. I'm going to walk in, barely smile, say I'm tired, nod my head, pretend to listen and follow the bells that tell me where to go.

I'm going to act surprised when you show me another row of cuts. Raise my eyebrows, listen to you tell me why you're sad. I'll narrowly avoid passing out in class, from the zero sleep I've gotten lately. And then I'll stumble home, after numbly ignoring every comment and giggle.

And then another round in the boxing match, because I get to fight with you for the computer. And I get to walk upstairs, biting my tongue, pretending my eyes don't sting and my throat isn't burning. I'll get my anger out, go pick up my 8 year old brother from daycare, even when his mother should be doing that. And then I'll go for a really long bike ride, MAYBE on my own, unless you invade that, too.

And maybe...maybe if I'm lucky enough, I'll get to fall asleep and drown for two hours!

But don't forget throughout this, I'll be getting tiny periodic beeps and buzzing reminders that...

She's not happy, he wants to die, she's still cutting, she's puking. She won't eat, he can't stand his life, you're falling off the edge, pulling me with you and we're all just fucking upset.

That, Lucy's cutting up her skin, Bryan's burning his. Alex won't eat, Damian keeps puking, Suzie already killed herself, Dan's thinking about it, Miley can't stop him from touching her, Macayla is only holding out for me to save her...if I can.

That... no one's happy. No one's happy, no one wants to live, and when they die, I still have to go to school and smile.

Barely smile.

Wow.

Actually, no. Not wow. That's normal for me.

How do you handle it?

"Handle what?"

Handle going through whatever it is YOU'RE going through.

"What do you mean?"

I don't know.

What do I mean?

Oof, choices...

Too much

Too long

Too thick

Too big

Too stressful

Too important

Too off-balance

Too uncomfortable

Too awkward

Too easy

Too close

Too foggy

Too hot

Too scratchy

Too empty

Too

Too

Too

Too

Too

Too

Too much work

Too much responsibility

Too much pressure

Too much noise

Too much, and I give in.

Practicemakesperfect

Passtheair

I'llinhale,

I'llinhale,

I'mflying...

flying...

flying...

falling.

And then we're back to too much, because that's it.

Your words

your friends

your people.

Your lifestyle,

your choices,

your activities.

Your everything, and I'm following.

But you pull me downdowndown, and I'm drowning again.

Only, I'm not.

I'm alive.

And it's you who's dead, when all I really need is something solid.

Shit, but I've done this a million times, yeah? No problemo, I'm in.

And, sure, I'll bring the papers. I'll do the project. I'll write it all out, while I'm completely out of it.

I'm coooooool.

I'm down.

I'm just amazingly great with my reputation and what I do every week, because that's who I am.

Fuck.

I'm a liar, nothing else.

Everything I say is a lie, even when it's the truth.

Why should I be trusted?

Being here. Being nowhere.

Here.


Here is nowhere, and I'm stuck.

Riding and falling and...what?

The things you think you know...oh how wrong you can be.

I thought I knew the bend. I thought I knew the way the ground curved, but apparently not.

I thought...but I calculated wrong, and now my hand is bloodysmeared and skingone.

So I fell.

I fell off my bike, when I was trying to balance. I fell, because thoughts in my head were confusing. And now I'm hurt, but it's covered.

Oh, sure.

But. I. Don't. Tell.

Falling is okay, as long as you remember to get back up.

It's when you lay there, on the ground, defeated.

Bloody and bruised, air gone, slices and sticks in your skin.

When you just don't care anymore, whether or not you get

back

up.

It's when...

when you don't cry. No tears, right?

When everything hurts so bad, and your chest burns,

and your legs hurt,

and your hand is completely numb,

and your skin is falling off and hanging loosely...

but you don't cry, 'cause the pain's not worth it.

And you don't get back up.

But ...

I got back up.

I stood up, stole some air, and shook it off.

And then I rode home, with my handle bars knocked outta place; my balance and control off.

But control is...control doesn't matter, as long as you've got some.

I'm lucky, because I didn't get hurt too bad.

But some people fall off the edge that merely tripped me; and they drown.

Happy one month...

One month, as of today.

Maybe it's not a moment-by-moment thing, but more of a this-by-that.

If that makes any sense.

One month, and she makes me so incredibly happy.

So that's this.

And then when I'm sad, that's that.

And I string those together, the this' and thats, and then I get by.

That's life.

But my this is amazing.

I'm in love.

And as far as I can tell, I'm happy.

Humm

Ouchy ouchy ouchy...

Can't focus, but she's hurting more.

Morecutswon'tmakeitbetter,

buttheymightmakeherseeagain...

Ouuuuuchy..

I'm good, thanks...

Small twining letters on walls, colourful; happy. They make me -oh, I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm so- happy.

Large boxy greenandredandyellowandblueletters with snaky-fire endings...

Those once-concrete walls are so -walk around hugging myself, with a smile on my face, and I'm- happy.

Twirl-upon-twirl and line-upon-line...

grafitti

makes me

Happy.

SillysillysillyTilly...

Eric is dead by Panda-su.

Silly, poor Erin. He probably didn't need that either. He probably didn't need any of it, but...

"Tough!"

It's like, one layer at a time, the skin broke, letting all the sand from the Hourglass blood fall spill out. Andthatwasthat. He was empty. You couldn't take anything else from him.

It belonged to him.

...or not.

Eric is dead. Yeah? So is

all

the

other

people...

all. every. person...who ever lived.

Greedygreedy Eric, thought he could escape;

Tumble off the world, and crawl off into space.

Greedygreedy Eric, tried to skip his meals;

he didn't need a sweater, no need to hide/conceal.

Greedygreedy Eric, who cut up all his skin;

he's running out of sleeping pills, with which they bury him.

That greedygreedy Eric, who can't stand on his own,

he's just some dirt and rocks, and under that, he's bone.

But he gave in, gave up...

he let it all go.

Poor greedygreedy Eric, her smile he'll never know.

Can'tkeepdoingthis...

So much is pounding on my insides, trying to get out. Screaming, scratching. Biting, fighting. Gnawing, clawing.. and I'm left with scars.

I'm left with little lines along my skin. Getting deeper, to get in.

In. Out. In. Out. In.. Out.. InOutInOutinoutinoutinoutinout...

Oh, but everything hurts.

"Tell me something"? More like, "let me drag something out of you. Something that'll drag it's claws along your skin, through your stomach, and all the way up the edges of your throat."

Sure, I'll tell you something! But can I lie? Everything inside of me wants out, but it'll tear me into tiny strips of bloody skin as soon as it can if I let it out. So can I lie and say I'm fine? Say that, and still exist?
"No," you say. "No a million times, don't lie to me."
Fine.

More cuts. More scars. More...

THESE WORDS DON'T MATTER TO ME!
Nothing does.

I hurt, sure. But more for you than myself. And I say I don't care...
But I REALLY CARE A LOT! I care.

I Love You.
But sometimes... I just want to fall into the grey...
fuck metaphors.

I want to die.
I'm only here for the ones I love, because I don't want to hurt them, no matter how much they hurt me. Oh, and the pain I feel...

14 years.
I've lived that long.
And that's enough for me.

You're the trigger to my gun. I push you and I die too. So I'm careful with you. One tap, and you're off the edge. You're weightless, and even gravity itself is having trouble keeping you on the ground.
So, "Where do I see myself in twenty years?" To answer your question, I don't. But every other day, "With you."

...if you're still here.

Flying...far...away...

How

How many

How many times

How many times do

How many times do you

How many times do you have

How many times do you have to

How many times do you have to jump

Jump...jump...jump...

Before

you realize...

How many times do you have to jump before you realize you're falling?

She's always just... there...

Soldier lines and war paint are okay. Straight solider lines, though. Straight and quick and... oh, slow down. I think I felt that.

Slower, deeper... war paint beads slowly at the edges, pooling.

Waiting.

Waiting to pull me under... and the water's thick and warm, too. Metalic or not, it feels nice. And it lulls me into a deep, deep sleep, and my nightmare dream is sick and twisted, and every reason I make the paint in the first place soft and warm. Soft, like the skin I rip in half my pillow, nice and warm.

(Only... the cold keeps my head up and my senses on alert. The cold keeps me awake, just like the pain...)

Warmth? I want freezing lungs and rosy cheeks heat. Crave it. Save it

up.

And then, my soldier lines fight armies for me. They fight off the enemy, usually. And when they don't, placement is more strategic (need pain, not sleep). When they don't, the numbers increase. My body's a battle-field.

Only, people are watching me now. Greedy eyes, taking me away. And I'm left with this pathetic excuse for a person who can't do anything right. Who can't:

-tell her she loves her

-answer the phone

-get her butt to school

-remember to: do homework/feed the fish/clean her room/do 170 sit-ups everysingleday/finish her homework/think properly

-say the right thing

-make everything okay

-be nice to her brother

-ask the right questions

She just keeps fumbling and breaking things. (Like skin.)

I hate her.

I hate her.

I hate her.

So I fight her. Soldiers; attack! Leave no skin un-ruptured! No blood unbled!

But, oh... the things she makes me think...

My armies are nothing compared to hers. My eyes close and I'm trapped.

But my gorgeous/beautiful/perfect girlfriend tells me I need more sleep...

(But more sleep means mroe cuts and more cuts means more pain and more pain means the dreams get worse. And the war just keeps going and going and going... and I'm tiredtiredtired. No! Wake up! Wake up! You'll be just...)

...so I close my eyes and grab my sword and yes, I hope for the best.

(Even if I don't deserve it.)

Tricky Sleep...

I have the nightmares with snake infested waters. Ones where I'm still dry, but I'm drowning. And everyone I now and love is slowly leaving me; hating me... but there's nothing I can do about it.

And it's like, Anaconda's slither around my feet, brushing against my sanity. They're griping in all the wrong places, and I find my air knocked outta me... But the boat I'm in is sinking, and no one else seems to notice.

"Come swim with us," the tricky mermaids say.

"Come swim and chat and scream enjoy the waters."

But what they don't want me to know, as soon as I'm in they've got my ankles and my wrists and oh, they're drowning me in my OWN words. And it's all so lovely, that I wake up crying; just silent tears streaming down my face. And everything aches and pounds and it's all just bad.

But my darling-dear tells me I need more sleep. And I love her, so I close my eyes and see what my tricky mind's got in store for me.

Oh, it's nice... being afraid, day and night. And now I have to worry about those tricky mermaids.

Damn.

See? Every time I talk, something bad happens. But I need to go back to sleep; dream some more.

Nightmares; because I don't get enough of those already...