All of us

I feel hazy. 

It's all these people, who think they're happy, who think they're fine. 

All these people, who aren't really okay. Not all the time. 

Yes. And all these words, and thoughts and noises. 

Especially the loud ones. 

Watch out for those loud ones. 

Actually, maybe it isn't. 

Maybe it's just me. Just me, my thoughts, my noises. 

Just my words, 

my shouts,

my actions,

my failures,

my falling-outs,

my guilt...

Fuck fuck fuck.

Maybe I don't hate this, but I hate this.

God. Damn. Everything.

Except, not everything. 

Just some things. 

Some things, some people, ...me. 

Monsters

In dark rooms, we hide. Under barren mattresses and dirty ceilings. 

We wait, tracing cracking walls, and watch as the lights flickerflickerflicker out. 

No one sees us. 

We are monsters, tracing our claws along your skin, and bringing the infection in. 

We are night-terrors, taking away all your problems, and giving you a thousand more. 

We are darkness,

we are fear. 

We are terrible,

we are Here.

And tonight,

we'll get you. 

Tonight, you belong to Us. 

Failurefailurefailure

Small reminders, every page, that I FAILED. 


No problem, it's fine. It doesn't bother me.

Only, every page, I sink a little lower in my seat,
shut my eyes a little tighter,
and pretend
I can't even
see it.

Even though I can, and it hurts like fuck. 

Happiness

The five minutes of my life
where I am happy,
where I am fine,
are the best five minutes of my life.

And once I find them
I will hide them away,
lock them in a box,
and keep them in the attic.

They're mine, back off.

Go places. Maybe nowhere, maybe never.

Here's how it works:

You're going to grow up.
But before you grow up, you're going to live. And you're going to make lists, and go places, and take trips. And you're going to break things, and get in trouble, and cry. And you're going to hate yourself sometimes, and other people, and the world. But everything will work out, so wait.

The thing is, you have to have faith.
I'm not going to tell you why, not really. Because I just know, that you'll grow up, you'll get older, more mature, maybe. And you'll tuck experiences under you belt, laughing, when you look back at how silly you probably were.

You're going to eat something that tastes bad, you're going to make a stupid face. You're going to get messy. I mean, it's life. That's inevitable.
You're going to laugh at something, smile at someone.
You're going to have good experiences. Very good.
But you're going to have bad ones too.

And along the way, the things you really want to remember,
are those tiny flowers along the high-way.

The ones that are bright, and small,
and cheery.

Because when you're 80-something,
those flowers will stick in your mind.

And you'll try to tell someone, "They're bright, remember them. The red ones, they're so realistic, I can see them now..."
But people will think you're crazy, and won't understand.
And you'll be frustrated, because they were so beautiful and
perfect.

Or as perfect as you can be on a polluted high-way.

But it doesn't matter.
You remember them, if they make you smile.

Remember everything that makes you smile.

Like, when you're upset, and your best-friend traces pictures on your  back with his/her fingers. Or, when it's sunny and warm out, and it makes everything feel tingly. Or being scared shitless at 3 in the morning, locked out of the house.
The things
that makes you smile,
will be the things
that help you
get older.

And once you've lived, once you've gone through everything you're going to go through,
you'll look back.
And you might want to know, "Can I do it all again?"

But don't be greedy.
This, right here.
This is your life.
And this is your time to live.

If you don't, it's your loss.
It really is.

Noise

Do you know that noise...
the one that buzzes in your ears,
just before you go to sleep?

I swear to god, 
it's following me.


That little noise...
the one that echoes throughout
large rooms.

I swear to god,
it'll be my tomb.


You know the noise, right?
That silence-breaker,
that risk-taker...

that noise, that's always there,
even when you're not?

Silence, I bet.
But it's loud as ever.

Questions

We're constantly grouping everyone together, tying them close with reflective tape so we can find them easily the next time we're looking.
Only, how do we, as people, know exactly who goes where?
How do we chose who sits in the nice group, and who sits in the mean?
How do we chose who sits in the bad group, and who sits in the good?
How do we pick who's
happy/sad
deserving/not
a hero/ a traitor
up/down
smart/stupid
caring/not....

How do we make that decision, without thinking, and calculating for years, and years.
As well, though.
What do we calculate?
What do we ask,
what do we know,
what do we take into serious consideration....


What is the criteria for being okay?

What makes you evil, or good.

Where do we draw the line?

"The question is how different are we. Us, and Them."

Fine.

Oh, for god's sake....

You've got to be kidding me!

Maybe, if there's no trust, then maybe, this isn't working out.

Maybe not at all.

I'm starting to have fun again

We faked it, because we didn't know the moves to the dance. 

But we smiled all the way. 

And when it was over, 

we fought 

with our imaginary swords because

that's

what

kids

do. 

goodnight love. it's dreaming, remember.

Small words, but they made me smile.

Maybe more than I should have?

What game? It's not a game, is it?

Gosh.

I feel like I'm contorted, in some odd way, and everything is all backwards and forwards and just...confusing.
Because my arms aren't at my side,
and my legs aren't underneath me,
and my head is spinning everywhere,
and what the hell is all this?

What are these words,
these gestures,
these smiles?

What are these deep conversations,
these little slip-ups,
these games
and jokes
and understanding smirks?

I don't get it.

How can someone so behind me,
make me so happy,
while I'm all the way across the room, the country, the world, the universe?

My arms are spinning in circles,
my hands
my legs
my head.
Everything pulsates to the beat,
stops,
breathes,
jumps,
twists,
stops,
and it's calm again.


But then the music starts with a new song -a faster song- and everything gets too tangled up to breathe anymore.

That hurts a bit, because this is just a game.
And games are supposed to be fun,
not stressful.

So I'm thinking,
maybe,
I should
quit.

But that's not good enough for you, and I have to think about you. Only you, because I don't matter. I can't let myself matter. It's youyouyou.
All you, no me. And I can't stand this anymore.

Actually

Could you shut up? Stop talking to me, stop bothering me?


Could you not wake me up in the mornings, yell at me. 
Could you not greet me after school. 


Could you just...leave?
Leave me be. 


I'm kinda sorta starting to really dislike you. 


More so than anyone else. 


But. 
That probably won't happen, because you're fixated on ruining my day. 


Hey, I had been smiling. But fuck that, right?


Sure. Fuck everything. 






...maybe all I need is to curl up in a fort with plastic dinosaurs and doritos, too. 
Fuck school, and all that. 
All that's just pointless. 

Solution

Go. 

Do it. 

Go do it right now. 

Okay?

Dc. 2

Those stupid little monsters are making her life confusing, and she's not
happy
at
all.

I don't know what to say to her,
to make her feel better.

But all I know is that those
stupid
little
dicks people seem to call boys,
don't deserve her,
aren't worthy
of her,
and certainly,
shouldn't
upset her.

And if I was there I would easily beat them to a pulp, watching them cry. And then I'd ask them, "Are you sorry now?"

I am terrible.

I should feel terrible.
Every second, every minute, every day.

I should feel terrible, absolutely, painstakingly terrible.

But,
it's not exactly like I always do.

Sometimes, the guilt's just not there,
and those are the days
I survive.

Until... until you go and do that
again.
And then,
as usual,
it hurts.

You're hurting me, but how do I tell you that?
You haven't even done anything wrong.
This is my fault,
my mistake,
me.

And yet, I'm torturing you, for it.

Why the fuck don't I feel terrible?