Chronoligical.

After three hours of rain, the water's up to my knees. The incomprehensible reflection takes me back to days marked by fast food habits and even nastier drug habits, for most. So many nights spend in opaque cars with three windows tinted and no one calling shotgun. The best things in life cost as much as two batted eyelash and one extra X. Cleaning was a professional sport, and the unraveling aftermath was the highlight of the did we get away with it? anxiety. Mind blown, eyes closed; drawing lines in your mind when everyone else thought you were down for the count. I always write songs I won't remember in the morning.

Movies and musings poke at the sides of your ticklish forgetfulness; they have you wishing for brown bits of paper and safety scissors. Something like arts and crafts on a Saturday night, seemingly innocent and utterly malicious, because we can hold onto the thrill. I am marked by old phone drafts and the list (or three) you wouldn't understand if you found them. From one-liners to unhinged songs, the only one I held onto. I delete the ones that shade my cheeks, the ones when clouded eyes turned stormy. Help me, I'd say, just to wake up and laugh. I needed nothing at all to be fine when I fled. I would do anything to make the most of time and place. Days go on, and I do within them.

It's almost been long enough to carry the worst case scenario to term. If I hadn't spent my dollars on you, I could've spent my birthday screaming out my worst mistake. We make mistakes when we're young, because we're stupid enough to make the wrong decision; there's an offbeat shade of beauty in this blissful ignorance. We are conditioned to exist. Do you see the way I've learned? Because the stories sell you out; you're one to make the same mistake twice, thrice, countless times until life has you following in your first role model's footsteps. Along white picket balance beams, you'll find me playing peacemaker to the oh so undeniably undecided. From here, your words are unmistakably readable despite near-blind eyes.

At night I sit down to homework and wish I could blur the edges. Passion in tracing sparrows, necessity in character analysis. I'd rather lend mine to unwilling, sometimes-present runners with snags behind thoughtful speech. The art I apply to culture is modern, not so still life, having nothing to do with those that reside in ancient hearts alone. I'll probably never know the passerby I see from time to time that has the same smile you once wore. Family teaches us how to grow up without growing old. Two empty triangular glasses, bruises, and a soggy deck of cards tuck you into bed at night; wake up smiling with a dry throat and consider yourself a success. You're what matters more than any schoolboy that gets my heart rate speeding. I always say my goodbyes in letters. The sound of my voice falters where words stand unrepentant. If you care to stay around, words are the well-lit path when midnight falls on me.

Vices tag along; we fight over beds and call our resting heads home. Despite a repetitive nature, we're never too bored to live our nights like we need nothing but a handful of bodies and a heart sloshing full. Worn out boots are nothing next to days when no one else seemed to draw air in. I don't mind sharing clothes and tuneless songs. I'd take your company over rainless days. I may stay curious despite being skeptical. If I ever find myself in your favorite space, I think I'd try on one of those famed shirts. Sleeves swallow whole what I'm dying to keep to myself. Every breath of summer takes me back to the way familiar smells were always lacing with the greenest landscapes. Even the slightest taste will be gone soon. Hold onto what you can; it's always the things you let slip away that you'll one day find yourself wishing back.

Save your breath and leave your mind. Send the one you want a letter; leave it unsigned.
If it's what you need, they'll know. If you're worth the risk; let go.

I'm Not Your Star.

I've been fighting this almost constant urge to unwind because I find myself more or less ashamed of the juvenile nature my thoughts have been finding home in. I've never been one too inclined to complain. What is feeling sorry for yourself, anyway? I'm not anxious to find out. I make the most of every single place I find myself, from 10 pm home alones to 4 am realizations. Compartmentalization always has been a point of persona strength. So tell me, why does every song seem to give me a reason not to leave you behind?

It's that time again. Weeks on fingertips mark the duration of time between the last wave like this, and already I'm staring a new resistance in the face. Never try to forget what it feels like to be helpless. It's more reliable than short circuit alarm clocks and faulty electricity as far as reminders go.

Days go by without word from you, and yet, you play house inside the sound heat of my mind. Curled up in comfort, unmoving; I can't give away what was never unoccupied. Sometimes I wonder if my words give me away, and you sit on sidelines, behind computer screens, cracking a half smile at the shape you have me in. I'd find it hard to believe that you're clueless as to the condition of my mind whenever your name chooses to swim through its quest for tranquility. Failed missions fall at deadly feet. The confines of thought are a dangerous place to live.

I am momental. If left unwritten in the moment, thoughts and acts alike will remain so long after. Inspiration in cardboard cutout pieces. I have no clue what I want to say to you. More to the point, I have no clue what I can say to you. Lungs fill every day without new air. Maybe I need more than you can offer, but I don't think I want anything less. I'll be one more burden on your countless big things happening.

Given In.

I'm back.

One gust of wind sends my hair from the accidental void between collar and neck, craving body heat as they trail behind beaten. Another brush has my hands fitting mittens from the give of my waist, pulling at fabric so readily left unattended. A window-view morning couldn't prepare sleepy eyes forced wide, squinting in the solace of the darkness they had kept minutes before. Layers are closing in. More and more rapidly as time grabs the part of me inviting breath heats, more welcomed than any effort at wind resistance.

Begging strands of castoff curls kiss ears and an unsound mind; a constant reminder that my skin is staying cold. Still exposed, vulnerable to every bit of battering natural breath can carry to a microscopic solitude. Not completely unwanted; neither sought for nor evaded. I could build an army, a circle of walls, and swear off this sole responsibility, but I leave my arms at my sides knowing that focusing on surroundings means a crumbling foundation, a leaking roof. I'd find myself left for elements, my inside out umbrella helpless to newborn raindrops finding home in increasingly damp hair. Twisting and fighting to swear off sickness like my logic around rectangular worries. You'll catch cold if you go out like that. Well I don't think I care.

Drop some yellow over my waves and call me fit for a blizzard. These are the things in life that I can control, like the textures I run my fingers through and the holes in my baby blankets. Things that should be shelved when the comfort is historically outgrown. I lower my face as bravery runs by in a t-shirt and shorts; I take my time. I've grown out of rushing as segments of days run together for most; you don't remember the colors on long-haired temptation and fair weather friends as you set your mind towards seven hours away from what will be a ten difference day. Circle left corner of your mouth, the buttons on your shirt, and one pair of shoes. Circle nothing of my attire. Again this control is one guaranteed multiple choice answer.

Paste on the muted textile and cover modesty and insecurity. This water could turn to ice at the turn of your memory. Will I be the one left doorstepping, surrounded by silence and closing walls without explanation? One word to silence my speculating strands. Tide me over with a mail-in picture of burning wood. I stop and look up; my halting sends soldiers colliding in their warpath footsteps. I'll be the first to shake this monotony. If only you let curiosity get the best of your unoccupied, frigid hands. I won't stop my eyes as I fall back and let this current take me through the convolution of lowering. This overprocessed mind can follow close behind; elude at will.

Do you know how to lose your mind?

Short Breath.

I can't decide what I feel. Last night had my body and mind drained in completion, for the first time since days when, looking back, the reasons seemed simple. I've lost my will to make sense of it, and given in to simply forming sentences from pictures. This failed me last night. Breathing speeds when your heart gives way, and without a lifeline, there's no hope for caught breath. You're the only one I wanted to be bothered by. Simple banter, simple caring. My breath caught somewhere between lungs and mouth, but you had my heart beating double time; the short breaths I could steal from the air were a work of your art. I wish you knew that you do this to me.

I'll call and ask about weather, tell someone to talk so I can think. I think about remembering to push my stomach out when I scratch a sorry excuse for oxygen. I think about how badly I wish I could walk to your door. I nearly asked you if I could come over because your words seem to make sense more than most. The way we talk is less than a game and nothing of an act, but I grapple for understanding and pass my time analyzing like I've found it common practice to do. You're the words I sit down to express and can't get out.

This escape of mine isn't a hobby; writing is a necessity. When I say therapy, don't assume a metaphor. This is my very literal "how does that make you feel?" These are the words I need to hear to unlock that sentence I've been trying not to speak. These deepest confessions form tears that come from countless failed attempts to just cry them out. The most meaningful tears I've cried feel like they're being pulled from my veins, drying up to a very empty shell. After nights like these, there's nothing left to run through me. Tears of blood begin to make far more sense when you don't just take religion's word for it. There are things in life we feel we can't lose, and yet, when you have nothing, you'll still be alive. When nothing makes sense, you'll still know the music you rely on by heart. Nothing is irreparable. Making 15 phone calls could leave you with nothing where that one where you had to make yourself hit send was all you needed to hear. Break down.

Honesty at its best is telling anyone who wants to be in your life exactly how you feel. If you belong here, you won't run away. You asked if this was typical, and I kindly directed your attention to the likes of words like these. This is why I don't have to lose my breath. "Your brain has control over your stomach." If only I had expanded beyond the stop hurting me and I'm sick of feeling like this statements, I could've saved my parents some pocket change. I start with one line and form a page. I start with a page and form a novel. I haven't written one in awhile, but I feel the tide changing with every familiar motion my six or seven fingers make.

I think I just might need you in some way. It could be that I'm just be passing time with you, but I can say this is entirely unfamiliar to me. Just fitting your name into conversation sends excitement streaming from the butterflies in my stomach to the curve of my lips. When you're around, this is redefined. Slightly off-limits and constantly surrounded by mutual acquaintances, I hide a secretive smile and thoughts of my head on your chest. This is a mental battle at its finest. When we're this young, we really do have nothing to lose. I don't care if the end is a little closer for you; you still can't claim discounts in lines of retirees. Life is just beginning. Just take your time. The timing may or may not be right, eventually; I don't mind. Your mind works double time over me; I reiterate my lack of worry and enhance your own. I'm letting go. I'm letting go of worrying about what everything means, because as long as there's a smile on my face, I have what I need for however long it lasts. Leave fear and caution behind.

I'm letting go of optimistically looking for loopholes in the letdown. I'm learning how to inject optimism into downfalls instead. I don't say sorry as much anymore, because I've learned that more often than not; I'm not. I don't take back anything I've ever done in eighteen years and eleven months of life. I don't regret being a worry-filled smiling half breed as a child, or a slightly out of touch nearly adult. In one year and one month, I can claim two decades. I don't consider this time a guarantee after seeing so much loss. If I live to see my own real love, I'll cherish the fact that I got to know the way it feels. I want this for you, because now I live for both of us. I want so much to live because I know that every day I have is a gift; I look around at this place filled with red-eyed kids and blow-off beef heads and know that they don't understand. They think time is a right. They think growing up to a dream job, true love, and a family is exactly what their future holds. I don't know if I'll live to see tomorrow, but if I do, I'll wake up and kiss the sky.

This life is imperfect, but it's everything I've ever wanted. This life, filled with cruelty, beauty, evading love, and frivolity is mine alone to known like the way words connect in my mind. It doesn't matter to me that I've never seemed to be worth the full attention of someone's romance. This only gives me hope that however much time I have left will see the day that I'll be taken by surprise. It doesn't matter that I've been disappointed, hurt, and lied to, because I appreciate the moments where I was shown complete trust and shared happiness so much more. We wouldn't recognize anything, anyone as beautiful if we didn't know its antithesis.

Can you watch while someone struggles to pick up the contents of their spilled life? Or do you lend a hand, if only to bend down and offer them their offset lipstick and throw in your own reassuring smile? You don't know how many people you've saved by simply smiling as you walk by. Here, everyone holds doors. Most people say thank you and you're welcome, and the parents of this Nick Jr generation would beam at the sight. It's not just a mannerism. We don't say it because mommy's standing over us with stern, thin lips insisting "say thank you" like it's a threat. We left them behind and learned what it was like to mean it. Say what you want about youth, but I see every day ways in which we're learning to be influential. It starts with the simplicity of an open door and goes on to the metaphor of countless more.

I may not have many I can run to here, but I've learned to appreciate both the few and the new. We need far less than we've grown accustomed to. I used to love going out into the woods by myself, and all the adults would yell at me when I slipped away. That little delinquent was onto something. I've become far too affected by safety, and now I can't let myself walk in the dark without being aware of every presence in the air around me. Do you ever just want to throw on something colorful and walk through the leaves in your bare feet? 1 AM had me dying just to explore. The better part of me knew this town of young targets made my aching less than favorable; I just wanted not to care. I just wanted to forget my shoes and count on nature to keep me. I didn't want an arm to hold. Two layers and a handful of hopes form one impenetrable cloud.

I keep getting up because I can't keep anything in. Some days, I feel so good about myself, and others, all I can do is critique. I do not enjoy being a cookie cutter female, so the first likes to take over when the second tries to cut in. I prefer it like this. I could define wasted time as time spent thinking you are anything less than beautiful. You have something within you that no one else possesses; I know it's been placed on repeat for so long that it seems untrue, but it's what I wish I could say if the world was listening. Love yourself. No one else can love you quite as thrillingly as you can love yourself, and I'm a firm believer that in order to love another, you must first love yourself. Don't let gender roles define your worth. Don't let spiteful comments, usually hidden in shades of jealousy, color the way you look in the mirror. It doesn't matter if you're five pounds heavier than you want to be or you have a quirk you're ashamed of.

You aren't perfect, and who would want to be? Think of the standards, the expectations. Everyone deserves a vice, and we're equal in our downfalls. Love your own, and as a result, you'll be able to fully love someone else's. Never tasting true love allows you to define it more clearly and appreciate it more fully. I like to think I'll be thrown upside down one day with my thoughts still in line. I think to think I know everything just to learn I know nothing at all. You would kill for this, just a little bit. For now, I want to spend my time telling myself everyday to sing like no one's listening. I've always been shy when it comes to my voice, so I make up for it in words. It always has made the most sense to me jumping from a page. This carried me from booksmart to passionate. Sometimes seeing the lists of interests others contain makes my one seem so insignificant, then I remember the days I've gotten by only because I had it, and I know I could make a list pages long. There are others, but none as influential as the two gracing my last hour.

I won't spend my words on the despair of 20 hours ago because I know it won't wrap around me again. I understand how beautiful it can be to break down; it was the clarity from chaos that I just hadn't understood. I'm not worried about you being okay. You're better by these challenges that have seemed absolutely unfair, and I see positivity as far as my premonition will take me. Hang in there, for me, for you. I need you every second of every day. I won't fail you. I could add an again, but I know you won't let me. I've never needed a singular energy more than yours, and you've proven to be the exact brand of confidence I need. I'm going to do my assignment in this to make everything alright. We'll make everything alright. Look at this as the beginning, because we've never allowed or needed our starry eyes to see the end. You're why seven months have seen me turn from fetal position weak to internally strong. You built me up, and I'll do the same for you, from the inside out. This is looking to the future and laughing at the memories. I need these pages I've bound to keep me honest.

After hours of being unable to comprehend beyond the pages I didn't study for yet still somehow understood, I am finally starting to make sense of this. It's the countless, limitless emotions that hit all at once and the many targets that inspire them. If I could define the receiver of my ever-present use of that elusive word you, the list would be as long as the paragraphs they fall in. I am patchwork of influence and individual. I need every piece. This is how every breath tastes as sweet as the first I ever took.

I'm in love with this messy life of mine.

Scatter.

If you must know, you have me struggling to form coherent paragraphs. One-liners and pictures I can't seem to translate into words enchant my mind whenever you choose to grace it. Out of sight, out of mind? Not even a little bit. The drafts are piling up and you have my wordy ways clamoring for a thread to piece them together. Would it be so wrong to say that I'll take what I can get? This isn't a marathon, and my pace is as faulty as my thought process. One I can't write without selling myself out, none too honest. This admiration is childish at best when nature comes into play, but stripped down to nothing, it's a curiosity, and I'm insatiable.

You spend your time thinking and I spend mine attempting to. The most typical way to say it; you keep me guessing. My brain could begin to wrap around a fingertip, one piece of your mystery, and your words send it scattering, unsure. I'm just as susceptible to a challenge as I am to issuing them. My first guess is fear. My second is sensibility. My third is that I may not ever figure it out. If this was your goal, mission accomplished. Mundane conversation is a duty I've forgotten about, because it's something you avoid at all costs. I don't pretend to understand because finding you out is one confrontation I'm hardly used to. I'm in no hurry to be the stars when the sun keeps me singular.

Case in point, having you around is as valuable as the conversational skills everyone takes for granted. A part of me wants to see you without the clouds in your eyes; you're protective, and I'm resilient. I'm not a number of years, just a soul. Time is of little importance when you look at the way singular moments seem to drag on with the duration of countless wasted days. Moments create definition; it's the time in between that you should call the enemy.

This mix could burn a hole in anyone.