I've never been good at hiding what I feel unless I hide all of me,
 and I like to think I've gotten pretty good at disappearing. 

I've been thinking...

...About pruned trees:


You cut off the branches so that the tree gets bigger, or prettier, and over all better.
Maybe people are like that too, but instead of clippers and saws they use words to prune each other and themselves.


"You smell." *snip*

"You're kind of insensitive." *saws*

"Maybe you should spend more time looking in the mirror." *snip* *snip*

"You're a bad person." *saws*

"You're fat." *hacks at wood*

ect.


Though it hurts, and sometimes words cut too deep the odds are that you'll grow into a better tree.

_____________


...About sex.


I refuse to hurt my mother the way that she was hurt in the past.


____________


...About The Wonder Years.


They're alright.

___________


...And about everything as a whole.


We'll all be ok.

 Even if we've fucked up. We'll start that band, play music like the music we fell in love with.
We'll drink coffee in window panes. Read dusty books. Write songs that make people cry. Write letters.
Read letters. Be part of a commune. Eat watermelon. Go swimming in lakes. Tell stories about our lives.
We will be happy, or at least content.

We will be ok.

_________

Everything I say will sound bitter...I've written *bitterly* too often. I'm not bitter, I'm hurt, so tired, and trying to leave the situation. Is there a difference?

You left me a long time ago. Not just me, I know. I remember.

I'm now convinced that none of what you wrote was never about me, and if that's so, than our friendship and whatever I thought our friendship was, was gone a long time ago and still hasn't came back. I've just been chasing whatever scrap of it I could find trying to keep it alive. I've embarrassed myself and maybe even you. I'm sorry, for everything.

Narcissus.

I'm afraid of not knowing, but I'm  too afraid to ask.
 I hope that I don't have the chance to, but at the same time maybe it needs to be said.

No matter where this goes, someone is going to be hurt.
And I don't mind if it's me; I'd rather have it be me!
Because you need rest, and I've had too much.
But pain doesn't work that way.
Though I wish it were possible, no one can bear pain for someone.

__

I've allowed myself became so haughty and proud,
 but there is nothing more here in me than there is in anyone else!

__

It was never about me.

__

I placed myself so high, assuming that was where they saw me.

Up above everything and everyone and alongside you,
 and oh how I'd like to believe that I hid this well.


 

It's windy out.

//Is this all that's left, or is there more that you're hiding from me?// There always is. I will never know you as much as I want to and it seems like no one will. I don't know if I'm all right with that yet.// I didn't go to school today, I'm sick and my nose is constantly vomiting// I always feel as though he is under attack from those around me, forcing me to keep him away from everything that I loved, as if those things would hurt him or that he wouldn't see them in the way I did.// Why do I like him so much? Even I ask myself that at times.// They say that question should be just as easily answered as asked, but that question is often not easily answered. Words stumble over each other as the speaker tries to weave an answer to match the simplicity of the question. And the answer, if one comes, often leaves holes leading to more questions and even progressing to wrinkled brows and clinched fists.// Romanticize, I still struggle with this word; it's such an easy thing to fall into. I believe that I romanticized a lot of my life and the people in it. // I mixed point of view with reality, and that wasn't fair to them. It was never what they were, it was what I thought they were that seemed to make me upset. But this leaves the question, who were they in the first place?// I still believe that these people are lovely. And they will remain lovely. No matter how small they think that they are, I will believe that they are wonderful.//  I've written you multiple letters that I can't send. I've collected them, some are just scribbles telling you about my day, some are angry lines across the page, all of them are better left unsaid. Though these letters weren't sent, I always felt as if they were. Maybe I wasn't writing to you, as much I was writing to myself, or who ever wanted to listen.// I needed a day like this. The sun was beginning to burn, even though I don't think I noticed until now//