Fuck.

fucking fuck fuck.


...fuck.

I tried to hold hands with a boy who had his tied behind his back.
I tried to loosen the knots but they had been tied too tight.
When I tried to cut him loose,
he told me to first teach him how to walk on his hands.

I tried to hug a girl who lived at the bottom of a well.
I pressed my stomach to the stones and leaned in with my arms outstretched.
I straightened up and told her I'd find a ladder.
She told me to braid her hair before I left.

I  tired to tell a deaf man a sad story. 
The story was new, but he looked as though I were reading him an old fairy tale.
When I walked towards the door to leave,
he told me to bring him his record player.

to keep their fears at bay; I tuck these moments away.

He ran his fingers over my hand until he found the spaces
between my own and rested.
We sat in his old car for two hours as I fell half asleep.
He pressed his nose to my cheek, then his forehead to my temple.

He told me that I was important, kind, and smart.
talented,
pretty.
Special
and lovely.
unique and priceless.
Wonderful, fantastic, and good.

each adjective tucked in between silent breath, thought, and touch.
The words broke and twisted the air as they lit up memories of
tightly woven conversations.
 Letters and poems,
 buzzing phones,
and bright computer scenes.

He looked as though he were much older.
Tired, as though he'd been restless for years.


 (6/15)

I messed up,

and I don't want anyone else to see it.

it's rough, man.

       You don't know how done I am with these lingering essays and presentations. I want them to die, they're due tomorrow and Wednesday. I don't want to touch them. I don't want to try. I don't want to see people anymore. I don't want to have to wear pants anymore. I don't want to write about steroids in sports. I don't want to feel panicked anymore. I want to curl up in blankets at Clare's house and sleep forever. I want this week to be over, and it's only Monday night. I don't want to talk to people. I don't want to say anything. I don't want to move. I don't want to write educational things. I don't want to do my homework or take my finals. I have never wanted to not do something more in my life then these papers and presentation. Something seems wrong with me. Maybe I just need a good cry. Crying normally helps me. Or maybe I just need a shower... I don't know.

I wrote a shitty letter,

and I don't know what to do with it... I left it tucked in my closet.

It has everything that tore me apart in it; everything that I thought wasn't explained clearly.

I wrote this letter 5 times, 5 pages of stories.

My last "secrets."

It's poorly written, sadly worded., and I don't know if it'll help anything.

Maybe he doesn't need anymore shit in his life.

Maybe it's not worth saying.  

I told him in the letter that it wasn't his fault, but I don't think he'll believe me.

I don't know...