one day we'll be inseparable

nothing is hidden
                          from you.

the girl
stands
her feet in a puddle
with the green nail polish chipping off
clouds rumble sourly
and she's drenched in acid rain.

she knows what she knows,
she is what she is.
bare
exposed
open wide,
view her as she exists.
nothing is hidden from you.

she isn't pretty
but she is perfect.

because this is who she is.

who she is.

take it or leave it.

When you're alone, do you think of me?

The keening sound of the violin. A boy sits as close as he can to the window, because though the room is cold, the glass is warm with sunlight. Shadows move all throughout this place, criss-crossing and chattering inanely;

shadows of lives wasted, thrown away and regretted, lives being spent and lives sitting still, afraid to move forward or waiting forever.

A pair of warm brown eyes, so commonplace here. Light brown hair falls in a sweep as pages turn. Watches tick, reminding us how little we matter; phones vibrate, trying to convince us of the opposite. The colors are artificial, everything is loud.
This is what I see.
The violin is in my head.

Vidi, Vici, Vini.

The flight from here to 

never

is a short one. 

but the days we seek to fill

often become trapped

in the middle. 

Conjure me your image of perfection. 

I will show you all the ways

that it is false. 

16 Just Held Such Better Days

I used to be able to write.
I used to be able to string my words together so elegantly. Shape my phrases so wonderfully. Bend my sentences to perfection.
I used to be passionate.
I used to care.

Nothing I've ever written and shown to anyone since then has been described as "This is really good".

everything rings sickeningly of
self-absorption and adolescence.

personal problems that no one
actually cares about
and don't make for good writing.

I'm not still learning.
I knew how, once.
To write.
Back then.
I'm forgetting.

Sixteen is too young to feel old.
It's too young to not be good at anything.
The constant stinging teenage cry of
NOT
GOOD
ENOUGH

in any aspect.
sixteen is too young to feel this tired.
With so many questions unanswerable
and goals unattainable.
I'm nothing. Smile darling.

I don't know how to write anymore.

I just complain.