Everytime I laugh I get heartburn. (Really, though.)

I've been running around this track for miles because I was told it would help and because I'm supposed to train my body and stretch my muscles and I've learned to force my mind to think and there is no part of my body that is independent- and yet my heart still decides to do things uncontrollably and if I got any closer it would have beat out of my chest. They told me that's why hearts were put in cages but it still doesn't make sense to me why bones are only held by skin and the skin goes where the brain tells it AND THE HEART IS SCREAMING AND THE HEAD IS YELLING;

and the bones are moaning (like they have any idea what to do) and the phrase 'internal war' has taken on a whole new meaning.

Maybe I should follow my skin. 

XX 

(I didn't want to be your ghost.)

The Monday before the Last Day was the first time I cried about her. I was in the corner of my room. It was also the first time I wished the wood floor was carpet.

I remember that weekend. October. My dad had just bought a new car and my family was all outside, barefoot, walking around it.

My mom made breakfast that morning. I didn't ever like pancakes.



He held her hand as she died.

I talked to him that night and it was the first time I'd ever seen him cry. And I would try and describe it to you but there are no words that explain how wet my shirt was or how red our eyes were or how broken a heart could get. It's the kind of sad that turns crying into broken sobs- like you'll never get enough air.

And it's all about air and air comes in pairs unless it's the first or the last-

and she deserved more pairs then she got.


XX