He's in my class

& I crush on him. I shouldn't be. He has a girlfriend. He talks about her all the time. So I ensure to watch myself around him. It's not a heavy crush. It could be, but I keep myself check. I know too well the pain cause by cheating. I will not allow myself to become the other woman. No matter how much he means to me. Even if it meant that it was the person I wanted the most.

I will not be her. I will not taint a relationship. I will not tantalize.

Yeah it does.

Writing keeps me sane.

There.

I want to cut. I want to drink. I want to fuck. I want to write. I want to read. I want to bleed my ears with music of self destruction, of addiction, of not being able to have clear vision. I want to feel. I want to live.

But I am dead.

Here we go.

I am dead. Of dead heart. Of Dead mind. Of dead soul. All that remains are the calluses on my hands.

After all this time. I'm back where I started. back to my old single swinging lifestyle. Back to not giving a flying fuck about relationships. About anything more meaningful than friends with benefits, about lust, just caring about what I read, about what I wrote, about keeping self happy with the daydreams and the beautiful words, images created by other writers to keep me happy. This words keeping me breathing. keeping me. keeping me like he couldn't. I feel my own calluses and think of him. think that after everything I'm back in the same place and all I'm left with are memories and calluses.He had calluses too. He had them when I met him. Overwork at age 18, already having too much done to him. I loved running my fingers over it when we held hands. I loved feeling those calluses, reassuring me that no matter what, he'll always work, always provide for me. I loved him. Loved him down to what should have been ugly, unwanted, and I took it as a sign of grace, a sign of beauty, a sign of his devotion to his survival, and a sign of our future together. It's gone now and I'm dead. The only spark of life I feel is when I'm pushing that line. Pushing it, not caring. Drinking, smoking, sex. Pick your vice. pick my life.

Beauty

I remember being short. I remember being in my school uniform, and always carrying a little white button up sweater with me because my grandma would send it with me to school, even in the spring, in case the teatro got too cold. I remember my teacher Ms. York, a sweet sweet young teacher leading us to our seats which were blue. I remember sitting down next to my best friend and just watching the stage brought to life. I remember the etiquette lessons always repeatedly taught before each performance. I remember alot. What I don't remember was how many we went to, or what I saw. I just remember the costumes, the scenery, the dancing on stage, the funny arguments they would have on stage. What I remember now is that I was too little to appreciate it. Who knows how many plays I saw? Who knows what I saw, and what was lost to me because of my age. I do know we saw the Nutcracker, and Alice in Wonderland because Alice was a kid's movie, anything else. Nope. :(

Truth

I lie well.

I lie for only you.

Only

Listening to: The Quiet Things That No One Ever Knows by Brand New.

Dream count yeah.

There was this dark room, and sitting around a table was me, Christopher, and two other little boys I didn't know. On the table were... pokemon cards?! xD In between aimlessly shuffling the cards, we were talking, and then suddenly out of nowhere there was a microphone on the table. And the two little boys started interviewing us like they were reporters... Asking questions about writing, reading, and video games like if they were adults. They had deep voices too. Wtf? I started acting like a total cartoon character (aka Sailor Moon when she's eating) and being over the top in my gestures for my answers, somewhere in between I was cheering with no pompoms, and I made the wink move on one of the little kids who suddenly have a videocamera. Then Christopher was smoking a cigarette, and I believe that's when I woke up. No more SMA Sailormoon before I go to sleep.