it's true

beauty is not always the truth. a sunrise is beautiful, but it isn't the spectacle. it's who you're sharing it with. it's that you made it through the night.

realizations

you care? ...oh. this is really awkward.

because I was under the impression that- well, that you didn't. oh. ohohoh.

then all those times that I yelled at you? oh. I must have hurt your feelings. a lot. shit. like when I told you you could never help me, because you would never understand? I- I didn't know that I made you cry. I didn't mean to, I just thought-

and all those times when you tried to stop me from- and every time I did anyway- oh, that must have really gotten to you. I didn't mean to, I just- it's about me, right? I'm on my own, right?

but you care. oh. I'm not alone. I affect people when I- oh. OH. how was I supposed to know?

because you told me so. because you asked me to stop. because you cried. because I always felt guilty.

oh.

because you do understand. because you tried to help. oh.

but I didn't do any of those things for you, did I? and I care about you more than anything. what does that make me?

a snippet

"what?"
"I just- fuck, I loved you. love you. you know it. everyone does. it wasn't enough."
"... uhm. well, uh- shit."
"are you satisfied? are you fucking satisfied?"
"I didn't-"
"just leave-"
"it was-"
"don't want you to-"
...
"what was that?"
"I... I don't know. I mean, shit, Cass."
"why did you-"
"I love you."
"you-"
"like, I really do. I always have. but I- she-"
...
"Jesus. Cassie. Cassie, I can't- I loved you. but now I love her too. and you know you can't ask me to-"
"I know."
"your timing sucks."
"fuck off."
"Cassie-"
...
...
"...we should go."
"yeah."
"you're getting married."
"yeah."
"...kiss me again."

part one

we would whisper, you and me and the dark. simple things, "I'm here." "it's dark." "I love you." I mostly nodded and touched my fingertips to yours, because my voice was too loud and we would get caught and I liked the way your hand was always warm.

"go to sleep," you'd say, in your big sister voice. and I would, because you were older and wiser and you always knew what was best for me. sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night, panicky because I couldn't find your hand. you would turn over and shush me into calm, wrap me in your arms until I could sleep again.

I don't know why I didn't realize that you never seemed to sleep. I guess I thought big sisters didn't need to. what I do remember is the night that you were so exhausted that your eyes closed before mine, and I heard what your big sister voice had been protecting me from.

resent; see envy

I have to apologize for the thoughts in my head. I don't hate you. I have never hated you, not really. but I can't believe all the things that you can do, all the things that I can't do anymore.

you can cry. you can care. you can control yourself. you can help people. you can have hope.

and I can say that your tears are superficial or that your hopes are for things that will never happen, but when was the last time that I did anything better?

so of course I can't help but want to hate you.

balance

we don't live in caves.

and what I mean by this is that in our lives, we will never have to be in total and complete darkness. there will always be that shred of light. people don't live in caves for a reason.

and yes, I mean all of this metaphorically. darkness is your feelings. light is the hope. there's always hope. let's all have a good cry together now.

lacking

you are missed and missing, not here and wished to be. I am missing you, wishing you here, and by here I mean close enough for me to see your face again.

I haven't in so long. I don't know if it's a conscious decision on either of our parts, but we haven't, and I believe it's for the same reason. this pain at seeing each other feels mutual to me. I want it to be mutual, anyway.

dialogue

sometimes my head is too full for my heart to take it anymore. I don't know how to separate the empathy from the actual sadness, my feelings from my feelings for other people.

and my internal monologue is just left with a lot of screaming. all day, until I go to sleep,

"AHHHHHHHyouarenotgoodenoughAHHHHHHHHHnobodycanhelpyouAHHHHHHHHHHHwhothefuckcaresaboutyouAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH"

and I don't know which part of me is the bad side. I don't know how to tell my entire being to just STOP FUCKING YELLING ALREADY, except for one way. and I'm too much of a coward.

when I go to sleep, it doesn't stop, it just forms coherent ideas. You. Are. Not. Good. Enough. I don't know how to sleep anymore.

maybe if I could yell all this out, get it outside, tell someone, it would be better. but how do I translate the swirling thoughts in my head into a cry for help?

temporarily permanent

suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, so it's wrong. I know this. I also know about temporary solutions.

I know about stretching the time between the decision to act and acting. I know about distractions. I know about willpower and the lack thereof. I know about consequences.

I know things I don't want to know, things people don't want to hear, things that will never truly leave me.

I know myself.

the temporary solutions that serve as a reminder that life is imminent and always and that permanent solutions are bad.

but the thing about temporary solutions, this thing that I know, is that they are temporary. you will have to do it consistently, or sooner or later you'll be back where you started.

it's enough to make a person think about permanent solutions from time to time.

break

he is beautiful but he is scared. scary. he is conflicted, unsure, a typical example of perfection gone wrong. his eyes are as inescapable as the truth: you love him, but he has never known love.

you tell him this- that you exist, that you are proof, that you want him to understand. he tells you he can't.

despite your good intentions, you don't understand either. you can write LOVE on your arms, but he doesn't actually feel it when he's cutting. you can tell him you're worried about him, but that doesn't stop his parents from abusing him.

you think he's broken, but it's really that he's been broken too many times, and you won't be the one to save him.

inspirhate

you inspire me to write.

...no. stop that. don't thank me, stupid, you don't know what I'm writing. I could be writing about how I look into your window at night, or about my plot to kill you. maybe I'm writing about how insufferably polite you are.

yeah, not so flattered now, are you? think about the things I know about you, think about how you've affected me, and now reevaluate. what do you think I'm writing about?

unfinish

you're thinking, ugh, I hate her. I see you. I see her. I see you looking at her. the way your mind works is on your face, the way your lip curls, the way you wrinkle your nose every time she tosses her hair. you're thinking, she's so ugly. you're thinking, it doesn't make any sense.

you're thinking, how?

I'd tell you how, but Jesus, woman, I don't know. and I'll let you in on a secret: she doesn't either. all she knows is she got lucky. didn't you see that? you were staring enough.

yes, staring. I don't mean that long, continuous look, where nothing could distract you. I mean those sidelong glances, the way your eyes linger when you pretend you're just scanning the hallway, that look.

but oh, honey, now you're thinking about it, and that won't do. you're thinking, no, she's not ugly, she's so pretty, no wonder. where will that thinking get you?

nowhere. that's where.

home

she pulled at the bottom of her t-shirt, discomfort manifesting as wandering fingers. slapping words that weren't muffled at all by the thin plaster walls reached her; more painful than the bruises she bore.

movement seemed impossible, a swearword escaping her lips every time her knees brushed the wall, jolts of pain making her jaw grow tense. her body felt too big for her bed, like she'd gained a few inches. although, it was more loss than anything.

turning over, knowing nausea was imminent; she curled her toes around the blanket and searched for warmth. wished for warmth. she rubbed her stomach, like a nesting instinct, like she knew it was right to keep her baby warm.

heartbeast

you know when you're holding on to something really tightly? so tightly that your fingers kind of go all numb? as tightly as you can because for some reason this thing is important. really important. you don't want to lose her- it, ever.

and you're holding on tightly, and you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips, because of your circulation or something, but you're holding too tightly, definitely. so you have to let go of h- it.

but once you let go, your fingers tingle and feel too light and you want to hold on again, but it's gone. you've lost her forever. it forever.

and then you remember why you were holding on so tightly, but it's too late.

thinksink

at this moment in your life, exactly one person is thinking about you. and by exactly one, I mean, at least one. they're out there, and they're thinking or dreaming or masturbating to the image of you.

does that surprise you? I hope it doesn't. except for that last part, that's creepy, but the rest shouldn't. you are beautiful. I am thinking of you.

no one knows that this is happening, but it is. maybe it's your mom or dad, maybe it's a stranger, maybe it's the person you're sitting with right now. (in which case, I REALLY hope they're not wanking off to you.) your boyfriend, your Facebook friend, your coworker. you are in someone's head.

I think there's too much secrecy involving thinking. just because it happens inside your head, and no one else's, all of a sudden it's private. I'm not saying that you should tell your mom "that dress DOES make you look fat," but I am saying don't be that douchebag who can't say what they feel.

so I'm giving you this, this little insight into the world, into someone's head. you are being thought of. you are worth it.

but my other insight into the world is that, unfortunately, you may never know who is thinking of you until they tell you so. don't be that person. that person sucks. be the person who's honest about it.

that said, I'm not Jesus. I'm not honest. I rarely think I'm worth anyone's thoughts. but believe me, I do a lot of thinking. and chances are, I've thought of you.

I am your teacher, your mailman, your sister.

I am the person that you're thinking of right now.

and at this moment in our lives, we are thinking of each other.