I cant breathe anymore.

Dearest,

There are things I havent been telling you. These things have been weighing on me and adding to the pressure of everything that keeps piling up because, honestly, I cant bring myself to do anything these days. I'm worried and sullen and plain scared. I'm petrified as the piece of tree that rests on your mantel over your fake fireplace in your living room. The same fireplace that has provided us warmth whilst watching countless movies during those cold months and the same fireplace that watched us scurrying around during those warm ones, often without much on. Why I have spent so many words describing what the fireplace has seen is beyond me.
I'm home with nothing but the hum of this computer that keeps me going and the varied banging from the children downstairs. They claim to be cleaning the basement but I'm nearly convinced that they are only trying to get into the bedroom where all the Christmas presents lie. Why is that relevent? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps I fill my paragraphs with things not pertaining to the topic to distract you from what I'm really trying to say.
I find little comfort in the fact that you dont come here to read what I have to say anymore. I'm writing you this knowing that you wont read it. I dont want you to read it. But I want you to know what it is I'm writing. Yet I knot that if you did know it, I could ruin anything we have right now. Oh, if you could know the nights I've been up crying about this, how many times I've been screaming driving down the road, or the number of panic attacks I've been plagued with knowing that this is inside of me and I can do nothing about it. I'll continue to be as vague as I can about it, until I have nothing else to fill the time, and then reveal it.
While I am writing this, I have done everything I can down stairs, I've checked the competence of various data cds, I've changed clothes, taken bathroom breaks, and texted you. I keep avoiding this because it's huge, because I'm scared, because there is nothing else and if I get rid of this, I could have nothing left.
Enough of this nonsense, now, I ramble far too often. I've come to the conclusion that the feelings I have been experiencing are not going to leave easily, if at all, and this is why I have to tell you of them. They involve you so greatly that leaving you out would be ridiculous...


Almost as ridiculous as writing this on the internet, for everyone to see. Especially since it's such a private matter. As is why I am discontinuing this post.

Just to let you know

before i let people care too much for
the way my breath catches when i sigh--

like something worth falling in love with.

(you are beautiful enough to cause a seizure
in any epileptic.)

and because i miss you, okay

you would have laughed.
and i like it when you smile.

in five years, i want to be on a plane
and i want the plane to crash into the
ocean and i want everyone to be okay
except me.

in five years i want out of this bed.
in five years i want to be crowned
queen of lowercase letters. in five
years i want you to say, "you are
the best thing that has happened
to me," and mean it. but wishes don't work like that.

it is one o' clock in the morning i have no
one here to tell me to keep both hands
on the wheel, to stop fiddling with the
radio, to not drive in lonely lanes of
oncoming traffic. i only have wet roads
and trees, because i'm pretty sure the
only way to feel alive is to practice dying
until you get it right.

it is my birthday, and all i really want
is a full-fledged zombie apocalypse.

it is my birthday and i want someone
to fucking hold me and tell me they
love me and and that i will be okay.
i want someone to rub my back and
kiss my neck and tell me that eighteen
has never looked so beautiful.

i try not to make mistakes, anymore, which
means these days i watch tv and think about
hurting myself without actually being able to

i used to cut myself in perfectly straight lines. i
made cookies just to eat the dough. pain still
makes me calm in ways that writing songs and
organized sports never could.

thought
about how good it feels
to know that i will always
be able to hurt myself more
than you can ever hurt me.

-wonderful words I've collected and didnt compose but she did. Give her a look, her writings are wonderous: Estallidos
------------------------------------------------

I used to know how to form words into the exact right sentences to make every single person feel better.
Now I only know what to say to ruin the moment.

-The sad truth, written with my hands.

We are living in a material world

and I am a material girl:

-An Audrey Kawasaki original painting
-a tokidoki bag
-a Cat-Rabbit owl
-120 GB iPod Classic
-a shopping spree for new clothes like crazy