It’s hard to think of how it used to be

When we would run through open fields

With our arms outstretched

Never caring where we were going

Or who was watching

We just liked to feel the wind

Gliding through our hair

It’s hard to think of when it all changed

We grew up

We made mistakes

We figured out life isn’t always perfect

We started doing all we could

To keep from being judged

We just wanted to fit in

And the only way to fit in

Is to be exactly who they want you to be

But our memories never left our minds

We still longed for those summer days

With no purpose

Now, we spend our days

Searching for purpose

It didn’t matter then

We could be happy without reason

We could be us without reason

It’s hard to realize that back then,

I knew exactly who I was

And now, I can’t seem to figure it out

It seems I had a better grasp on life

When I knew less

But the more I learn,

The more broken I become

The more confused I become

I still don’t have purpose

I still don’t know where I’m running to

But I find no joy in not having the answers

I wish I still didn’t care

I wish life was still all I needed

The older I get, the more questions I have

And none of them are being answered

None of my problems are going away

How do I put myself back together?

How do I get back to that empty field?

All I want

Is for my broken pieces to be put back together

But it seems like that’s too much to ask

It’s hard to be broken

When you remember so vividly

A time when you were whole

An unrequited love.

A love that was not quite

good enough.

I caught your eye for a time.

A distraction perhaps

from the everyday.

A droning in your ear that told you

something is missing.

Two bodies

entwined,

releasing their demons

into the ether.

And you,

in the end

entangled in my heads’

metaphorical web.

Yet you

walked away

so easily.

You're mine, but you're not, you never were. I've been yours for as long as I can rememeber, but not you. I feel you, I know you're the warm body next to mine, but its like a ghost is inhabiting my room. A blank stare, like you can't even see me. You've been mine for years, but I've never really had you. You've had me from the first glance and now I'm stuck feeling so stupid for wanting you. I should have you. I shouldn't have to feel so insecure about very move I make. I shouldn't feel like I need to constantly get you, constantly trying to keep you and I never succeed. You've been aloof, constantly just out of reach whilst still firmly in my grasp and its like I'm just not holding on tightly enough. I'm going to smother you when all I wanted was to catch your attention. I'm always yours, but I can't have you. Not really.

Dark.

The light went out again.

Where am I?

Breathe. Count to ten.

The light went out again.

I can’t see you near.

Breathe. Count to ten.

Open your eyes, it’s okay.

I can’t see you near.

It’s so dark in here.

Open your eyes, it’s okay.

I see the slightest bit of light.

It’s so dark in here.

I can’t find the light. Wait.

I see the slightest bit of light.

Where is that coming from?

I can’t find the light. Wait.

Dark.

Where is that coming from?

Where am I?

Why do people do this?

Deception.

Betrayal.

Why do people think it is okay?

Deception.

Betrayal.

Why do people think it is okay?

It is not.

This goes out to all of those people who have been let go, slipped out of someone’s life.

It doesn’t work how you think it does.

You can’t just say sorry.

Sorry doesn’t do anything.

It just reminds me.

It just reminds me of how you betrayed me.

It reminds me of how I lost a best friend.

-N.J.

There is only a very fine line,

Separating love and hate.

Love feeds on hate,

Hate feeds on love.

It is hard to know the difference between love and hate.

Do you hate me or love me?

Why I am not good enough

Why can’t I be pretty like her

Why can’t I be easy to talk to like him

“Shush”

My anxiety scolds me

“Go put on some makeup

So people don’t think you’re ugly”

Why am I not good enough?

Everyday my anxiety plagues me

With another imaginary flaw

“Go hangout with people

so you don’t look so lonely”

“Don’t eat so much”

“Don’t care if it’s dangerous

Just do it”

“Don’t be so annoying”

“Stop being clingy”

“Don’t let yourself be happy”

...stop it

“What?”

My anxiety is surprised

Stop it

“No.”

This is my mind

My life

My thoughts

Stop it.

And it stopped.

For today.

I’ll just have to be ready for tomorrow

-Z

my soul leaped when

i first heard his voice

laugh.

i loved him

before i ever saw

his face.

why did i not realize that until he was gone from my sight?

~deafdumbblind

selah.k_x

From the day, you're born you're told,

a stranger means danger.

You see a man up ahead walking towards you.

You feel your heart in your fingertips,

when he looks at you.

This may be the day. 

This might be the man.

The one your mother warned you about.

The one the news warned you about. 

The heat spreads to your whole body.

You clutch to the knife in your pocket. 

"This might save your life one day"

Your father's words echo through your mind.

Fear.

You can't hear anything.

You can't see anything,

except the pavement in front of you.

He's getting closer.

You can almost hear him breathe.

You glance up only to memorize his face.

He's staring at you.

He's grinning.

He said something.

He passed you.

You're okay.

Breathe.

You're safe.

You can see another man walking towards you a few blocks ahead.

Start at the beginning.

A stranger means danger.

You can feel your heart in your fingertips,

when he looks at you.

This may be the day.

This might be the man.

The one your mother warned you about.

The heat spreads to your whole body.

You clutch to the knife in your pocket.

He turned the corner.

You're okay.

Breathe.

You're safe.

There's another man.

Start over.

A stranger means danger.

You can feel your heart in your fingertips,

When he looks at you.

This is fear.

The feeling of strangers,

Of men.

Beautiful, green eyes, color the hair of honey, an all American girl,

oh, how I want to hold her hand, beautiful.

But I've never uttered a word to her and she can't tell me apart from the

rest of the crowd.

I'm just another ordinary boy, in love with a girl who won't give him a

second look.

A beauty she is, but her heart can never belong to someone like me.

A boyfriend twice my size, on the football team, blonde hair, blue eyes with

superiority that should make me think twice.

They fit with one another, ever so perfectly.

It would be wrong of me to ruin that, so I watch her from afar. I wonder if

she'd mind.

All American girl, all American boy.

I've told myself, time and time again, "I'm going to talk to her today.

She's going to love me," but I keep walking every time, and every time, I

go back to loving her in that special place, unrequited.

Her favorite color is purple.

Her favorite band is the Strokes.

She lives for the sunshine and if it weren't for her contacts, she'd wear

glasses.

She lives with her dad and wants to visit Paris.

She quit the cheer squad because she doesn't like their routines and because

she didn't want to be the cheerleader-dates-football-player stereotype. Gets a bit tipsy at parties and wears flannels on Tuesdays.

She chips her nails and can't manage to beat traffic on Mondays, showing up

to school at 7:49, every other day. She has two friends, girls, one's middle name is Zoey.

She takes showers in the middle of the night and doesn't eat breakfast on

Friday, because she uses that time to apply make-up. She hates being part of trends, and she's not exactly the most popular.

She doodles little trees on the margins of her notebooks.

She has a guilty pleasure; on some days after school, on other days during

lunch, she sits in the library, cuddled against the romance shelf, engulfed in

a novel.

She'll never know my name.

She'll never know my favorite constellation or my zodiac sign.

But to me, she's a bit like a star.

She seems so close, but when I take a step back, I realize she's so far

away.

She seems to spend all the time in her head, travel to the moon and back.

What is the thinking of?

Could it be me?

Oh, don't be so silly.

She's a bit like the moon.

Everyone sees the wonder of her, but all she sees is how alone she is

compared to the world.

She's a bit like a comet.

Hurdling light years past you and you might miss her, but once you see her

from up close, you'll see all the craters that have hit her over time and how

small impacts have completely altered her course.

She's a bit like shooting stars.

I've never seen something so illuminating that I am left in awe.

She's a little bit like a black hole.

Once you're sucked in, there's no way out.

She's a bit like a soft love song.

She's a bit like an ornament of silver.

I can never tell you her favorite constellation.

I can never tell you what she thinks of on the clear night skies while

looking at the moon.

I can never tell you the first observatory she visited.

I can never tell you what her room looks like or where she wants to live.

I can never tell you what she does once she gets home or if she smells like

outer space.

I can never tell you what she wants to do in life or even before she dies.

Because even stars- how many light years old they may be- all die.

Even after death, preserved she will be, stardust, up for display in a

museum, quiet and empty, for no one to see.

After death, all I'm ever going to be is ashes, dumped out, into the sea,

mistaken for sand, resting with all those who were never meant to be.

There's a space for her, of degrees below Celcius, frigid. Only 17 and

there's already a spot in the vastly calm darkness for her, even if she can be

reckless at times, as long as it doesn't take her over.

Then her all-American football player boyfriend took her ornament of silver,

carefully crafted and thought he held nothing but an ornament, not knowing he

was holding the world in his hands. Her ornament of silver fell on the floor

for everyone to see. She fell to her knees, not caring about the scene, holding

the particles of stardust in her arms, hugging what was left of her so closely,

not even tears could mend what was left of a star, no, it was too hard.

So I wrote her this letter,

and I left her some flowers,

from a Secret Admirer.

I saw her beam,

she looked left and right,

but couldn't find the admirer.

It was while writing in this letter, I asked her to be my date for the

upcoming Valentine's dance. For the moment I watched her, I felt her little

ornament of silver in my fist, resurrected. I'd never laid my eyes on anything

more breathtakingly beautiful.

Oh, I could've died.

I was eager to meet her,

so many times I'd fantasized,

let my mind drift near hers,

through cosmic variables,

spoil myself with all the lovely things I could say to her,

and she'd see me,

suit and tie,

realize I've been the one all along.

Valentine's night fell on a thin coat of breeze and dim lighting. She was

waiting outside, in the hallway. The white wall she was leaning

against complimented her sun-kissed skin and green eyes. Her hair, curled, the

color of honey. A dark blue dress, the color of the night sky. I didn't breathe

for a second or two, maybe more. Her lips were glossed with a flirty pink. She

looked so darling in those silver heels. Oh, I just couldn't think, she deserved

to be loved.

But the way cowards do and have always done,

I kept walking,

walked right past her,

and into the heap of red and pink lights,

right into the dance,

took a seat.

For 10 minutes I debated returning outside for her or leaving out fate to

chance, maybe my ashes would meet her stardust again in another life.

"Hello." I stood next to her.

"Hey," she replied, a vodka flask peaking out of her small bag.

"You've been out here for a while now."

She nodded. I looked off into the distance, into the sky, clouds, no stars, no

stardust.

Without that extra reel of support, I collect scraps of bravery the clouds

left me. "I came alone and it looks like you've been stood up if I'm

telling you the honest truth. Surely he has his reasons for missing out on you

tonight, but right now, you don't have to waste another moment. So I ask, would

you like to go inside and have a dance, maybe two?"

Her green eyes seep into mine and her hesitance makes me wish I were blind.

How did I ever think I stood a chance, think that ashes and stardust- She takes

my hand and I open my eyes.

Inside, blinded by love songs and tacky blubbery babies,

we sway against each other,

she hands me her flask from time to time.

We're both tipsy before the night even starts. She smells like blueberries

and cinnamon. It almost reminds me of pancakes. She smells like morning

sunrises. She doesn't smell like the cosmos or supernovas.

We're slow dancing now and she's hearing the erratic elevation of my

heartbeats as her head rests on my chest. She looks up at me, unwraps a hand

from around my neck and brings it to my cheek. My heart speeds, so I close my

eyes, hope it isn't a dream.

Then I feel her warm breath in my ear, I open my eyes. "I know you've

been watching me." My ear may be warm, but my heart turns cold because my

pulse has stopped and I exhale my final breath.

I look down at her hoping to god she's joking, but instead she's searching

for the answers in my eyes. She whispers, "It's okay. I've been watching

you too." She must be kidding. This doesn't happen. Ashes don't compare to

stardust, never have, never will. I must be dreaming. I hold onto her tighter,

because it can only be someone's idea of a sick joke. My eyes scan the room, no

one's watching. It's just her and I. "Can we go outside?" she asks.

I nod and lead her out the door. We sit and I see her body tense as her skin

makes contact with the metal bench. She continues the conversation, "You

know my favorite color is purple, that I listen to the Strokes, I live with my

dad and I used to wear glasses, but I wonder: How long have you been watching

me?"

I avert my eyes as she's searching for mine. "Sometimes, when you hide

out in the library, reading romance novels, you have the volume so high, I can

hear it from the aisle away. Most of the time it's the Strokes."

"What's in the next section?"

"Mystery and thriller novels. How- How long have you known?" Due

to the alcohol in my bloodstream, I find myself a little more honest and a

little more friendly. I remove my blazer and hang it on her shoulders. She fits

her hands through the sleeves, too large for her, I laugh and she's laughing

with me.

She lies down, her head on my lap. "The day you left the flowers and

letters in my locker. You were watching me before I even got there. I pretended

to be so engrossed in the letter, but from the corner of my eye, you were

staring, but when I searched for your face, you turned away. I've had a couple

suspects in mind, but then I saw you walk in and I was almost, almost sure it

was you, but you kept walking. I began to wonder if there was an admirer after

all. Then you asked me to dance, and I, I just knew." My fingers are

gently caressing her cheeks, rosy from the 50 degree weather. She repeats the

question with the same tenderness as before, "How long have you been

watching me?"

I lick my lips, not ready to answer the question, so I hang my head in

shame, but I begin, "It was the end of sophomore year. You needed to have

your entire schedule changed because of reasons left to speculation. What made

it even weirder was that there was only a month left of school. Every time a

new student transferred, 5 students would share who they are. The new student

goes last. I sat all the way across the room. After everyone went, you asked

the girl next to you if she could record it on your phone. Unlike everyone

else, you walked up to the front of the classroom and told us about yourself.

'Hey, my name is Cordelia, but everyone just calls me Nova. My favorite color's

purple and I live with my dad.' You wore your glasses, but once junior year

began, they were gone."

She's rubbing my hand with her free one and finishes the memory with

me,"I wanted to reassure my dad that I was going to do just fine."

She presses her fingers to her temple and complains about her dizziness, too

intoxicated. She laughs at her low tolerance, "Don't you ever do anything

other than stare?"

I smile weakly. She continues, "Tell me, what's your favorite

color?"

"Navy."

"Favorite band?"

"The Killers."

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Filmmaker."

"Why?"

"I love telling stories."

She's intrigued, but lowers her voice to a hum. "You see? Now am I that

unapproachable?"

She begins telling me about her life, all the Whys and Hows of it all.

Spaces I had so carefully filled with details the size of small specks, but

there she was, telling me she quit the cheer squad because of a leg injury.

I've always told myself it's because she doesn't want to be a high school

stereotype. She gets to school late on Mondays because she smokes a quick joint

in her backyard. I've always told myself it's because she stays up a bit later

than on most nights, reading romance novels.

She's telling me all these things but I don't want to hear the Whys and the

Hows. It's a lot better when she leaves that up to me.

She gets up, her head off my lap, hugs her stomach, groans, then bitterly

laughs. "You know what sucks?" She doesn't wait for my response but

continues, "I never drink, and I've drank so much that I probably won't

remember tomorrow." She remains in the same position until it is clear to

her she won't throw up.

In a sense I'm almost happy she won't remember, because then we can go back

to the way we were before. A before where our love is unrequited.

She asks me to take her home, so I do. On the ride there I find myself

thinking how much easier it is, to love her on a land she doesn't know about,

on a land she'll never visit. I walk her to the front steps of her porch.

"Thank you," she says, handing me back my blazer.

"For the ride? Oh, it was no problem-"

"No," she cuts me off. "For loving me, when no one else knew

it, when no one else would. Thank you for giving me the love story I've long

awaited." I see shivers run up her spine. It's something so wonderful, so

frightening at the same time. "After this," she continues,

"We'll go out on a couple dates, fall deeper in love, and one day, we'll

tell the story again, time after time, happy." I wonder if she'd tell me

all these things while sober.

It's a lot more easier admire her from afar, watch her walk away than it is

to chase after her and ask her to stay.

She hands me her number, tells me we should go out this weekend. I smile

broadly, knowing perfectly well, I won't call. "I'm glad you found me. I

know there's going to be so much more to us."

The next morning, I watched her in the library, next to the romance shelf.

A goofy grin on her face, staring up at the ceiling, fantasizing, letting

her mind drift near mine.