The first time we met you approached me, an inaccurate preface to this starting with you asking me what I was reading and if I ever sought solace in lonely places like my room. Ever since then all I do is think about you. Now this friendship has grown into a sad display of what I would do candidly on tape to make you see that I could be the right person to turn "you and I" into "we." It seems quite frankly impossible that my writing would ever affect you like the way you buried me under mountains of mud. My finger brushes yours and my world is one inch by one inch by one inch. I write her poems. I recite them like the man I am.

I keep waking up in pools of sweat with this feeling in the back of my head. It feels like I am dying, then it feels like I am dead. If I am my decisions, am I confident or timid? I'm honest. Let's hope to God I'm honest. Will I become my parents? You will and I will too. Will I find a few new friends when you are of no use? Do you even care anymore? I'll go camping when it's cold outside. Zooming out on Google Earth, I've become even less significant.

Sprawling out across the lawn, the cops are here with sirens on. All the fixings of the elegant party lay lost amongst the house that resembles now nothing more than proof that I can do. The bus rounds the corner fast, I hope not too fast. I wanna see you come July. It's all I've got to keep me trudging. The rusted metal couple will collapse under the weight of a thousand British winter rains. (Trees waver in the distance by some divorced degree of the powers of the moon.)

I wanna move back home, fixated on who on call home, thinking about dropping out. I'm done living for people besides myself. I'm supposed to have fun. New Year's night makes my toes cold, aching for someone to make me whole. I'm stuck sticking with what I know, always afraid of what I don't. The daisies aren't a metaphor. I don't know what to do.

You changed something in my heart. My chest is different. You led me down a path of eutrophying swamps. The algae blooms got big and now they cover the top. I exist underneath them. It's easier without feeling. You mean everything to me, including bruised knees, not including chipped teeth, not excluding bare feet in grass in spring. I really feel like leaving, think I'll go home now. Dive into the tub to scrub my anger out. Take a Brillo pad to my fist, do my own damage. Better to contain my outbursts in my own skin.

My mom asked me if I'm in love with you. I answered "no" hesitantly. It felt like lying. Is it really love if I can choose? Being touched isn't what I've been used to. Unwanted and unclean feel alike. I get to choose.

I type out the words, but a little empty after saying how I feel whole after focusing on me, 'cause I know that I was missing something that could have made you love me. I used to look at you and feel sick. Marie, how could you look so perfect? And I now I see you as just a friend. I used to look at you and feel sick 'cause how could someone look so perfect?

Someone please touch me 'cause I question my validity when my consciousness is undefined and my body is barely a body. You're brutal and I'm supple at best. We should drive to Baltimore. You don't have a curfew. So it'll be when I get bored of you or you get bored of me.

Nodding off to pictures of you that decorate my room. High school sucks when you're stuck on someone who's given up. I don't mind if you don't mind wasting our whole Thursday night. I feel fucked. I feel fine. I feel nothing all the time. I wonder, do you notice when I write? Do you ask me what about? Do you notice when I try to say the things I'm too afraid to talk about? No, I write 'em down. Love living posthumously as lines we liked like "because it never happened."