white blank page.

There are so many things i want to,

write,
say,
scream,
yell,
kick,
punch,
cry,

but I can't.

the lost boys and Wendy Bird.

Her hair smelled like second-hand cigarette smoke as she walked away from the house. The cold air stung her face and everything else stung too.

"I just want to be on an island," surprising herself even as she realized she said it out loud to the night. "And now I talk to myself?"

She cleared her throat and wiped away the lingering tears from their frustrating, circular conversation.

The trouble was she found herself justifying it in her mind.

At twenty, this was not something that she wanted herself or something she necessarily believed in. Yet here she was. She also promised herself she would never feel for a man child ever again. But there would always be the draw of the cheap laughs and the immature jokes she always thought, but didn't say out loud. It kept her twenty and grounded. She couldn't help but think she was holding him back.

After all, as soon as Wendy came around they realized they longed for a mother and real clothes. But Peter never wanted that for himself. He wanted to always be a boy and always have fun.

“But where do you live mostly now?"
"With the lost boys."
"Who are they?"
"They are the children who fall out of their perambulators when the nurse is looking the other way. If they are not claimed in seven days they are sent far away to the Neverland to defray expanses. I'm captain."
"What fun it must be!"
Yes," said cunning Peter, "but we are rather lonely. You see we have no female companionship."
"Are none of the others girls?"
"Oh no. Girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams.”

reflecting light

I forgot about my slight OCD until last night and this morning.
But I escaped it and ate a donut.

I want to sleep all day.
My eyes are tired.

well,

I applied. Finally. after two years of wanting to. I came to the realization that weird things were holding me back from not applying. I'm twenty. I should still do the things I want to do and being on an island for the whole summer is one of them. I miss being in acting class. Even an acting class that doesn't necessarily challenge me as much as I wanted. But this one would. I want someone to challenge me and believe in me. I want to be validated. How have I not picked my audition pieces yet? This is why I am here. to get into the program....
This weekend was such a blow to my ego. I stood by as though invisible at two different parties as the freshman girls I babysat got hit on by everyone in the room. I clearly don't need to be hit on. But being the invisible mom, that felt just great. And these girls are my competition.

Last night I told him my deepest darkest secret.
then whispered, "I am only telling you this because you're my best friend."

or more gently, que sera, sera.

I talk too much talk.
Perhaps this, this my dear is why we are together and why this works.

You and I, we, are opposite in our communication skills.
I talk too much. I say every single solitary thought that comes to mind the second I think it.
You say too little. I watch you almost say things and stop yourself.

Both things could use improvement.

and we do that together?
The milk won't go sour for a few more years. so we got plenty of time. and if it goes sour before then, who the fuck cares.

OR, more gently:
Que sera, sera.

this is the story of my red right ankle.

My lack of trust is beginning to bite back.
This is my fault.

I never thought my greatest fear would be to have my heart broken.

but that is the person I've become:

The kind of person who loves too hard, cares too much, so much so that I can't willingly allow myself to believe that I can trust someone with the fist size, beating mass of ventricles and valves that now, in this past year, I can feel racing in my chest.

you are my coffee spoon.

"why are you so nice to me?"
"because I sorta like you I guess."
"but why?"

the new candle I brought back flickered and cast a peculiar shadow on his face.


"because I just do."