i'm getting tired, i'm forgetting why

nothing is lonelier than living alone.

i like the contentment of coming home to a house with life in it. and maybe some love, too.

and i like the vulnerability that comes with budding familiarity, but i’ve got all the wrong kinds of uncertainty.

i’m watering my plants to see growth, eating to feel full.

everything breaks my heart and at the same time, nothing at all...at least not in the way i want it to. when i feel it all but can’t find the worth, i’ll remember just how small i am.

sometimes there’s safety in being so young. i want to be precocious forever, sassing grownups into taking me seriously.

do i really have to put up with being told to just relax when something’s not alright? isn’t that what they say when there’re so many of them? they’ll talk me down to themselves and to their friends and then to me.

i try so hard to get roughed up.

i fight back with words, but shudder realizing how real the frenzy can become. no one would beat up a kid. except, probably, another kid, a bigger one, you know?

there’s so little vindication in growing up to see the fights you thought we’d forget happen again.

i’m worried that all this loneliness is slowing me down. i’ll be prufrock minus the poetry, letting time bustle by without me.

my grandma said when you’re old, you can either be invisible or crazy. i’ll do anything to avoid more desolation. i’ve got to get out.

living in a house with windows that are glued shut is just a little too symbolic for my liking.