hate where I'm at.

you don't understand how alluring you are.
this has changed physically, but not emotionally.

"(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands."
- E. E. Cummings.

The smell of you in every single dream I dream.

I look up to the sky, there may be nothing there to see.
But if I don't believe in him, why would he believe in me?

all is well until i see your face again.

Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is the fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

stay gold, ponyboy, stay gold.

What you see is only half of what I am. I have a hundred different faces, a million different personalities. Only a part of me is what I show you. I display a fraction of my true self. Everything is just a facade. It's not the truth of me. You don't know me. You never will.

I'm not larger than life, I'm not taller than trees.
Do I mean what I say? Is it just this disease where I never go home.
Never telling the truth how this life eats away.
Not admitting I'm fake and I'm questioning, whether this whole thing was worth it to die poor and all alone?

Monsters and real, and ghosts are real too.
They live inside us, and sometimes, they win.

We stopped checking for monsters under our bed, because we realised they were inside of us.

This is perfect!