We accept the love we think we deserve.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.



He’s a wallflower.

I am very interested and fascinated by how everyone loves each other, but no one really likes each other.


I hope it's the kind of second side that he can listen to whenever he drives alone and feel like he belongs to something whenever he's sad. I hope it can be that for him.

Sam and Patrick looked at me. And I looked at them. And I think they knew. Not anything specific really. They just knew. And I think that's all you can ever ask from a friend.




I walked over to the hill where we used to go and sled. There were a lot of little kids there. I watched them flying. Doing jumps and having races. And I thought that all those little kids are going to grow up someday. And all of those little kids are going to do the things that we do. And they will all kiss someone someday. But for now, sledding is enough. I think it would be great if sledding were always enough, but it isn't.


It's kind of like when you look at yourself in the mirror and you say your name. And it gets to a point where none of it seems real. Well, sometimes, I can do that, but I don't need an hour in front of a mirror. It just happens very fast, and things start to slip away. And I just open my eyes, and I see nothing. And then I start to breathe really hard trying to see something, but I can't. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, it scares me.




I laid down on his old bed, and I looked through the window at this tree that was probably a lot shorter when my dad looked at it. And I could feel what he felt on the night when he realized that if he didn't leave, it would never be his life. It would be theirs. At least that's how he's put it.

I don't want to start thinking again. Not like I have this last week. I can't think again. Not ever again.
I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but I want it when I get like this. That's why I'm trying not to think. I just want it all to stop spinning.

Sometimes, I look outside, and I think that a lot of other people have seen this snow before. Just like I think that a lot of other people have read those books before. And listened to those songs.
I wonder how they feel tonight.


I know that I brought this all on myself. I know that I deserve this. I'd do anything not to be this way. I'd do anything to make it up to everyone. And to not have to see a psychiatrist, who explains to me about being "passive aggressive." And to not have to take the medicine he gives me, which is too expensive for my dad. And to not have to talk about bad memories with him. Or be nostalgic about bad things.
I just wish that God or my parents or Sam or my sister or someone would just tell me what's wrong with me. Just tell me how to be different in a way that makes sense. To make this all go away. And disappear. I know that's wrong because it's my responsibility, and I know that things get worse before they get better because that's what my psychiatrist says, but this is a worse that feels too big.

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines
	he wrote a poem
And he called it "Chops"
	because that was the name of his dog
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
	and a gold star
And his mother hung it on the kitchen door
	and read it to his aunts
That was the year Father Tracy

	took all the kids to the zoo
And he let them sing on the bus
And his little sister was born
	with tiny toenails and no hair
And his mother and father kissed a lot
And the girl around the corner sent him a
Valentine signed with a row of X's
	and he had to ask his father what the X's meant
And his father always tucked him in bed at night
And was always there to do it

Once on a piece of white paper with blue li
nes
	he wrote a poem
And he called it "Autumn"
	because that was the name of the season
And that's what it was all about
And his teacher gave him an A
	and asked him to write more clearly
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
	because of its new paint
And the kids told him
	that Father Tracy smoked cigars
And left butts on the pews

And sometimes they would burn holes
That was the year his sister got glasses
	with thick lenses and black frames
And the girl around the corner laughed
	when he asked her to go see Santa Claus
And the kids told him why
	his mother and father kissed a lot
And his father never tucked him in bed at night
And his father got mad
	when he cried for him to do it.


Once on a paper torn from his notebook
	he wrote a poem
And he called it "Innocence: A Question"
	because that was the question about his girl
And that's what it was all about
And his professor gave him an A
	and a strange steady look
And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door
	because he never showed her
That was the year that Father Tracy died
And he forgot how the end

	of the Apostle's Creed went
And he caught his sister
	making out on the back porch
And his mother and father never kissed
	or even talked
And the girl around the corner
	wore too much makeup
That made him cough when he kissed her
	but he kissed her anyway
	because that was the thing to do
And at three a.m. he tucked himself into bed
	his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag
	he tried another poem
And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"
Because that's what it was really all about
And he gave himself an A
	and a slash on each damned wrist
And he hung it on the bathroom door
	because this time he didn't think
	he could reach the kitchen.