Word vomit. Seriously, that's the title of my Word doc for this and that's about as accurate as it'll get. This is word vomit but it also is very true and I think there are parts of it that are worth reading. Maybe that's just my vanity talking.

Anyway, I imagine Roxanne pining in this one. I don't know who the boy would be. Maybe Scor? Roxanne just seems like the type to try to sit down and write and then get angry when things are jumbled and not beautiful. She seems just the type to want everything to be linear and beautiful.

Or maybe that's just me.

Listen to: Sara Bareilles- "City"

I am trying to write again. I'm also trying to forget, but that's a different story entirely. Actually, maybe it isn't. I can't remember how to tell a story anymore, that's how long it's been since I've written. All I know is that it's time for me to put a pen to paper again, time to just hope there are words because it's time for me to remember how to be happy again. I'm trying to write. Please forgive me if the sentences seem a little wrong, forgive their jolts and the lack of iambic pentameter because this won't sound natural. It'll sound wrong. It sounds wrong. I'm sorry for not writing like I should, it's just been so long.

It's been so long.

I saw him in my dreams and he stroked my cheek and told me he'd love me forever and ever and I didn't believe him because, even in sleep, my heart is too heavy. I told him to prove himself anything but a liar but he just smiled and kissed me and oh! oh I cannot tell you how sweet his lies can be.

I wrote once about a little girl with a lunchbox and he read it and said I am adept at manipulating metaphors into something greater and I smiled because to love my writing is to love me and I thought he could love me. I thought he would love me. So I wrote him a love poem and let him read that and he sung its praises. I pretended he was singing my name. Oh! how sweet his lies are.

I feel like a naïve idealist or a child, maybe they're one and the same, so I sip warm milk to try to nurse this broken heart. I have at once thrown my head to the sky to stare at the stars and cried out every name of all the people wronged to the heavens. A prayer and a compliant, maybe sacrilege or maybe fully human.

I do not want my God to be a wrong one. The god of children dying and people leaving and dreams getting crushed is not the God of the constellations and sunsets and tulips in the spring. It cannot be the same. I do not know who to pray to at this moment.

I don't know if anyone ever does.

Is this a story? I have no beginning except that of time and I suppose there'll be no end because the clocks are still running, but as a writer (am I a writer?) I should have both. I don't.

I'm sorry, I told him. Sorry. Sorry for thinking and feeling and allowing myself to be a wind-up doll and allowing myself to fall. I'm sorry for being wholly imperfect and too flawed to be whole because I've always promised to be more and I'm sorry-

I'm sorry this isn't a story. It's been so long.

He said that he believes in love, so I believed in him. I believed in him and his mathematical equations, him and his chemistry sets, him and his calculations for everything, anything and I told myself that love could be poured from a beaker to a test tube and I didn't let myself cry when the reaction was volatile.

Now I'm not telling the story right. The reaction was neutral. I didn't let myself cry when it didn't bubble over, didn't explode or turn hot pink. I didn't let myself react when he didn't react and that's not chemistry, that's life.

I drew a heart on my wrist for love. To remind myself of love. To remind myself of the way I smile at the moon and the way I sing off-key and the way I bite my lip while I read and the way I know how to be still and the way I will be loved one day.
I have to do that a lot these days, remind myself that I will be loved one day.

I will be loved one day.

Life may be a game of tug-of-war and we may always be on the losing side. I am caught between forgetting and remembering and I am caught between loving and hating and I don't know how to find the right words to tell him that I miss him. I am a writer (am I a writer yet?) without words and I am a lover without a voice and I am a little girl without rainboots, so you must know that I cannot traverse these puddles right now. I am an optimist without a cup of my own; half empty, half full, I am too thirsty to care but all I have is a sieve and the holes always leak out the life before I get a drink.

I am a zealot without a cause and a lover without a love and I am getting so tired of going to bed alone.

I am gathering up my words and throwing forth my voice and finding a dusty pair of rainboots, digging through the cupboard to find a glass, digging through my journals to find a cause, digging though my heart to find a love and I am nothing if not everything that I always knew I could be.

Maybe that's just the optimist in me talking.

I am not writing this for him and when he reads it, when he is reading it, he should know that it is absolutely not about him at all. And if he thinks it is about him, he should know he is wrong.

He is always wrong. Wrong in the coming and wrong in the leaving and wrong, so wrong, in his timing. Because boys with words like rivers and eyes like oceans should never pretend they're anything other than broken and those broken boys should never carry the moon in their pockets and dust constellations over my cheeks because it's been a long time, too long a time, since I saw the sun. I don't bother saying that my skin doesn't freckle in the light because boys like him, they want the story. They don't listen to logic and they don't heed gravity.

Boys like him are quick to tell me that I can fly and, for some reason, vanish moments before I hit the ground. They just want me to fall so they can say "I loved her, I loved the girl with stardust on her cheekbones. I loved her and I saw her fall from the sky."

If I could write better, I'd write about how his lips could've kissed mine if not for the air, thick like maple syrup, like honey, between us. But he's words! all words and I am so tired of words right now.

They don't mean anything anymore. He doesn't mean anything anymore. He-

He never meant anything to me.

(I'm lying again. I'm not telling the story right.)

The world, this world, doesn't end in fire. It doesn't end in ice. It ends every moment every lonely heart becomes too heavy to love again. It ends again and again when the ephemeral turns red and yellow and orange and falls off the trees into piles on the ground and it ends when we become too old to jump in each pile with a shout and a grin. It ends every autumn and it stays dormant for a little while.

It's been so long since I've been alive.

It's been so long since I've written.

I am sorry this isn't a story.

I told him I was sorry I couldn't be more.

I am sorry this isn't more.

Sometimes there's no more to give.

I am trying to tell a story about a girl, not so little any longer, and the way she would've kissed the planes of his face but I am that girl and I feel so little and he turned away before I could catch his lips. I am trying to write about a boy, two thousand miles and a ribcage like armor protecting his heart away but I can't think of the word to describe him. I can't think of what to say except that I'm sorry.

It's been so long since I've written and I've forgotten what to say.