Hey, I try.

I hate being tickled, and I hate the thought, and sound, and everything, of fingernails on a peice of paper.


I feel alive. I feel electricity coming to the tip of every finger, and every toe. Sometimes I ask too many questions, sometimes I sing a little too loud.

I wish I had the voice, the poetic skill, to make your heart melt, and your hair curl. I want to be able to grab onto your heart, from a thousand miles away, I want to step into your life and learn to walk a day in your shoes.

I cut open your lungs and found a key.
It was the key to my heart, the key you
breathed in deep so that no one else could
read the scars on my heart,
so that no one else could have a chance to
break in.


i put the key back, and forever it will stay there.