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The insomnia slowly creeps in on the edges of my brain, every night. It causes me to stare at the ceiling, stare at the blankets, stare at the door. I end up thinking about life, death, and if God believes in me or not.

Then I think about you.

And I'll get up in the morning, and you'll say, "How are you?"

And I'll lie, "I'm good, how are you?"

You won't call me out on the lie, because you never do, you never do.

I don't want to get upset at you, and I'll go about my day pretending I'm fine, because I told you I was.

I told you I was fine, and I'm not.

I'm slowly breaking apart inside, and I'm thinking about Heaven and Hell, and I'm thinking about God.

I'm thinking about if you're wondering what I'm doing, and how you feel about me.

I want to know how you feel about me.

But I'm worried and I'm anxious and I'm good at hiding it.

I don't know how I'll feel in the morning, or even in the next hour.

Yet in that time, I know I'll be thinking about you, and your hair, because your hair is good and your hair looks nice with the light shining on it, just like that. Don't ever move, your hair looks good.

During my 2nd period class, I'll wonder what you're doing, and I'll wonder if the light is still hitting your face, and I'll wonder what you're doing this weekend.

I don't know what you'll be doing, but I know what I'll be doing.

I'll be lying awake at night, replaying the conversations I've had with you, over and over and over again.

"How are you?"

"I'm good, How are you?"

Only Reason

Only Reason

Dear Harriette,

He goes to church. 

But I don't

I don't.

But make him happy,

Contemplate whether there's a future.

Dear Harriette,

After intense thinking,

It is dangerous.

Satellites & Spacedust

That satellite might make me nervous, and space dust might stress me out more than I want it to. All I know is Heaven and Hell; you can't change me.

I hope you understand why I'm pushing you away. I hope you realize the reasons I'm fascinated with the ceiling of my car, and the floor mats under my feet. The door I'm shoving you through, well dear, I changed the locks; bury that key you have. It doesn't matter anymore.

You're the thing that makes my skin crawl, because of you, the hooks on my wall have all fallen down, they were heavy with the baggage you asked me to carry up the stairs. Guess what? The baggage never made it that far. It wasn't meant to. 

You're out the door, I'm throwing the baggage on the street, I'm banishing you from this house; I'm learning to trust the satellite floating high above my head, floating among the stars. Sometimes, I stare through the telescope my heart lent me, and I watch the satellite. I watch it floating through space and I make a wish on it. (Yes, you heard me dear, I wish on satellites.)

Heaven and Hell will have to wait, because I'm watching satellites, and I'm waiting on space dust. I'm locking my door, and I'm never letting you back in.