I'm breathing; I am alive.

I want to write about you, and I want to write about something tangible, but this one, this one's about me.

This is about Heaven & Hell. It's about the things I think about at night; this is about how I've never been on a real picnic.

This is about hallways. It's about the hallways my feet have become familiar with, the paths I walk every day, and the tiles that know me by name. It's about the mirrors I avoid, and how I never know what to do with my hands.

This is about books. It's about the library shelves and the smell of pages full of stories. If you really knew me, you'd know the books are where I belong.

This is about home. (Wherever that may be.) It's about the room I call my own, and the textured ceiling that makes me think of feathers. If you really knew me, you'd know I spend a lot of time looking at that ceiling; you'd know I am the borderline of insomnia.

This is about my secrets that I can't tell you. It's about the ones I want to tell you, to throw the words onto somebody else, to get them out of my head. It's about the cousin that hates me, and the aunts that ignore me. It's about how my parents aren't as proud of me as I'd like. (I'm sorry I can't be the person you want me to be.) This is about my family.

This is about Paris, France. It's about the longing I feel for it, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d'Triomphe. "Bonjour, madamoiselle." This is about the gardens I want to wander, and the hand I want to hold. "C'est l'amour?"

"Je ne sais pas."

This is about zodiac signs. I'm a Libra and I'm afraid of heights.

This is about hands. It's about my hands that struggle to grasp anything real. It's about how your hands would fit perfectly in mine.

This is about anxiety. If you really knew me, you'd know I am the definition of anxiety. This one's about elevators, and empty stairwells, and dark hallways; pitch black. It's about anxiety and my brain.

This is about the future. And how I don't know what to do with myself. This is about how you think I've got it all figured out. This is the truth dear: I don't. If you really knew me, you'd know all the things I love don't pay the rent; I don't know what I'm going to do.

This is about the past. It's about all the people that changed, and all the ones that didn't. If you really knew me, you'd know that the past year and half, it's been my personal Hell. This is about change.

This is about my heart. It's about the place in my chest where blood pumps, and aching is felt. It's about how my heart is raining; I can't remember where I put the umbrella.

And this, this one's about me.