I know we're going crazy, but I need you now.

"Love is a cucumber and silence is a tree."

Apparently this isn't true. Apparently women are peaches and men are pears but there isn't really very much difference - because you can put both in cans.

Sometimes you say things and I feel like we've never been closer. But sometimes you say things and I feel like you are speaking another language.

This was one of those times.

I don't know why I listen to the music that makes me think of you. It's masochism. It reminds me all of the minutes, hours, days I spent with you. It reminds me that we let it go and that reminds me that I probably couldn't remember the reasons if I tried.

I noticed that you got a new bed. It felt like you threw away all of our long talks, exhausted hugs and an "I love you" with the old one. It all seems so surreal now. Like it never happened. I wonder how much of it was real.

If they never hated me, I have a hard time believing you ever loved me.

There are a few people that have built up the emotional cane I've been leaning on for a long time now. People who held me up when I had the emotional stability of a house of cards in Japan. People who had to deal with sobbing and complaining and bitching and whining and moaning about shit that they really had no business worrying about.

Thank you, you're far too kind.

But I think I can do this now. I've got it under control. And even if I don't, we all learn from our mistakes. And perhaps that's what I need right now.

THE MISTAKES I HAVE YET TO LEARN FROM:

Chances are, if you're feeling something, they are too.

Walls are thin.

You are not invincible.

You can think like a cat, act like a cat, meow like a cat, but you will never be a cat anywhere but at heart.

A lie has a lifespan. It does not live forever.

Someone will always find out.

What happens in (insert place here) does not always stay there.

Rules will always be broken.

Just because you made the rule does not mean you can break it.

Infatuation is not a good reason. For anything.

Mothers know more than you will ever give them credit for.

Friends know you better than anyone. And can therefore hurt you more than anyone.

Rubbing teapot =/= genie.

Text shalt not be the instrument for news of any character.

You can tell your brain it's gluten free, but your intestine always knows the truth.

He can't read minds.

And neither can you.

Get out of your own head and do something.

Apologizing for your mistakes is half the fun of making them.

It's never wrong to ask.

I still wish on stars. I'm not sending them to the god of wishes, or to a magical spirit that will send me an opportunity to fulfill my wish. I think I'm just acknowledging them to myself.

I'm not a vengeful person. I don't wish you ill. And it's not like I've imagined making you feel guilty (holdhishandkisshimgoodbye). Or I've imagined taking it all back to avoid the situation (sorrysorrysorrysorry). It is what it is.

You find who your friends are backstage. In the dressing room. You find yourself there, too. There is something poetic about sitting on a painted black stage chair in the middle of a small, rectangular room. With linoleum floors and counters the color of aged newspaper covered in make up and costumes and spilled glitter. The walls are mirrors. Every where you look, you see yourself. Mascara flowing through the tracks of tears down the sides of your nose and falling off your chin onto your lap. Your face hot and red. Clenched fists and curled toes and the desire to smash the black stage chair against the floor and the mirror and the door. To hurl it across the room and scream at the top of your lungs. The mirrors, at this point, appear to be taunting you. It's the feeling you get, when the person you show the world does not match the one inside your heart. It's that feeling that makes it look like the person in the mirror is speaking when you are not. Telling you that it's your fault. And that he's right.

Maybe it's not poetic. Maybe it's pathetic.

"Already onto your next victim eh?"

Live your own goddamn life. You said goodbye. You said it was finished. You walked away. And I didn't come running back like I used to. So how about you stick to your fucking promises for fucking once and stay out of my life. You've hurt me so much. You've dragged me to hell and back more times than I care to count. You've been the cause of too many tears and too many almost smashed chairs backstage in the dressing room. You win. Game over.

But I still miss you...

My dad is always right.

The butterflies have moved back into my stomach. I really like it.