I was in love once. I remember dancing, crying, singing, laughing, holding hands, driving into the sunrise, coming home late, waking up early, breakfasts, skipping school, five course meals, filet mignon, asparagus, pistachios, metaphors, movies, lying in bed, halo, ice cold coke, sisters, mothers, great-grandmothers, hair dye, barbecues, sweet summer rain, swimming; roses. I have a lot of roses.
Fuck.
I'm confused. It seems like whenever I crawl out of the ugliness of a situation, with blistered fingers and bloodied palms, I land, head first, in yet another problem. Another complication. Another disease. Speaking of blood, I hope my half-cup of blood will help some one. A small someone. And maybe that little, anonymous gift will be the difference between a good day and a bad day for them. I hope.
I feel sick.
I like you. A lot. Maybe I won't screw this one up?
Optimism is funny.
Thirteen hands has a lot of hands.
I love it when you listen.
Cats know where it hurts.
I'm running out of time time time time.
I have a sister.
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