how comforting that we feel it too

Having consumed a substantial amount of tomato soup, I'm ready to talk. About what, I don't know. Christmas was okay, but there's not much to say there.

It's unfortunate that there isn't an endless amount of space on my ipod. I'm living and breathing in music lately because it is difficult to concentrate on any given task when my mind has so much wandering to do. I just want everyone to stop pretending everything is okay. I hate the facade they all put up. I hate the question: "How is your mom and Jack?" I hate that sitting in my room hurts more than anything, looking at the bare white walls that would have been purple. It'll be gone too soon. What happens when I have to pack it all up? When I have to get rid of things to make space? What happens when I'm tipped over like a snow globe, falling off the shelf only to shatter when I reach the floor, all the while mixed up? I feel melodramatic and dumb, but I can't help being upset that I'm leaving home, the place where no matter how much I've hated things and wanted to leave, I could call my own. I barely remember the time before I lived here, I was too young. I barely remember the time before they were together, because it seems like they've always been.

It hurts to be here through all this, but the only alternative is even worse. I can't go across the country. I can't move even an inch farther away from everyone. I see the anger in their eyes, hear it in their voices. Hear it in yours. I feel like it's my fault. I know it isn't, but I feel like the reason he's scared, the reason he hates, is because of something I said. I can't believe I've gotten stuck there.

I straggle, split down the
middle, a victim. One
half of me stumbles and hops
towards the sunset, falling
deep in the twilight sky. The other
half leans and tumbles to the
rise, basking in the golden horizon,
fresh off the lively sea.

These two mes, they want to
reconcile, to meet in the middle and
share their discoveries. Joined, they
want to pull the two ends of the
earth closer, until everything
touches, even just barely, a
whisper all that slips
through the gap between.

I'd like to stitch myself
together and devote tears and
laughs to both sides, think with
both sides of my brain.

I wrote this ages ago and read it over this morning. I went through and fixed some things and thought, however depressing, it was kind of perfect. Not perfect in the way that it's perfectly written or perfectly worded. Perfect in the way that it fits a lot of the time, and sometimes it doesn't. I like those poems best.

Heather

who are we to promise we'll be leaving soon