I Remember

I remember that I met my first real best friend in sixth grade.
I remember in seventh grade that I witnessed her first kiss.
It was in the school hallway right in front of the elevator.
I remember her next boyfriend.
And the next and the next.
I remember when she told me she started drugs.
That was right before eighth grade.
I remember when she told me she was join to wait for marriage.
I remember when she showed me the scars.
I remember when she told me about her eating disorder.
I remember when she told me she got raped.
I remember when we fell apart.

I remember I met my second real best friend in eighth grade.
I remember he was already addicted to drugs.
I remember his girlfriends.
I remember that my first hug with a guy was him outside of our school.
I remember the day he told me he was leaving.
I remember the note he wrote me.
I remember his visits.
The texts that got way less frequent.
I remember the way things were.
And then I remember we changed.

I remember I met my third real best friend in ninth grade.
I remember her silence.
I remember her laughter.
I remember her scars.
I remember her art.
I remember how many times her heart got broken.
I remember how much she didn't talk about it.
I remember her smile.
I remember when she lost her virginity.
I remember when she started smoking.
I remember when she started drinking.
I remember when she told me she crashed.
I remember when she told me she was in love.

I remember in sixth grade when I was not ready for what was to come.
I remember when it was easy.
I remember when my elementary friend told me about scratching.
I remember when I tried it.
I remember when I escalated.
I remember my moms hand.
I remember the pills.
I remember the water.
I remember waking up.
I remember seeing my second real best friend.
I remember the second attempt.
I remember the tears.
I remember the heart I weighed on.
I remember telling my mom.
I remember her laugh.
I remember my fathers temper.
I remember the breaking glass.
I remember the names.
The fighting.
I remember.

I remember when I thought it was better.

And now I'm living in tomorrow.

I Need White Roses

I wish it were black and white,
But we're painting the roses red.

I keep on telling my self I'm happy.

I'm happy in your arms. 

But I can't deal with the sadness.

I don't like the fact that every time I'm happy I just wait to get to sleep so I can start over.

I just want to start over. 

Off with it's head. If only I could find it.

We're painting the roses red and I can't tell whose blood we're using.

I think it's my own, but then I black out.

Regenerate. Work. Regenerate. Work.

And every now and then I get to be disappointed in the fact that my parents can still tell me what to do.

I miss my old friend.

I don't want to se any of the ones that are actually around.

There's something out there calling my name.

But I'm too fucking busy painting the roses red.

What does that even mean.

I love him.

Is he holding me back?

I should be living. 

I don't think people try to discover just happiness in life.

Their finding what makes them feel alive.

Otherwise we're just decks of cards.

Duplicates all over the world.

Walking.

Breathing.

But our hearts aren't beating.

I fell in a hole a long time ago.

Turned into a soldier like all the rest.

I'm always late.

And I just want to be Alice.

How many people get to be Alice in the world?