John’s hands are shaking as he hands me the pills.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispers. His breath is warm, and tickles my ear. I don’t laugh.

No, I’m not sure. 

I take the pills anyway. My hands are surprisingly steady. I stare at them until they blur and become indistinguishable from one another- before they’re downed. I avoid John’s eyes the entire time, only allowing myself to look at him after a few seconds pass. I can tell that he is trying to suppress his tears. 

I manage a weak, thin smile, “Hey, don’t look like that! I’ll be out of your hair in no time; you’ll never have to worry about me switching the lights off before we leave the house again!”

“When you’re gone,” his voice croaked, “There won’t be any lights to worry about. Everything will be black, like my heart.”

Oh, John. Poor, beautiful, romantic, generically poetic John. How did I ever live my life without him? I think back and try to remember a time when he wasn’t by my side. I can’t. He’s managed to slither into every one of my memories.

We were supposed to be together forever.

and ever

ann evr

an erar

a rar

ar

My thoughts are muddled. This is it. It’s almost over.

Someone is pinching my side. John. I hear words. John. I roll my head towards his general direction. More words. My eyes must have been distant; he sounded scared, like I was already gone. 

“Dunluk awa. Ah lurvoo.”

No, those words aren’t right. It took every ounce of my strength to say them correctly.

“Don’t look away, please. I love you.”

I hear a sob escape John. He is crying now. I’ve never told him that I loved him before. Suddenly I feel something soft on my lips. He’s kissing me, but I can’t kiss him back. 

I love you.

I love oo

Ill uvoo

Illoo

I

(nothing)

Someone told me that he’s never seen me eat today. To be honest, it felt great to hear those words.

there is so much I want to write about but I don’t know where to begin 

Snowmantha

whenever I’m not distracted, not thinking or listening or talking or laughing, my mind reverts to this one word

Snowmantha

he’s talking about you, Samantha

he wrote you a poem, Samantha

I don’t mind, I honestly don’t

you’re amazing, so it’s okay

Snowmantha

you’re not like her

Snowmantha

you’re almost everything I want to be

Snowmantha

you’re perfect 

I like to touch myself

to feel myself

to familiarize myself with my own body

I like to glide my hands up and down my legs after a few days of not shaving, and feel the rough stubble pricking at my skin

I like to tense my legs and trace the small muscle that results on my calves

I like to suck my stomach in, pretend I’m skinny, and trace circles around my belly button

I like to squish my breasts, merely because they’re soft (and because they serve as free stress balls)

I like to hold my fingertips to my barely protruding collar bones, and wish they stuck out more

I like to run my fingers down my eyebrows, against my eyebrows, just to feel the little hairs move under the power of my hand

bodies are beautiful

why do we hide them?

I love the fizzle sound of freshly blended banana milkshakes

I never really liked banana milkshakes before a few summers ago- before I found an old, unwanted one in the fridge

my grandfather made it for my mother, but she didn’t take it for whatever reason, and I’m glad, because banana milkshakes are what I remember his old, mustachioed self by now

this is my face when the ends of my mouth aren’t turned to the earth

when my nostrils aren’t flared with disgust

when my brow isn’t furrowed with worry

I can never write at night

even when

he is sleeping

and I hear

his deep breaths

his occasional snores

I am afraid

he will awaken

from his god-knows-how-deep-of-a slumber

and catch me at this computer, furiously tapping my heart out through these keys

because feelings are complicated and messy and so is love, and I have no spoken words for either of them. They’re both things that are ambiguous. They have no defining lines, no edges. You don’t know what anything means and when you think you have it all figured out, you tell someone, but then you realize that you’re wrong and that you were a fool for saying anything of the sort in the first place, and you wish you could take those words back, but you can’t. there’s uncertainty in the air. some people will doubt you. you’ll start to doubt yourself in turn, and you question whether anything was real in the first place. your thoughts are constantly bouncing from one view to another, and you feel guilty each time they do. everything is constantly changing and by the time you let everything out, something new arises. you tell someone else because you don’t want to be known as a huge bundle of contradictions, and soon everyone has a piece of you. you’re left vulnerable. feelings can be used against you. no one’s really there to listen, just to listen, they’re only there to feed their own curiosity. 

it’s better to not share anything with anyone, because no one cares