All I write about lately is memories, moments from the past, in attempts to drain them from my bones. It’s not working. Instead, my skin absorbs my words like a sponge and they sink deeper and deeper into me, finding new homes in the corners of my ribcage and at the bottom of my spine. They send waves of electricity through me, like telegraphs- trying desperately to make their way to somewhere other than my cluttered brain, trying to escape so someone much more worthy can hear what they’re trying to say. I’ve said that my words are just sounds and letters falling out of my mouth and collecting into clumps of somewhat intelligent phrases, but if I’m being honest, they are more like life preservers- keeping me afloat, holding my head above water. They save me. Over and over again. They hold me when no boy or man or human being of any sort will work up the courage to let truth fall out of their mouth instead of their eyes. Words give me another reason to be up at night, instead of the usual heartbreak falling from my tear ducts and the uncertainty of just about everything this world throws my way. Words give me more than that. They tell me who was real and who I sugar coated with my own dreary imagination, in delusional hopes that they would someday be who I thought they could be. There have been too many of those, “Thought they could-be’s”. Days spent thinking they could change, thinking their own foolish pride might be swept under the rug and in return a somewhat charming smile would grace my presence once again. But lies have begun to smell a whole lot like dior cologne and boyish smirks now tend to remind me of the things I hate the most.