Its the odd mood swings, whether induced by some type of high, or just a tragic fall from grace, that send the chill burning up my spine. Its the sharpness of tone, accompanied by a paradoxically gentle touch of hand. Its the tension, electric in the air when one movement seems to faulter under the gaze of searching eyes. Its the unknowing, the heat, the broken laughter and one-moment-too-long stares that leave me breathless. Its the meeting of lips, chapped from too much touch, the fleeting second of ultimate bliss that befriends the excitement.

The tears that drown into somewhere unseen irritate me. I am disgusted at how they pursue freedom so intensly. They're often defeated, but the battles are too framiliar, and simply put, I'm worn from the fighting. I'm worn from caring, and wondering why some things can be slid so easily off my back, while others allow a struggle that I've yet to win.

Its the uncertinty. It must be. Its everything I've ever sought to describe, but cannot by any worthy means. Its every night of consistant touch, and the remaining which know only nothing of connection. Its the seconds of comfort, and the hours of tension. Its the fear of losing, and the arrogance of winning.

I know what it is, I only wish I could understand it.

There is always something there. If never left, only twisted in the grasp of untouchable emotion. He refused to leave me until he returned, haunting my desires with distracting gray in my world of reds and violets. He tasted sweet, like the menthol cigarette I'd watch burn peacefully out that night. I can only take so much. I'm the poster child of troubled youth, pouring myself into words and music and images of dreams and lies. I paint with the colors of black and gray, misty and vague so that I don't have to explain myself.

He is the poster child of a troubled youth, as intellectual and as liberal as a christian high school would allow. He is addicted to substances which allow him freedom from the weight of life. I could never blame it on him, though I cannot disagree that he creates his own demons.

I'm all outta faith
..this is how I feel. I'm cold and I am shamed lying naked on the floor.

There's nothing left to feel.
Nothing left to find.
It leaves without a trace
Of something better left behind

I'm lost without the colors
Of a sky that knows only gray
Torn from knowledge I worshiped
And led beyond astray

The taste I thought I'd kill for
Still lingers on my lips
Bloody from a battle lost
And sweeter than the still

The silence knows I'm coming
I've been here more than once
The shadows bow their welcome
And I'm better lost without

Far from what they tell me
Past the limits that they set
Beyond what they are hoping
Will cause a faultered step

So I lie here with my silence
Silver from the rain
Dreaming in the colors
That overtake the gray

I did it again.

No matter what I do, where I am, or what is to be done, he breaks the barriers as if they were nothing more than a stream of whispers. He came as if the months between were not worth the sun's effort to rise. And I fell easily into his charm (or his stunning flaws), pulled by an imaginary force that I dare not fight.

He's ruined everything again. I don't think he knows what he does to me. I don't think I'll ever tell him. The silence is worth the heat it creates, because my heart is on the line. He is my laugher, my power, my pleasure, and my pain.

And yet he had numbed me, his absence both destroyed me and strengthened me. Now, his presence is a pleasure I wish I could take deeper. I love him. I have since I could, and will forever. It is first love, the kind that most people experience, appreciate, and never look back, save for quiet smiles and sighs of nostolga. I'm not so lucky. He's dynamic, and vassilating between absense and presence, which so easily leaves me searching for more. I've never loved such imperfection, and if I fail to know him years from now, when I am in a stable relationship, and in a sudden moment, he calls me up, I would go to him. The power is emense and I wish I could stop it.

So he's back for some time, and we talked. I laughed because no one can make me laugh like he can. No one can match his stories and wit. As always, he brought out the darkness in me, and I lied to be somewhere I shouldn't have been, with someone who's nothing but bad for me. Sounds distractingly framilar.

The Thunderbird clouded, heated with passion and rocking with raw energy. The sweat poured from two bodies that, in front of two churches, melted into a sin that no one understands better.

I've messed everything up again.

..I've been a long, long way from here.

The last days have driven me from the basis of reality and into a world goverened by rage. The anger flows through me, beautiful, sexy, and hot even to the touch. The scents are stronger than before, the tastes dramtically bitter, or disgustingly sweet. I'm falling in love with this emotion, rocked to sleep by its haunting voice and roused delicately with its paradoxically sweet caresses.

It drives me to the brink of insanity, then draws me back with dark pslams and dangerous promises. Never have I felt so alive. In the brief moments it fades to something calmer, I beg it back like a lover fear its partner's going.

Aside from the torrents of life that rush my body in sweet surges, there are of course the reasons for it. School is proving more difficult every day, and it shouldn't be. It never was before, and the less I understand, the more frustrated I get. I'm intelligent, but the statistics and numbers burn away my artistic senses like the ashes off a cigarette that stubbornly refuse to fall. 

Only just today did I mend the broken friendship I had lost to summer mistakes. Its becoming more. Love is friendship set on fire. You want what you can't have. I always get what I want. I'm not cocky. I'm as stubborn as a 20 year old ass and twice as dumb. I'm liking where this is going, and that sexy emotion makes me horribly vunerable, and terribly strong.

o.k. I still get stoned.
I'm not the kinda girl you take home.

      
            ..As most of my choices tend to be.

Mere weeks ago, I found the emotion of anger something to be ashamed of. If I could not hold my temper and find something better to think about, I was weak. I can train a lion, but never tame it.

And so tomorrow begins the first day of school.

All over again.

I had a sort of relevation today.

I am beautiful. I am forever smiling. I am satisfied with my outer appearence, and even more so with the hidden.
I am unique. I eat almost everything with chopsticks, I write in darkness and moonshine. I love cold showers, and spicy food. I love the sound of a saxaphone, and dancing alone. I love to cook during storms, and read before dawn.

I am enthusiastic. I love life and everything it offers, be it rain or shine. The elecetricty of a lightning storm holds the most amazing beauty I have ever seen, and I'll watch for hours. I am as excited for my achievements as I am for those around me. I have laugh lines that are excersied at least twice every hour.

I am ambitious. I have plans, but never fail to seize the moment. I love travel and other cultures. I will try my best at everything worth trying (and almost everything really is worth trying)

I am loved. I have a father and grandparents that would die for me. I have wonderful friends that share with me the wonders of the world. They are strong and beyond beautiful.