Hiraeth. The home that I need. The home that is supposed to be safe. A home I can only find in my head, a place I cannot go but I want desperately. Some place, where I can never be, what I can never see, what I will never smell, Unfelt, and forever away. A home that isn't even a home.

Nostalgia. I yearning so deep in my soul, it hurts. A curse forever embedded. The smell of blood that brings back horrors. The smell of cologne or perfume that makes you want to cry. The old scents of books, the worlds we can never relive or have. The sound of shoes squeaking, remembering when they would have ran to me, but now they cannot.

Hope. Something that I cannot get rid of. There will always be a flicker, but hope means it's not there. You hope he would be yours. You hope they will live through it. Hope, a new torcher of it's own because it gives you something to hold onto tightly just to rip it away in the most painful way.

Might. He might have lived. They might have made it. A place where there could have ended differently. Might. A word that means there could have been a different outcome, meaning that it's coming out as a blame on one person. They might have made it if only, only I had done something different.

Forgotten. To never have another person whisper to you, or hold you. To come to a home that no longer remembers anything when you remember. The pain of realizing you were never important enough to be remembered.

Wished. I wished it was different. A wish is made when there is only hope, no logical sense or real chance. A wish that cannot come true, because wishes don't exist.

God. The only person who has watched over every death, held all of the human kind. The only person who mourns the loss of every life because they saw all. They knew all, they met all, they were all. And still there can be no stop to death.

Almost. They were almost there, he almost lived, I almost saved it. It almost finished. He was almost born. She was almost redeemed. He was almost forgiven. She was almost loved. He was almost not alone.

Last. Alone, desolate. Broken, but moving on because they are the last. The dwindling fear, the hope that last did not just mean one. A lonely number, a lonely status. She was the last to see them. It was the last sunrise. The last chance. The last life. The last piece.

Some times I wonder if we don't have to die in order to go to hell. If only we have to sleep, because sleeping is a form of death, is it not? What if hell is all the nightmares I have? What if hell is coming to me early because I only wish to sleep?

I find myself covered in sweat, drenched. Gasping, remembering the pain and tears and fear I have in my dreams. I remember everything. From voices, whispers, and colors. It's all there, stored away in my head.

What if hell is what I see in my head? The images I am faced with, the memories that come to mind. The voices of people whispering in my ear, but they're not actually there. Only the pain that they left, and the memory I can't seem to let go of. Trapped in a hell made by myself.

What if hell is the attacks that come every day? When I'm gasping for breath, deeply wishing I had a way to get rid of them. I hear every noise around me and freak out. Terror shaking my bones.

What of hell is fear? The fear that makes me paralyzed, to paralyzed to run or hide. One that leaves me completely exposed to the world. One I have to try my hardest to hide, even though I really can't hide it at all.

What if hell is the world I made for myself? The body I am in? What if there is no escaping this, and I have to live on through it?

I once had a childhood dog and cat. I called us the three musketeers. An unlikely match, all born together, growing older together. A great white Pyrenees, a fluffy gray cat, and me. Every birthday we would take pictures. Just this year when it was our thirteenth birthday, Momo, my dog died.

I hugged him before school, like I do everyday. When I ran to say hi to Momo, he wasn't there. He was sleeping endlessly in the garden, I sat there crying. Now my pictures only have two and a stone. Now I watch my cat slowly leave too.

The birds wings flutter for the first time

A diagonal or backward line.

Her spread wings, the air pushing her up.

But she slips from the air, although you can't help her backup

Watch in terror as she tumbles

You have to let her learn on her own as her body tumbles.

If you help, she cannot fly dear sparrow

But if you don't I know if she dies you'll blame yourself in sorrow.

It is either to help her and face certain doom

Or to not and watch as she thuds to the ground with a soft boom.

Dear sparrow, I will watch over her until she flies

I will let her stay grounded, even as she dies.

But know this, she will not be taunted by death

She will not be toyed with a predator until her last breathe.

I will not help, nor intervein with her small trials.

But I will take a part of her burials.

But also know this sparrow, she has taken off from the ground,

Her wings and heartbeat in peace have found

the air. Together they caried her upon great wings

over ravines, and rivers, through winds.

Sparrow, your darling dear has made it another year,

so another year you can bear.

Oh, I wish I were younger, or a little bit older

so we wouldn't get closer

than just friends. And I keep playing it over

the story line that's mine, praying to god it will change

But here I am, looking over the mountains that we viewed,

dangling from the monkey bars where we played and stewed.

I wonder what you would say sometimes.

I wanted forever, close to never

God must've mixed them up, but I want you for more than forever

Cause I want to live and die,

I want to fall and fly.

Now I'm searching for somebody to stay young with

To hell with growing older,

Play in the halls with me

A ghost or not, stay with me.

Not until we die do we part,

I want to hell and back.

So, just promise me you're mine for keeping

or I'll move on,

Promise you're the one to stay young with,

Or I'll grow old alone, in my thoughts.

Missing people is a vague thing I think. Sometimes, If I keep busy, it's like they were never there in the first place. A lost thought from another world that was never mine. But, when I stop. When I know, in the back of my mind. It hurts. Like it was always there, I just took a pain killer for a second. And somedays I wake up thinking, I can't wait to see them today.

Then reality hurts. There's no such thing as seeing them today. No such thing as dangling form monkey bars in our little space to talk, ignoring whatever anybody else was saying. And it's not like normal wounds, when people say they heal over time. Sometimes, when you're not thinking it's not there. The constant pain, the constant memories. But, over time. The less I see them, the more it hurts. Like a wound that opens deeper, every day without fail.

Sometimes when I see them in dreams, I sob. Wake up sobbing from sadness, but also because I'm happy. For them, to know that maybe one day we'll run into each other again. But then, probably not. This world is bigger than we give it credit for. I both hate it and love it. Because if we fell into each other again, what would happen? What if they don't remember? What if every little insignificant thing they taught me was nothing to them? What if, everything they taught me, they taught some one else to? What if they've moved on and I still feel bad moving away. Like I can't forget the memories.

The scariest part. I want to forget them, but every time I try. What if I never remember again? What if I try to move on, and the face to the unknown boy in my heart disappears? What if I forget, but only remember enough to make it hurt? I've cut my hair, they say it holds memories. Yes, but so does the heart. And the heart remembering makes it hurt way worse, because I can't carve it from my own chest can I?

My mother told me that I looked like I had a smile always painted on my face today. She was upset, angry and tired. Talking to me in angry tones, and she stopped abruptly. She asked me why I always looked to have a smile painted on my face. I shrugged. What should I answer that with?

At first I didn't believe her. Nobody can always look to have a smile. But my sisters all looked at me and agreed with my mom. Now I wonder, why? I've read, lived, the most heartbreaking stories. I've felt pain deep in my soul. But I always seem to have a smile painted on my face. Although I have no clue why.

I suppose I will take it as a compliment. A smile brightens every ones day. And a smile always painted on your face, hiding in worried creases and a serious face. In a solemn moment when that might be the only thing to brighten the mood.

But what if it's also a curse? What if a painted smile at all times isn't always the best thing? I've been called to friendly before, by friends. Called to talkative and inclusive. To nice, but never naive. And never before have I been asked about my always painted smile that seems to hide from me in the mirror. Only about the consistent book glued to my nose. But I don't know what to think. Is it more curse or blessing? Who else sees it? Who else wonders about it? Who thinks it's good, and who thinks it's bad? I've heard people call laughter the call of heaven, a smile brighten the coldest day. but what if the laughter that always floats in the air gets annoying, like a song that gets listened to too often. The smile fades away like the sun? There but not always acknowledged. Ignored, and hated by people? I simply don't know what to think.

Sometimes words aren't enough to explain. No matter how much you twirl them. Sometimes it's hard to explain what you're feeling, what your making. To understand what lies at our fingertips. We just have to make the most out of it. Live out our feelings. Speak whatever we can, never hold back. Although we do, because we want to be excepted. But what is the point of being excepted if it's only your alter ego that gets accepted? But we don't need to show everything about us. People aren't just a few levels. Our souls run deep. Deeper than the rivers have carved into canyons. We have different ripples, different reactions. Different stories and reasons, and everything else. We aren't superficial, not like A.I. Something that they would envy if they knew how to. But also something that hurts, scars run deeper than the skin. But we don't need to cover up those scars, the scars gave us new choices. Made us who we are, made part of us. Good or bad. Acceptable socially or not. But they don't understand, and that's fine, because we won't always understand them. We can try, or we can live life to the fullest. Not completely carefree, but as carefree as we can get so that we can enjoy what we have. Go back to God with a light heart, bright soul, and laughter that follows.

Most people believe that friends are the people who you talk to in life. The people who sit by your side. But, that’s wrong. Those people are acquaintances. Not real friends. Not somebody who you should be terrified of losing, because acquaintances come and go depending on the season of your life, what phase you’re going through.

Real friends are events. They are steady. They try to fight through with you no matter what. The people that aren’t afraid to tell you that you’re wrong, what you need to fix. They don’t tolerate you like normal people would, they come straight out and say what you need to fix. Friends are the people that we would call without thinking, who know exactly what to say- either to tell us we need to clean up our act or that today was just a bad day and we’ll be okay- no matter what situation we’re thrown in.

But, how do we come across these strangers that mean so much? How do they stumble into our life as nobody and come out as somebody we will never forget? How even do you stumble into somebody’s life just like that and become something more than ever thought possible? If we added an eighth mystery to unsolvable mysteries in the world, it would be this. How did we meet our best friends?

"It's funny. They all have a simple fallback. All think the same. Programmed robots in humans, to go to the same default thought. The same thing over and over again.

If you were getting abused why didn't you tell anyone? You got raped, what were you wearing? Why do they always find ways to put the blame on the victim? Your shorts were short, shoulda worn snow pants to a ninety degree party. Shouldn't have drank that much alcohol. You should've told somebody, that's your fault. Ok, then I'll be the monster.

When he pulled out his fists, I pulled out the pistol. Guess the neighbors complained about the noise, even though they never did when I screamed. Cops think the noise is worth looking into this time, not last time. Now he's a victim of murder, well so's my soul.

He creeped from the alley with threats. I played him like a guitar, left him soiled and bloody in the very same alley that he crawled out of. I suppose that pocket knives really can't compare to actual daggers. I don't think that he'll think of doing that again.

A kidnapper tried to take me for some warrant. Only one of us made it out of the fire. I'm telling the story now aren't I?" I make eye contact with the reporter. The one who called me a psychopath. Her warm brown eyes commit mydriasis into fear. Wide and wild like a does.

"Thank y-you for y-your ummmm t-thoughts?" She asks. Not at all like the confident reporter who walked in. I smile, stretching the cut sliding down my eye and cheek. My white, bloody teeth biting into the air.

" Thank you for your useless criticism." I reply. Shifting closer. Her curly blonde shimmering in the prison cell's light. Her back stiffens.

" Did you have. . . father issues?" She asks quietly. Leaning back, I laugh.

" Darling. I don't have father issues. I pulled a little stunt. I pulled a trauma reverse."