Ten Years of Killing Myself

Shit brown eyes, snickerdoodle colored skin, smooth, black hair, and a ghost's bone structure were the characteristics of the side profile I can still draw from memory. When the glassy down turned eyes glint in the morning sun when he turns his head, I feel glittering stars in my wide eyes. I blink the glimmers away, but I know my jaw was on the floor.

Damn. My heart synchronizes with his divinely graceful pace, the long legs walking one foot in front of the other. That's how models are taught to walk to make their hips seem to sway naturally in proportion to their slender figures. It's a quarter way between stick straight marching and stumbling. Grace.

Shit brown eyes, snicks and doodles colored skin, thick as shit black hair, and the roundness of three arguements a day were the characteristics I hid under a white leather and red cotton varsity jacket. I wasn't round like a sphere, but rather round like a hexagon. Generally, the proper circle is there, yet the odd ends and whats still couldn't be tucked into a waistband or behind a buttoned seam. My hands belong inside my pockets balled up above my crotch, because that is. Cool.

Since what felt like just yesterday, my arms have only seen the sun by accident, and my legs are ghosts now, perhaps, unless they are strictly translucent. My deep fried worker hands and clearly tanned face are likely the only color my life has seen since the Spongebob Movie first released. My hair has grown gentle waves, and my arms have evolved a muscular structure. I can lift more than a finger now and so I choose to. My stomach now rounds out rather than caving in to vaccum seal the cage of my heart. and lungs. My chest feels heavier than before, yet behind, the beat is the same.

To this day, I still get glitter in my eyes when the starlight reflects a blessing for my eyes to bear witness. The spell was never broken, the enchantment never cancelled. The magic moved from one moron to the other.

Ten years of killing myself hiding what there is of me to love. I have put my face forward.

I have put my personality forward, my ego on blast, my brain on the table, and finally my heart on my sleeve. I still have a sleeve.

Then again, so does he.

In fact, our sleeves match now.

I've turned in my red and white no blue for strict red. Sometimes, all black.

Blacker than the future that doesn't know. Blacker than the blackground of a profile picture.

All I need is in my arms where the hearts cling to my sleeve.

In fact, the hearts touch sometimes, I swear it.

Hearts, sleeves, shit brown eyes, soft black hair. Top them with matching black hats, we have those too. Dark denim, we've gotten. All I need are the proper boots for the job.

All I need is within reach and within a hug.

All we need

are matching belt buckles.

We've already got everything else.

We've already got each other.

I still catch glitter in my shit brown eyes, and I'm always under some influence, usually magic. Whose magic? None of my business.

I see shooting stars glint in the corner of a pretty smile everytime I say what I feel.

I see symmetrical dimples when I say something stupid.

I see that stupid smirk when a small chuckle accidentally doubles as a wink I probably wasn't meant to see.

I see gold when I close my eyes and smile with a heartbeat under my ear.

I see bright when he gets what he gives.

I see me and I see someone who tried to die hiding from such a shining star.

I wear a lot more black than I did before.

Something has to catch the excess light.

How else am I supposed to stare at shit brown eyes when they glow in my direction now?