I think about how real you are & I wonder if you cry tears or something much more beautiful. I think about how if you look long enough, you can see the ugliness in beautiful things. I think about the stupid things that only make sense while they're happening; like inside jokes, like the ridiculous events in my dreams, like how loving you seemed like an okay idea at the time. I consider saying, "I think about how my dad disappointed me again." How I made sure the way I said goodnight to him was said in the bitchiest tone possible. How he sounded heartbroken when he said goodnight back. How I guilt tripped myself after he said that. How I always guilt trip myself over everything. I think about how I'm tangled in my headphones & in my other messes & about how the freckles on your shoulders suggest that your mind's all over the place, too. I think about the way pens give out & I wonder if I myself should give giving up a try. Sometimes I think about the boy who could always tell when I was high by my bloodshot, half closed eyes & my half working mind. He'd half laugh & I'd laugh too, but I only half understood why. Sometimes life depends on something as simple as a crack in the paint or the words that I don't (can't) say. I'm always this volcano, but sometimes I wonder when I'll finally explode.