looks like we're in for nasty weather

The wind keeps blowing my hair into my face and into my lipstick, but it's okay because I like the way it smells today.

- S.H.

to be different but the same

"I can give you the stars," he said.

"How many?"  She asked.

He smiled

and whispered

and lied,

"All of them."

- S.H.

i'm sorry that i couldn't get to you

Warning:  Ugly ranting ahead.

Dammit, Nelson.

I know Annie Mourusie already said this in a past post, but you taught us that art is theft and I should be one of your favorites.

I should be one of those revered writers who sounds excruciatingly indie.  Something like, "There is dirt between my ribs, but you grew sunflowers with the curve of your lips."  It doesn't make any sense and it feels impersonal, but it's a great visual I'm sure.

Honestly, I don't care if my writing isn't that good, I really don't.  (Liar.)  But the fact that I've stayed in Paris--even after my visa expired--should be enough.

Dammit, Nelson.

You're only a high school teacher. 

It should matter that my professor asked for a copy of my film analysis paper.  Like, that's the important stuff, right?  It was about Pride and Prejudice and love and it was beautiful.  I think.

But she never told me if it was a good example or a bad example or an it-could-have-been-better-but-it's-definitely-acceptable example.

And I still would have gotten a greater feeling if I had made your favorite blogs list.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

This post is an absolute mess, but so is my blog and I thought they should match.  (Would I have made your list if I had made my blog pretty?)

I'm sorry that my music plays without you asking it to and I'm sorry that I dropped an F-bomb in my intro.

But I'm trying to make a career out of this writing thing and I need some sort of second impression and a first validation.  Because everyone notices my brother as a writer and my friend as a writer, and I just want to be noticed as a writer.

Really, I'm still in Paris because I'm waiting for someone to tell me that I'm doing this right.

I'm sorry, Nelson.

I'm still here because this is the rest of my life.

- S.H.

you took my soul and wiped it clean

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I feel it there and I feel it flow with my blood and dull in my fingers as I play the melodies of only ever loss.  Because I don't know how to feel anything else right now.  I know it's been a long time and I should be done with this part, but this is the longest heartbreak I've had over something inhuman.

This is the longest heartbreak I've had.

It's all been wrong since that day nearly eight months ago that I stopped knowing how to recognize love.  I mean, when something is torn so viciously away--so suddenly--how is there any other possible outcome than to make it a stranger?

And I completely loathe myself for all of this.

I'm upset that I can't stop writing about it.  Because now I'll always have these words documenting the inner workings of my organs.  My twisted stomach and still heart and beaten lungs.  I've created a diagram of my anatomy.  I've studied it over and over and it's taking up too much space in my brain.  There are more important things I should know.

It's all been wrong since that day four months ago that I still stopped knowing how to recognize love.

I thought she was happy.  But apparently you can't argue with three years and an answer from God.  And I'm still so bitter.  He lost a wife and I lost a sister.

It's all been wrong since that day two hundred twenty two months ago that I never even knew how to recognize love.

Except, I know I had it.  I was told I had it.

I'm really trying to make sense of this thing I've pinned in my heart.  I think it's the absence of love.

- S.H.