"I really fucked it up this time. Didn't I, my dear?"

I'm trying hard not to judge people, alright? I'm trying so hard.

I judge people for being judgmental. That's the stupidest thing ever.

And I judge kids for acting like kids. What?

But let me just say, we're all fuck-ups. 

So that helps a little. Not that it makes me right.

Don't worry, I've already scolded myself plenty.

And...

We're all okay. Alright?

stabilize.

Again and again, I'll bury bodies under rugs!

Never fall in love with an idea.

If you do, hold it close to your chest and run away
So it can't rot--
Can't rot like the bodies that I bury under rugs
After I grow emotional at the death of an idea.
I fell in love with an idea.

I'll build a new house.
And I'll buy new rugs.
It's alright.
It's just scary that they saw the corpses.

still, sorry.

I hate saying sorry.
And I hate that I always do it so easily.

Either be one of those people who doesn't care at all.
Or be one of those sappy self-hateful sorry people.

You can't switch back and forth, stupid.

Or I could give up on being any kind of person.
And just go for it.
Like always.

"I'm a big believer in metaphor, Hazel Grace."

I really like windchimes

and watermelon 

and using chopsticks 

and laying in the grass

and metaphors.

Metaphors are probably my favorite.

But sometimes beating around the bush is stupid.

And metaphors make it all too easy.

You're butterfly's wings.

You're a shoe-box full of secret things.

And an ancient trunk full of nothings.

You're an unsmoked cigarette, held between my teeth.

And I'm holding the lighter all too close

to this killing thing.

not really bad, i suppose.

It's raining, damp west coast air drenching fur coats.

Camouflage shades of flames and sunshine drip down storm drains

As the wolves slink back to their apartments.

Their catches are held between their teeth and

The prey's natural orange slowly dulls.

They'll share a bed and a home, 

And grow grey-brown together.

All of the burrows lay empty, now.

That life was never practical anyway.

We can trust the smooth concrete walls of the apartments.

It's a decently satisfying life.

And in the end, it's okay, right?

It feels fine.

melting sometimes.

Cool it.

Trying to be likable isn't your thing.

Being likable probably isn't either.

You're ice.

Don't worry, they'll be fine.

And you don't have to try to fit in the picture.

So...

Cool it.

There are reasons you shouldn't say what you're thinking.

There are reasons you shouldn't be honest.

There are reasons, and we've ignored them.

There are reasons.

Now all that's left is us

and a pile of reasons ripped away

and a thousand judgmental

or true

or harsh

thoughts, piled on the ground.
But I guess it's too late to stop, now.

Sorry, mom, and emily, and you, kid.
I could stop
but being free of reasons feels good.
Even if it hurts sometimes, I just want to be true.

I'll try to think nicer things, though.
As best I can, I mean.
So that I can say those, instead.