ah, dang.

I feel vaguely upset, but I can't cry (I think that's the side effects again.) I don't have a right to even feel anything about it but happy. I should have known--!

I mean, I did know. But I'd hoped--!

It's just--...

I want you to be happy. I do.

I want to be happy, too. I'm figuring that part out.

And I don't want to be alone. More specifically, I don't want to be without you. I've had to walk away from people before, I've had people walk away from me, but this is different. You're different.

You're my good friend. You were the first person I came out to, the only person to ask me questions. You help me do things I wouldn't normally do. You've been sweet to me while I've been a mess; I really appreciate that. And I enjoy every moment we're around each other. More than I enjoy moments with anyone else I've met so far.

So of course I don't want to lose you.

But I don't want to be in love with you, either, I never meant for that to happen.

I'm so sorry about it, too, it's really silly. I mean it's not silly that I could fall for you, you're wonderful. But it's a bit silly that I could stay in like this long for something hopeless, considering it's made me a worse person at times.

I care that you're not totally happy in that relationship. I want you to have all the happiness possible. You deserve it. But it's also true I'm jealous and kind of a jerk because of it. If I weren't jealous, maybe I could shut up and let it be, no matter how I felt about it all. That's the kind of friend I need to be, my chill self. Not my infatuated, judgmental, whiny self.

Feeeeeelings... Don't worry, I'll get rid of them. I held them tight all this time, thinking that was enough or that was noble or something stupid. But they make me act bitter and that makes me feel icky. They're not worth it, and it's time I grow up and realize you're not queer.

It's weird because my emotions feel different on this medicine, I guess because I'm just getting used to it. And maybe I feel better because I can't cry, too. I guess I can't understand how I feel without the usual clear signs. Normally I think I'd assume I should kick myself out of your life or something awful and sad like that. I'd probably cry a while and feel sorry for myself because I'm a selfish bastard. And then I'd send you a nine page text message about how sorry I am for being shitty.

I totally don't feel like that now, though. I have no desire to do any of those things. (Except text you I guess, but that's because you're my friend, not because I want to be a sad flopping fish of feels.)

Nothing's wrong with me, I'm just a normal person and you're just lovely. This is how life goes.

I hope your relationship can be better and be all you want it to be.

I hope I can be better.

We all deserve to be happy. Woo.

it's day three and I'm okay.

My head is clear for a bit so let's write some things down.

I don't even have the capacity to feel sad right now, this medicine hits me like a beehive, flossing the space between my ears with white noise.

I go in a room to get something or I open a tab to look something up and almost immediately forget what I was doing; I get distracted. I can't form coherent sentences, and I stutter sometimes. When I turn my head, it feels like my neck is the part of the trunk left after a beaver has chewed all around, a tiny spindly toothpick supporting the weight of the tree. I feel twitchy and odd.

It's interesting?

But probably a good thing side effects only last a couple weeks.

i'm actually not, though.

I figure if this isn't real and if I talked myself into this place, I should be able to talk myself out. (Then again there's the chance that this is just who I am. That I'm just slow and lazy and cynical and sad. What if I'm just generally terrible and that's all there is to it?)

"You don't want to die today. You're happy. You can do this. You can make it. You're happy. Smile. Dress up. Talk more. Because you're happy. You don't want to go to sleep yet. Do your homework. You're happy. Chat. Eye contact. You're happy. You're happy."

Maybe the magic of eighteen birthdays, a couple dozen fountain coins, and a handful of stardust will finally count for something; maybe this will be the one wish that will come true. So I repeat it again and again and again and again.

But tomorrow I go to the doctor and wishes won't count for anything anyway. 

I'm afraid of medicine. If I take the medicine and nothing changes, it will just prove how awful I am at life and how shitty I am for convincing myself I was sick when there are people in the world who have real problems.

Then again, I'm also afraid that if I take it, everything will change. She says I shouldn't let the blue define me, and I'm not saying it should. I'm just saying it's there and it's real to me. What will I be without it? And then again, what if the medicine takes away too much of my blue? What if I can't create things anymore?

I'm just scared and lonely and sad and tired and--

"I'm happy."

Mister Porcupine,
she only ever cared for you,
but you filled her nose with quills.

Put away your f-words,
and your arguments,
sure nobody knows everything
but neither do you.
(And that's okay.)

Mister Porcupine, you chase them away,
but you're still not alright.

well this will be a bare thanksgiving.

I threw up my guts twelve times, or something close to that, it's really easy to lose count, and I was so thirsty I got a little too excited when they finally let me drink--added one more time onto there, but it was worth it.

I pleaded with God to make it stop, and really prayed for the first time in months. I thought He was punishing me for something; in my defense I was running a low grade fever and my tongue was getting dry. But, well, it didn't stop anyway, not for nearly nine hours, I think. (And that's just the throwing up.)

I'm glad that I have short hair and a mom.

I slept in bursts of fifteen minutes, but each time I woke up I assumed I'd been dead for at least a day.

I've never been so sick in my life. I didn't even have time to be lonely and sad.

birds; part II.

All he wanted was a mane to prove his roar--

so he cut it all off this morning,

scissor-snipped

the long gold his mother'd grown

and filled with flowers all his life.

He left it as a grave-marker

for that flower-haired little girl,

the one they mistook him for.

insult to injury, you ended it with telling me to pray.

We tried to talk about depression.

But you only told me I need to try, to start taking steps. I know that much, I didn't need you to tell me that. Logically, I know all of that. I've tried. I sit down to do the things I need to do, but I can't.

It's hard. I'm worried and scared and I feel vulnerable and confused.

It would be nice to never wake up.

God, I sound so fucking dramatic and stupid, shut up.