It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.

They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

Like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.

There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.