I feel like a cup that was once filled to the brim with goodness, but knocked over and in the blink of an eye lay empty. Chipped around the edges and empty. I am not broken, just a little roughed up. I can smile a genuine smile. I can laugh with no false pretense. My eyes still shine with life. There is always a nook tucked in the safety of my heart, though. His home, he says. His safe haven. Sometimes I scold myself. “You’re too young, too young, to be feeling like this.” A ripe seventeen year old should be cavorting to the movies, going to the beach, sun bathing, doing normal teenage things. Instead I am chain-smoking, drinking my coffee black, writing like a hunkered in poet. It is who I am. It is my comfort.

He became another comfort. An unusual love that blossomed, that caught me offguard. One that made my heart swell with joy and euphoria. “Is this what love feels like?” I thought that the answer was quite obvious. The truth of the matter was, that I was terrified. Shaking in my skin. What was I to expect from this magical endevour? What was in the stars for me?

No, this fairytale doesn’t end. Not yet. It is suffering from a severe case of writer’s block. It is in hiatus at the moment. Now I am stuck in a grey area. Suspended in midair. Trapped in a place equivalent to purgatory. All I have to ease my troubled mind are these pixelated words and this blank HTML. I don’t mind. This is my home. My only home.

He told me that my words are beautiful. That they have a poetic feel to them. It’s just a habit that comes naturally to me. Well, I guess habit isn’t the right word to describe it as. It is simply a part of me. As I write, I feel myself get lighter. Like the words just pile up inside of my brain and I am finally throwing them out. I am a packrat.