I don't draw past the middle of the nose and I don't draw the outline because there's something about it not ending that makes it look better. There's something about the absence of eyes that helps because I don't have to look them in the eyes and tell them who I am. Who I am. Who am I. Head. Heart. Heads. Hearts. Heads and hearts. I don't shape their lips into smiles instead I let my pen draw the edges that determine wether the glass is half empty or half full. I give them a mouth that is neither happy nor sad, it's more of a reflection. But the longer I stare the more that one is sad and that one is happy but that's not what I meant oh wait. Oh wait. That one is in the middle. My pen curved correctly and my fingers turned slightly but I'm not sure if it's smiling or frowning because it's not smiling or frowning. Less of a feeling and more of a thought. But I hate the grey. I love the color grey but when we dip ourselves in it even though that's the best shade of grey the paint store has got, it makes me anxious. You were given a piece of wood they said "paint your life a color" and you loved grey so you smothered it on and I did too but the color is so different from the lifestyle. That's what's deceiving about colors. They're colors but they're feelings and they don't translate back and forth from one to the other because they're too different. Too much the same. The grey is too much the same. Too much "ok"s for everything, too much nodding of the foreheads and too much standing still. Jump. Jump to the white and tell it you believe then proudly walk into the black and tell it you understand pick one not both. I like change, I hate when things stay the same too long. But I crave familiarity. And some things are too nice that I've learned to hate endings. Hate goodbyes. I hate goodbyes. And I want to hate you but I miss you and when I said I'll miss you what I meant was I love you. It wasn't about admitting it to you but to me, because I didn't mean to love you and I wasn't supposed to love you but every time my head tries to convince myself that I love you my heart slams a hand across my mouth but I needed to know so I tied up my heart with an under-frayed rope and I let my head say it. I love you. But I never told you. My heart popped with a firework of joy. But it's funny because by head I mean heart and by heart I mean head. Head. Heart. Heads. Hearts. Do we actually have any? Heads and hearts. I can't draw the outlines because I won't admit it ended and I don't draw past the nose because I can't look them in the eyes and tell them who they are.
Sorry but that's not okay when you pretend it's alright. You can't walk a path when you're still standing still and I think you left your feet behind you. I'd suggest opening up your chest and checking that you still have your heart because I think you locked it up back at home so it wouldn't become a nuisance but if you ask me you're prettier when its sewn on your sleeve. Sure it's intriguing when I can't find it and sure I want to sit with you until I have an accurate sketch of what I deduce your heart to look like but that's me being mystified by something that doesn't exist anywhere but my head. Stop giving us the opportunity to build that image and instead draw the real thing on your forehead so no one can be mistaken. Because I knew you when your face was happy and I knew you when people noticed your heart as you walked down the street but now I see people wonder and I don't think it's because you like that. I think it's because you're not aware and I was there and I didn't know but being aware and understanding to the best of your ability is a wondrous thing, try it out.
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